Next month, I turn forty-five and it scares the crap out of me. Why does an age that ends in five cause me such angst? Thirty was good, and forty was fine. I didn't have a big party for either, which was cool with me. Eighteen was big because I was going off to college within months. Twenty-one was fun, too. The actual birthday part was not. I spent the evening working on MMSS (Mathematical Methods in the Social Sciences) homework with my good friend H. A few days later, we went to the Green Mill, a famous jazz bar where Al Capone used to hang out, to celebrate with a few other friends. That was fun. I should have spent more of my twenties in music clubs, especially since I lived in Chicago where jazz and blues bars were everywhere. I digress. I am avoiding the topic and googling places I should have gone before I had kids.
Jack turned 45 last month, and I already feel like I am forty-five, rounding myself up to his age. Forty-five seems like the summer solstice of life. After the solstice, the days get shorter, letting us know winter is on the way. We never know when we are going to die, but according to life expectancy charts, forty-five is past the standard midpoint.
I have two good friends who are coming up on fifty next year. I think of them as being "my age." I can't get my head around that I have friends who are so close to that milestone, even though I have friends at all kinds of ages, including one who is 92. A few years ago, I was making the rounds on the 40th Birthday Party Circuit. Fifty? Oh dear.
Maybe part of this angst is seeing my parents retired. I have twenty more years to work. I can't retire if I am not working. I have been out of the paid workforce for fourteen years, and I really do not want to start looking for a job when I am fifty. By then I will have been out of the paid workforce for nineteen years. I'll be a fossil.
Some of my angst about my age has to do with working, some of it doesn't. I am trying to decide what I want to be when I grow up, except I have been grown up for more than half of my life already. I listen to my daughter talk about what she wants to be, and it changes every day. This morning at breakfast, she wanted to be a lawyer who sues people. Perhaps I should say "sues companies." She thought it would be really cool to be on the Apple legal team that sued Samsung for copying the iPhone. (Where did I go wrong? I am glad she is ambitious, but suing people? Really?) She has the luxury of changing her mind before lunch, which sometimes happens.
The Boy, on the other hand, worries that at the age of ten he isn't "doing" anything, as if he should have a slate of patents, cured cancer or being running his own company by now. Or maybe his ambitions aren't so lofty. Perhaps he just wants to accomplish something, even if it's small. Maybe he wants to build something cool that someone could use, like a chair or tree house, or paint the walls of his bedroom.
I am going through the same thing they are, except to the power of forty-five. I was drilling through LinkedIn the other day, tracking old bosses I used to work for. I am sure they are happy, but they are doing the same thing they were 15 to 20 years ago when I worked for them, and they had been in the field for at least a decade when I knew them. I admire their tenacity and stick-to-itiveness, but in my nine years of paid employment, I had three to four different jobs. Granted, they all required the same clothes (suits with pantyhose and pumps), and the changes weren't hugely significant. It is not like I went from ballet dance to teacher to surgeon. My changes were small, but changes nonetheless. I've been equally busy in my volunteer and mothering life, too.
It's not that I am looking back with regret. I liked working and I am happy I stayed home with my kids. But fourteen years is a long time. The Boy starts middle school next year, my daughter high school. Is it time for me to change, too?
This blog is about the little and big thoughts that pop into my head. I once read that when Flannery O'Connor walked into a bookstore, she would want to edit her published works with a red pen. In the digital world, we have the luxury of tweaking things up after we've hit the publish button. I can be a perfectionist/procrastinator, where waiting for the ideal means little gets done. Here I will share what is not--and likely will never be--perfect.
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Thief!
Yesterday, I wrote about my sweet, small dog. I even had an adorable picture of him standing on a dining room chair under the table.
That was before he became a thief.
Yesterday, I bought the kids croissants from a local bakery for an afternoon snack. These are not the grocery store/Costco things that try to pass as croissant. These are the some of the best croissants in a two mile radius of my home. They are soft and buttery inside, and have a delicious crust on the outside. (Dear Bakery Nouveau, How about opening a NE Seattle shop? Thanks, Lauren)
The Boy had eaten half of his croissant, and then left the table. All of the chairs were tucked in so Fox could not climb up and grab food. In January, Fox stole the Boy's ham sandwich when the Boy left his chair out. Since then, Fox has learned a new trick. He stands on a chair, and sticks his head up in the three inch gap between the table and the curve of the back of the chair. I didn't think he could get anything off the table, but he did yesterday. I heard his dog tags jingle, but he wouldn't come when I called. I went into the dining room to see a yellow Ikea plate on the floor. That's odd, I thought. The kids don't toss plates on the floor. I walked into the living room to see Fox snarfing down what was left of the Boy's croissant. When he saw me, he ran with his booty under the couch. When I tried to get him from under the couch, he growled at me. Clearly, I am not the Alpha when he has to choose between the pack and croissant.
I should mention that Fox has been on a diet. We took him to the vet a few weeks ago and he has to lose two pounds, which is a lot when you weigh only ten. We are now giving him half as much food as he used to get. On the one hand, I feel sorry that he is getting less. On the other, he should look back at those gravy days and be thankful they once were.
Since the diet began, Fox is constantly hungry and his food seeking behavior is higher than usual. A few weeks ago he stole food right from under my daughter's nose. My daughter had Fox on her lap at the end of dinner. When she turned her head to talk to her father, Fox snatched her chicken pita from her plate. My daughter said that years from now when our family gets together, we will talk about Fox's food stealing escapades.
My little burglar got me thinking -- what if he were to steal valuable things, like silverware? Wouldn't that be a great plot to an anti-Disney movie? "Lap dog turns into world's greatest jewel thief, taking precious gems from unsuspecting old ladies." He could snuggle up to them, and as they fell asleep, he could take their necklaces, bracelets and earrings. He could take their sterling place settings. I am not sure how the movie would end. Would the thief dog go to jail, or would he change his ways and become a Robin Hood dog, stealing from the rich to give to the poor? Maybe they wouldn't solve his crimes because they would never suspect a dog. Maybe he would take the money and retire someplace warm without extradition laws. He would sit on the beach with his restored diet while his glamorous owner drank cocktails. I might vote for the last option.
That was before he became a thief.
Yesterday, I bought the kids croissants from a local bakery for an afternoon snack. These are not the grocery store/Costco things that try to pass as croissant. These are the some of the best croissants in a two mile radius of my home. They are soft and buttery inside, and have a delicious crust on the outside. (Dear Bakery Nouveau, How about opening a NE Seattle shop? Thanks, Lauren)
The Boy had eaten half of his croissant, and then left the table. All of the chairs were tucked in so Fox could not climb up and grab food. In January, Fox stole the Boy's ham sandwich when the Boy left his chair out. Since then, Fox has learned a new trick. He stands on a chair, and sticks his head up in the three inch gap between the table and the curve of the back of the chair. I didn't think he could get anything off the table, but he did yesterday. I heard his dog tags jingle, but he wouldn't come when I called. I went into the dining room to see a yellow Ikea plate on the floor. That's odd, I thought. The kids don't toss plates on the floor. I walked into the living room to see Fox snarfing down what was left of the Boy's croissant. When he saw me, he ran with his booty under the couch. When I tried to get him from under the couch, he growled at me. Clearly, I am not the Alpha when he has to choose between the pack and croissant.
 |
| Fox checking out what's on the table while his people are away. |
Since the diet began, Fox is constantly hungry and his food seeking behavior is higher than usual. A few weeks ago he stole food right from under my daughter's nose. My daughter had Fox on her lap at the end of dinner. When she turned her head to talk to her father, Fox snatched her chicken pita from her plate. My daughter said that years from now when our family gets together, we will talk about Fox's food stealing escapades.
My little burglar got me thinking -- what if he were to steal valuable things, like silverware? Wouldn't that be a great plot to an anti-Disney movie? "Lap dog turns into world's greatest jewel thief, taking precious gems from unsuspecting old ladies." He could snuggle up to them, and as they fell asleep, he could take their necklaces, bracelets and earrings. He could take their sterling place settings. I am not sure how the movie would end. Would the thief dog go to jail, or would he change his ways and become a Robin Hood dog, stealing from the rich to give to the poor? Maybe they wouldn't solve his crimes because they would never suspect a dog. Maybe he would take the money and retire someplace warm without extradition laws. He would sit on the beach with his restored diet while his glamorous owner drank cocktails. I might vote for the last option.
 |
| Fox's internal thoughts: *Get away from me! It's mine!* He growls and shakes butt at lady who is yelling. |
Friday, March 28, 2014
Little Dog, Lap Dog, Shorter than the Daffodils
Little dog
Lap dog
Shorter than the daffodils
This is our first spring with Fox. The Seattle Humane Society got Fox from a shelter in Los Angeles. Our little SoCal dog is not a big fan of rain. I had to drag him on his walk this morning in the drizzle.
With the spring, also comes flowers. I knew we had a small dog, but I didn't quite realize how small he is until I saw him next to flowers. He is shorter than a daffodil, which is wild. I wonder what it would be like to be so small. Is is scary to all of sudden have the world "spring" up around you? Does it seem to him that tulips are taking over the earth?
Small can be good. He uses his small size to his advantage. He can climb and crawl into small spaces and walk on the top of chairs tucked under the table. He hides out of reach under the couch or bed when he has something secret to chew or doesn't want to go on a walk.
Or, does the whole world seem be to a wonder, like when people see the ocean or climb mountains or walk through a forest? Is every day like that to Fox?
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Ben Fountain reads from "Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk"
I was online last night and found that the National Book Critics Circle posted a video of Ben Fountain reading from Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk. Hearing him read made me buy and read the book.
http://fora.tv/2014/02/28/National_Book_Critics_Circle_Ben_Fountain_and_Amy_Tan
http://fora.tv/2014/02/28/National_Book_Critics_Circle_Ben_Fountain_and_Amy_Tan
"Of Mice and Men" and Looney Tunes
I was talking to my friend Diane today about Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck. (One of her favorite television shows, The Walking Dead, had a storyline based on this book.) We couldn't remember which character was George and which one was Lennie. Was Lennie the capable one, or was George? Which one had the disability? She thought George was the gentle giant, and I thought it was Lennie.
"Of course," she said. "It was Lennie! 'I will love him and pet him and squeeze him and name him George...'" She rattled off one of my favorite lines from the Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny cartoon.
"What?" I said. "I didn't know that cartoon was based on Of Mice and Men." I knew Warner Brothers based cartoons on opera, but I didn't know they copied literature. "Wow. Of Mice and Men is pretty dark."
"Looney Tunes are messed up," she said.
Indeed.
But I still love it. Like most other children of the 1970's, I remember my brother and I waking up early on Saturday morning to watch Bugs Bunny, the Road Runner, Scooby Doo and other cartoons while my parents slept in. Little did I know at the time they were parodying a great yet tragic book.
"Of course," she said. "It was Lennie! 'I will love him and pet him and squeeze him and name him George...'" She rattled off one of my favorite lines from the Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny cartoon.
"What?" I said. "I didn't know that cartoon was based on Of Mice and Men." I knew Warner Brothers based cartoons on opera, but I didn't know they copied literature. "Wow. Of Mice and Men is pretty dark."
"Looney Tunes are messed up," she said.
Indeed.
But I still love it. Like most other children of the 1970's, I remember my brother and I waking up early on Saturday morning to watch Bugs Bunny, the Road Runner, Scooby Doo and other cartoons while my parents slept in. Little did I know at the time they were parodying a great yet tragic book.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Marius and the Middle: More from Les Miserables
I am still reading Les Miserables by Victor Hugo (Julie Rose translation). I have just finished Part III on Marius. Here are a few of my favorite passages.
"Misery is like anything else. It reaches the point where it is bearable. It ensues up taking shape and assuming form." (p. 562)
"Misery, we will say again, had been good for him. Poverty in youth, when it succeeds, has this magnificent effect: It turns the whole will toward effort and the whole soul towards aspiration. Poverty immediately pares down the material life and makes it hideous; hence those inexpressible yearnings for the ideal life. The rich young man has a hundred brilliant and vulgar distractions, the horse races, hunting, dogs, smoking, gambling, wining and dining, and the rest; occupations for the nether regions of the should at the expense of the higher and more delicate regions. The poor young man has to toil for his daily bread; he eats, and when he has eaten all he can do is dream. He gets in for nothing to the show God puts on for him; he looks at the sky, space, the stars, the flowers, children, humanity among whom he suffers, creation in which he shines. He looks so hard at humanity, he sees its soul; he looks so hard at creation, he sees God." (p. 565-6)
"When his job is done, he returns to ineffable ecstasies, to contemplations, to sheer delights; he lives with his feet in affliction, in impediment, on the cobblestones, in the brambles, sometimes in the mud, but with his head in the light. He is strong, serene, gentle, peaceful, attentive, serious, content with little, benevolent; and he praises God for having given him these two riches that are lacking in many of the rich: work, which makes him free, and thought, which makes him worthy." (p. 566)
I love that last line. As the great-great-granddaughter of pioneer women from Minnesota, I like the idea of work making you free. Having just wrapped up a full-time volunteer job last year, I am struggling with idle time. While I am looking forward to finding a new endeavor, I am having a hard time waiting. I don't like being between or being in a cocoon waiting to come out.
"To be between two religions, one you have not yet emerged from, the other you have not yet embraced, is unbearable; and such gloomy half-light only appeals to bat like souls. Marius was open-eyed and he needed real light. The crepuscular* light of doubt hurt him. Whatever his desire to stay put and to hold out, he was invincibly compelled to move on, to advance, to examine, to think, to go one step further." (p. 557)
It appears Marius was not a big fan of the middle parts of life, the parts between here and there. I feel like I am in the twilight, not in terms of approaching death, but not certain what the next few months will contain, let alone the next few years.
I read in the footnotes that Marius most resembles Hugo himself in terms of biography. I thought that was interesting. While I know Hugo didn't steal a loaf of bread and go to prison for 19 years, I would have thought Hugo most like the mighty Jean Valjean.
* Crepuscular is one of my daughter's favorite words.
crepuscular |krəˈpəskyələr|
adjectiveof, resembling, or relating to twilight.• Zoology (of an animal) appearing or active in twilight.
"Misery is like anything else. It reaches the point where it is bearable. It ensues up taking shape and assuming form." (p. 562)
"Misery, we will say again, had been good for him. Poverty in youth, when it succeeds, has this magnificent effect: It turns the whole will toward effort and the whole soul towards aspiration. Poverty immediately pares down the material life and makes it hideous; hence those inexpressible yearnings for the ideal life. The rich young man has a hundred brilliant and vulgar distractions, the horse races, hunting, dogs, smoking, gambling, wining and dining, and the rest; occupations for the nether regions of the should at the expense of the higher and more delicate regions. The poor young man has to toil for his daily bread; he eats, and when he has eaten all he can do is dream. He gets in for nothing to the show God puts on for him; he looks at the sky, space, the stars, the flowers, children, humanity among whom he suffers, creation in which he shines. He looks so hard at humanity, he sees its soul; he looks so hard at creation, he sees God." (p. 565-6)
"When his job is done, he returns to ineffable ecstasies, to contemplations, to sheer delights; he lives with his feet in affliction, in impediment, on the cobblestones, in the brambles, sometimes in the mud, but with his head in the light. He is strong, serene, gentle, peaceful, attentive, serious, content with little, benevolent; and he praises God for having given him these two riches that are lacking in many of the rich: work, which makes him free, and thought, which makes him worthy." (p. 566)
I love that last line. As the great-great-granddaughter of pioneer women from Minnesota, I like the idea of work making you free. Having just wrapped up a full-time volunteer job last year, I am struggling with idle time. While I am looking forward to finding a new endeavor, I am having a hard time waiting. I don't like being between or being in a cocoon waiting to come out.
"To be between two religions, one you have not yet emerged from, the other you have not yet embraced, is unbearable; and such gloomy half-light only appeals to bat like souls. Marius was open-eyed and he needed real light. The crepuscular* light of doubt hurt him. Whatever his desire to stay put and to hold out, he was invincibly compelled to move on, to advance, to examine, to think, to go one step further." (p. 557)
It appears Marius was not a big fan of the middle parts of life, the parts between here and there. I feel like I am in the twilight, not in terms of approaching death, but not certain what the next few months will contain, let alone the next few years.
I read in the footnotes that Marius most resembles Hugo himself in terms of biography. I thought that was interesting. While I know Hugo didn't steal a loaf of bread and go to prison for 19 years, I would have thought Hugo most like the mighty Jean Valjean.
* Crepuscular is one of my daughter's favorite words.
crepuscular |krəˈpəskyələr|
adjectiveof, resembling, or relating to twilight.• Zoology (of an animal) appearing or active in twilight.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Tom Peters and Fixing the Toilet
When I was growing up, my dad worked in manufacturing. Being in management, he would often bring home business books for me to read. I read a decent number of his recommended books when I was younger, probably more than a typical person my age. His favorite was The Goal by Eliyahu Goldratt. (Spoiler: The "goal" is to have a profitable business. Interestingly, this idea that a company should or ought to be solvent was lost on many executives, including some people I worked with. I wish I would have read this book back when I was Chairman of the A&O Film Board in college. Oh well.) I enjoyed reading books my dad recommended. I felt like I was getting an inside peek into executive offices.
Another popular writer my father liked was Tom Peters, co-author of In Search of Excellence: Lessons from America's Best Run Companies. I read some of Tom Peters work ages ago, and he seemed grounded and rational. A few weeks ago, I was at the Central Library and they had one of his books for sale on the $2.00 shelf. I saw The Project 50: Fifty Ways to Transform Every "Task" into a Project that Matters from his Reinventing Work series, and I read a page. Here is what I found on page 22:
"Your spouse says, 'Fix the toilet. Now.'
And the boss says, 'Let's redesign the Returns Policy to be a little less bureaucratic.'
Each one is a 'project.' Each one is pretty damn clear.
Wrong. Exactly wrong.
The toilet job? Should we fix the toilet? Sure. But it also brings up that the bathroom is in the wrong damn place! (Can't believe what idiots the people were who designed and built this house.) Maybe we really need ought to get moving with that oft-delayed renovation project. Which reminds me, my mom is getting older, older, older. We really should think about building an 'in-law' apartment for her over the garage. Etc."
I was appalled. Appalled. Here I thought these books were chock full of wisdom, and I was ready scream. So I bought the book. Rarely do I buy a book because it ticked me off, but I like Tom Peters and thought I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. And the book was only $2.00.
Dear Tom Peters,
Speaking for wives everywhere, we would like you to fix the toilet. Please do not remodel the house, move the bathroom or put in an "in-law"apartment. You say you should fix the toilet, but after reading the rest of your paragraph, I can tell your heart isn't in it. I am sorry if that is boring or just a task. But really. Just fix the toilet and fix it soon. If you need to run to the hardware store or call a plumber, that is fine. Phone calls to an architect and contractors can wait until after the toilet is fixed.
Sincerely,
Lauren
Another popular writer my father liked was Tom Peters, co-author of In Search of Excellence: Lessons from America's Best Run Companies. I read some of Tom Peters work ages ago, and he seemed grounded and rational. A few weeks ago, I was at the Central Library and they had one of his books for sale on the $2.00 shelf. I saw The Project 50: Fifty Ways to Transform Every "Task" into a Project that Matters from his Reinventing Work series, and I read a page. Here is what I found on page 22:
"Your spouse says, 'Fix the toilet. Now.'
And the boss says, 'Let's redesign the Returns Policy to be a little less bureaucratic.'
Each one is a 'project.' Each one is pretty damn clear.
Wrong. Exactly wrong.
The toilet job? Should we fix the toilet? Sure. But it also brings up that the bathroom is in the wrong damn place! (Can't believe what idiots the people were who designed and built this house.) Maybe we really need ought to get moving with that oft-delayed renovation project. Which reminds me, my mom is getting older, older, older. We really should think about building an 'in-law' apartment for her over the garage. Etc."
I was appalled. Appalled. Here I thought these books were chock full of wisdom, and I was ready scream. So I bought the book. Rarely do I buy a book because it ticked me off, but I like Tom Peters and thought I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. And the book was only $2.00.
Dear Tom Peters,
Speaking for wives everywhere, we would like you to fix the toilet. Please do not remodel the house, move the bathroom or put in an "in-law"apartment. You say you should fix the toilet, but after reading the rest of your paragraph, I can tell your heart isn't in it. I am sorry if that is boring or just a task. But really. Just fix the toilet and fix it soon. If you need to run to the hardware store or call a plumber, that is fine. Phone calls to an architect and contractors can wait until after the toilet is fixed.
Sincerely,
Lauren
Friday, March 21, 2014
Reality Bites
I had this nightmare a few weeks ago in which my brother had schizophrenia and my mom had Alzheimer's. I woke up and thought, "Wait, this is true."
While my brother's schizophrenia has been known to us for years, my mom's diagnosis with Alzheimer's came a year ago. In the past few weeks, she has moved from the early to the intermediate stage. She and my dad went on vacation in February. In this unfamiliar place, she forgot she was married to my father. She told him she had a daughter, as if he were a new found friend. My dad said it was like they were dating. She remembered that she loved him, but did not remember how he fit into her life. When she asked him where he lived, he was devastated. I can't blame him. His life partner of 47 years did not remember the full extent of their relationship.
Early on, she would forget things she was just told and repeat things in conversation. A few years ago, before she was diagnosed, she went back to Chicago for her high school reunion. I asked her what year reunion it was. I should have guessed it was her fiftieth. I didn't guess, so I asked her. She couldn't remember this major milestone. It is one thing to forget how long ago she graduated from high school. Not remembering she is married to my father is a new level of deterioration.
I was thinking about other forms of demise: heart failure, liver failure, kidney failure. Alzheimer's is a slow cooker form of brain failure whereas aneurysms are a microwave, and tumor would be a cooktop. While my dad thinks she is still the same person, I can't imagine how she will continue to be. We need to lose some memory to function. People with perfect recall have difficult and complicated lives, unable to prune away the mundane and forgettable. Nevertheless, we need a reasonable amount of memory. Rene Descartes said "I think, therefore I am." What happens when you can't think? What if you forget who you were and are? What if you don't know where you are when you are home? And then it gets worse, to the point where there is nothing there, nobody's home. Yet, the heart, the lungs and everything might work just fine. I can't think of a disease more insidious.
My father tells me she is still the same person with the same sense of humor. I believe him to a point. My dad most certainly sees this glass as half full, but there is a fine line between optimism and denial. I don't necessarily think he is in denial; rather, he and I might have a different definition of what being the same means. I don't think she has undergone a complete personality overhaul, but I can't see how someone for whom blocks of time have been erased can be the same. We are shaped by our experiences -- what happens when we can't remember them? Maybe I am wrong on this. A friend of mine whose mom also suffers from Alzheimer's said the short-term memory fails, but the subliminal part of the mind keeps working. If the person had a pleasant afternoon cooking or painting, the good mood developed in the act of creating will last all afternoon, even if the memory of what they made is gone. Maybe all of those experience have helped her keep the shape of her soul, even if she can't remember the specifics. I suppose much of one's childhood is forgotten, but it shapes us nonetheless. I suppose that is what keeps my father going--he can still she the shape of her even if the details are getting fuzzy. While he can't fix her memory, he can still try to make her happy.
Last weekend, John and I went to Elliott Bay Books where we heard a reading from Into the Storm: Journeys with Alzheimer's, an anthology on Alzheimer's edited by Seattle writer Collin Tong. We heard from four contributors: two were spouses and two were children of people who contracted this horrid disease. They talked about the decade or so watching their spouses and parents slowly slip away. The final years were marked by complete lack of awareness. One woman said she never felt so alone as when she visited her mother. The mother did not acknowledge that another person was in the room, let alone recognize her daughter.
I was not prepared to hear about the long, dark road. I was not prepared to hear about the level of suffering, where family members spent years caring for a spouse or parent 24/7. Like mental illness, Alzheimer's has just as big of an impact on the loved ones as it does on the afflicted. While I feel bad for my mother as she is losing her memory, I feel worse for my father who has to bear witness. He will lose his wife long before she dies. My parents are a few years away from their 50th wedding anniversary. Both sets of my grandparents made it to this milestone. How will my dad feel when it rolls around and his wife will likely still be alive, but not present or aware of the event? I try not to think about it but then it comes back. I was reading Les Miserables this morning and came across a line: "In this troubled state of mind, he barely gave a thought to certain serious aspects of existence. But the realities of life do not let themselves be forgotten. They suddenly came and gave him a sharp nudge."
I am not sure I am ready to cope with this. Like most other tragic events, we don't choose the timing or the fact they have occurred at all. When I stare into the abyss of what is to come, I pull myself back to my other reality, the one where I count my blessings and look at my kids and life in Seattle and am thankful for all that I have. Yet, now I have two members of my family who have a very loose grip on reality. My brother has been chased by demons, and I in no way envy his plight. Alzheimer's comes with a silver lining, small though it is: at times the people who suffer from it are not aware they suffer. I wish the same could be said for their loved ones who are fully awake and aware of what is happening.
While my brother's schizophrenia has been known to us for years, my mom's diagnosis with Alzheimer's came a year ago. In the past few weeks, she has moved from the early to the intermediate stage. She and my dad went on vacation in February. In this unfamiliar place, she forgot she was married to my father. She told him she had a daughter, as if he were a new found friend. My dad said it was like they were dating. She remembered that she loved him, but did not remember how he fit into her life. When she asked him where he lived, he was devastated. I can't blame him. His life partner of 47 years did not remember the full extent of their relationship.
Early on, she would forget things she was just told and repeat things in conversation. A few years ago, before she was diagnosed, she went back to Chicago for her high school reunion. I asked her what year reunion it was. I should have guessed it was her fiftieth. I didn't guess, so I asked her. She couldn't remember this major milestone. It is one thing to forget how long ago she graduated from high school. Not remembering she is married to my father is a new level of deterioration.
I was thinking about other forms of demise: heart failure, liver failure, kidney failure. Alzheimer's is a slow cooker form of brain failure whereas aneurysms are a microwave, and tumor would be a cooktop. While my dad thinks she is still the same person, I can't imagine how she will continue to be. We need to lose some memory to function. People with perfect recall have difficult and complicated lives, unable to prune away the mundane and forgettable. Nevertheless, we need a reasonable amount of memory. Rene Descartes said "I think, therefore I am." What happens when you can't think? What if you forget who you were and are? What if you don't know where you are when you are home? And then it gets worse, to the point where there is nothing there, nobody's home. Yet, the heart, the lungs and everything might work just fine. I can't think of a disease more insidious.
My father tells me she is still the same person with the same sense of humor. I believe him to a point. My dad most certainly sees this glass as half full, but there is a fine line between optimism and denial. I don't necessarily think he is in denial; rather, he and I might have a different definition of what being the same means. I don't think she has undergone a complete personality overhaul, but I can't see how someone for whom blocks of time have been erased can be the same. We are shaped by our experiences -- what happens when we can't remember them? Maybe I am wrong on this. A friend of mine whose mom also suffers from Alzheimer's said the short-term memory fails, but the subliminal part of the mind keeps working. If the person had a pleasant afternoon cooking or painting, the good mood developed in the act of creating will last all afternoon, even if the memory of what they made is gone. Maybe all of those experience have helped her keep the shape of her soul, even if she can't remember the specifics. I suppose much of one's childhood is forgotten, but it shapes us nonetheless. I suppose that is what keeps my father going--he can still she the shape of her even if the details are getting fuzzy. While he can't fix her memory, he can still try to make her happy.
I was not prepared to hear about the long, dark road. I was not prepared to hear about the level of suffering, where family members spent years caring for a spouse or parent 24/7. Like mental illness, Alzheimer's has just as big of an impact on the loved ones as it does on the afflicted. While I feel bad for my mother as she is losing her memory, I feel worse for my father who has to bear witness. He will lose his wife long before she dies. My parents are a few years away from their 50th wedding anniversary. Both sets of my grandparents made it to this milestone. How will my dad feel when it rolls around and his wife will likely still be alive, but not present or aware of the event? I try not to think about it but then it comes back. I was reading Les Miserables this morning and came across a line: "In this troubled state of mind, he barely gave a thought to certain serious aspects of existence. But the realities of life do not let themselves be forgotten. They suddenly came and gave him a sharp nudge."
I am not sure I am ready to cope with this. Like most other tragic events, we don't choose the timing or the fact they have occurred at all. When I stare into the abyss of what is to come, I pull myself back to my other reality, the one where I count my blessings and look at my kids and life in Seattle and am thankful for all that I have. Yet, now I have two members of my family who have a very loose grip on reality. My brother has been chased by demons, and I in no way envy his plight. Alzheimer's comes with a silver lining, small though it is: at times the people who suffer from it are not aware they suffer. I wish the same could be said for their loved ones who are fully awake and aware of what is happening.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
"Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk" by Ben Fountain
I just finished reading Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk by Ben Fountain last night. I heard Fountain read a section of this at the Association of Writers and Writing Programs (AWP) Conference a few weeks ago. I liked what he read, and bought the book. John read it before I did, and he raced through it. I loved it.
At the risk of sounding like a 4th grader giving a book report, I'll tell you about it. Billy Lynn is a nineteen year old Army grunt who has returned to the U.S. in 2004 for a two week victory tour before returning to Iraq. His troop, Bravo, did something super heroic and were touring the "swing states." The story takes place in Texas Stadium during a Dallas Cowboy's football game on Thanksgiving Day.
I've never cared as much for a character as I did for Billy. I like Elizabeth Bennett and Mister Darcy, Scout and Atticus Finch, but I love Billy Lynn. John thinks I am maternal in my affection for the boy, but John liked the kid, too. He is young and uneducated and insightful and wise. He is decent, sweet boy who loves his momma, sisters and fellow soldiers.
Here are a few passages I liked. These aren't necessarily about Billy, but I like them all the same.
"But they are different, these Americans. The are the ballers. They dress well, they practice the most advanced hygienes, they are conversant in the world of complex investments and fairly hum with the pleasures of good living--gourmet meals, fine wines, skills at games and sports, a working knowledge of the capitals of Europe. If they aren't quite as flawlessly handsome as models or movie actors, they certainly possess the vitality and style of, say, the people in a Viagra advertisement. Special time with Bravo is just one of the multitudes of pleasures available to them, and thinking about it makes Billy somewhat bitter. It's not that he's jealous as much as profoundly terrified. Dread of returning to Iraq equals the direst poverty, and that's how he feels right now, poor, like a shabby homeless kids thrust into the company of millionaires. Mortal fear is the ghetto of the human soul, to be free of it something like the psychic equivalent of inheriting a hundred million dollars. This is what he truly envies of these people, the luxury of terror as a talking point, and at this moment he feels so sorry for himself that he could break right down and cry.
I'm a good soldier, he tells himself, aren't I a good soldier? So what does it mean when a good soldier feels this bad?" (p. 114)
Egads. This just makes me want to cry. I feel a little too close to those middle aged folks talking to Bravo.
"And it is was just this, Billy thinks, just the rude mindless headbanging game of it, then football would be an excellent sport and not the bloated, sanctified, self-important beast it became once culture got its clammy hands on it. Rules. There are hundreds, and every year they make more, an insidious and particularly gross distortion of the concept of 'play,' and then there are the meat-brain coaches with their sadistic drills and team prayers and dyslexia-inducing diagrams, the control-freak refs running around like little Hitlers, the time-outs, the deadening pauses for incompletes, the pontifical ceremony of instant-replay reviews, plus huddles, playbooks, pads, audibles, and all other manner of stupefactive device when the truth of the matter is that boys just want to run around and knock the shit out of each other." (p. 164)
This passage reminds of me of the Boy. Yes, we need rules, but sometimes rules get in the way of the point of the game in the first place.
"Billy has these visions sometimes, these brief sidelines into America as a nightmare of superabundance, but Army life in general and the war in particular have rendered him acutely sensitive to quantity. Not that it's rocket science. None of the higher mathematics is involved, for war is the pure and ultimate realm of dumb quantity. Who can manufacture the most death? It's not calculus, yo, what we're dealing with here is plain old idiot arithmetic, remedial rounds of pounds-per-minute, assets degraded, Excel spreadsheets of dead and wounded. By such measures, the United State military is the most beautiful fighting force in the history of the world. The first time he saw this demonstrated up close and personal sent him into a kind of shock, or maybe what they meant by awe." (p. 221)
Given my fondness for Excel spreadsheets, this passage his a chord with me. I count lots and lots of things. I never thought of math and war put together. Interesting juxtaposition.
At the risk of sounding like a 4th grader giving a book report, I'll tell you about it. Billy Lynn is a nineteen year old Army grunt who has returned to the U.S. in 2004 for a two week victory tour before returning to Iraq. His troop, Bravo, did something super heroic and were touring the "swing states." The story takes place in Texas Stadium during a Dallas Cowboy's football game on Thanksgiving Day.
I've never cared as much for a character as I did for Billy. I like Elizabeth Bennett and Mister Darcy, Scout and Atticus Finch, but I love Billy Lynn. John thinks I am maternal in my affection for the boy, but John liked the kid, too. He is young and uneducated and insightful and wise. He is decent, sweet boy who loves his momma, sisters and fellow soldiers.
Here are a few passages I liked. These aren't necessarily about Billy, but I like them all the same.
"But they are different, these Americans. The are the ballers. They dress well, they practice the most advanced hygienes, they are conversant in the world of complex investments and fairly hum with the pleasures of good living--gourmet meals, fine wines, skills at games and sports, a working knowledge of the capitals of Europe. If they aren't quite as flawlessly handsome as models or movie actors, they certainly possess the vitality and style of, say, the people in a Viagra advertisement. Special time with Bravo is just one of the multitudes of pleasures available to them, and thinking about it makes Billy somewhat bitter. It's not that he's jealous as much as profoundly terrified. Dread of returning to Iraq equals the direst poverty, and that's how he feels right now, poor, like a shabby homeless kids thrust into the company of millionaires. Mortal fear is the ghetto of the human soul, to be free of it something like the psychic equivalent of inheriting a hundred million dollars. This is what he truly envies of these people, the luxury of terror as a talking point, and at this moment he feels so sorry for himself that he could break right down and cry.
I'm a good soldier, he tells himself, aren't I a good soldier? So what does it mean when a good soldier feels this bad?" (p. 114)
Egads. This just makes me want to cry. I feel a little too close to those middle aged folks talking to Bravo.
"And it is was just this, Billy thinks, just the rude mindless headbanging game of it, then football would be an excellent sport and not the bloated, sanctified, self-important beast it became once culture got its clammy hands on it. Rules. There are hundreds, and every year they make more, an insidious and particularly gross distortion of the concept of 'play,' and then there are the meat-brain coaches with their sadistic drills and team prayers and dyslexia-inducing diagrams, the control-freak refs running around like little Hitlers, the time-outs, the deadening pauses for incompletes, the pontifical ceremony of instant-replay reviews, plus huddles, playbooks, pads, audibles, and all other manner of stupefactive device when the truth of the matter is that boys just want to run around and knock the shit out of each other." (p. 164)
This passage reminds of me of the Boy. Yes, we need rules, but sometimes rules get in the way of the point of the game in the first place.
"Billy has these visions sometimes, these brief sidelines into America as a nightmare of superabundance, but Army life in general and the war in particular have rendered him acutely sensitive to quantity. Not that it's rocket science. None of the higher mathematics is involved, for war is the pure and ultimate realm of dumb quantity. Who can manufacture the most death? It's not calculus, yo, what we're dealing with here is plain old idiot arithmetic, remedial rounds of pounds-per-minute, assets degraded, Excel spreadsheets of dead and wounded. By such measures, the United State military is the most beautiful fighting force in the history of the world. The first time he saw this demonstrated up close and personal sent him into a kind of shock, or maybe what they meant by awe." (p. 221)
Given my fondness for Excel spreadsheets, this passage his a chord with me. I count lots and lots of things. I never thought of math and war put together. Interesting juxtaposition.
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Windchimes and Blue Freckles
I had a major find at the Central Library today. In the gift shop, they were selling journals that were made from recycled hard covered books. (See http://atticjournals.com.) "Windchimes," published by Houghton Mifflin, was my third grade reading textbook.
Inside the journal, there are a few pages from the book, including my favorite story, "Freckle Juice" by Judy Blume. I was thrilled. Not only was this my 3rd grade book, but this was probably the first story I ever read by Judy Blume. I devoured her books in 4th, 5th and 6th grade. I had to bring this home.
Inside the journal, there are a few pages from the book, including my favorite story, "Freckle Juice" by Judy Blume. I was thrilled. Not only was this my 3rd grade book, but this was probably the first story I ever read by Judy Blume. I devoured her books in 4th, 5th and 6th grade. I had to bring this home.
This is my madeleine/time machine trip for today, sending me back to Albert Einstein Elementary School in 1978. After my small reading group read this story, we created a little skit of "Freckle Juice." I was Sharon, the conniving little girl who sells Andrew her secret family recipe for freckle juice, which included grape juice, mayonnaise, vinegar and a little piece of onion. I didn't remember Sharon being such a con artist, but she was. I think I imagined her being nicer than she was, which is a stretch because she is awful.
Robbie played Andrew. Robbie was the smartest kid in the grade--likely the entire school--and he shocked our group by putting a dozen blue stickers on his face for the scene where Andrew comes to school with blue freckles. Robbie didn't tell anyone he had planned this -- he just did it.
My memory is faulty here. I somehow recall we all were shocked, and the teacher was not pleased, which makes me wonder if he drew the dots on his face with a Sharpie. Robbie was one of those boys who was 90% brilliant and 10% outlandish, and so it was completely possible. My memory of 90% brilliance suggests that he would have known better to have drawn on his face and not have done something that absurd. Yet, this discrepancy in my memory makes me wonder. The kids would not have been so shocked and the teacher would not have been upset if he had just used stickers. His 10% outlandishness would have drawn on his face to get a reaction.
Robbie didn't always use his best judgment, like the time in sixth grade when he rode his dirt bike down a hill in a construction site, crashed and broke his collar bone. "Hill" is a misnomer. This was more like a wall of dirt with a straight vertical drop. If it was a ski slope, it would have been unskiable. It was remarkable that he didn't break something worse than a collar bone. I wonder what made him try to bike down the dirt cliff. He must have been amplifying the reward and minimizing the risk. It would have been a wild ride if he hadn't gotten hurt. I didn't witness the ride or the accident, nor did I see anyone else ride down the hill. Was it peer pressure? Did other kids make it down successfully? This was a kid who didn't care about drawing spots on his face. I doubted he caved to peer pressure. More likely, he was peer pressure. Given he was the smartest kid in the school, no one would say he was a bad influence. No one would say he wasn't a little imp, though, either.
While I had a brother growing up, I never really understood boys until I had a son. I never understood why Robbie would have done something potentially stupid just "because." Growing up, I never did anything that I thought was intentionally stupid. Now I understand a little bit. (Reading Bill Bryson's The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid helped me to understand, too.) Boys, as I have observed, sometimes do things just to see what will happen. I remember playing on the Sesame Street website with my son when he was little. There was a little section where he would help Oscar the Grouch sort the trash. The Boy would make mistakes on purpose, just to hear Oscar say "That's not correct!" in his faux grumpy voice. The Boy would laugh and laugh.
I wonder now if I give the Boy enough freedom to make those silly mistakes, to draw blue freckles on his face. I hope he never rides his bike down a dirt cliff, crashes, and breaks a few bones. Yet, I long for him to be a little imp. Just a little.
Friday, March 7, 2014
Good Clock, Bad Clock
The two clocks in my kitchen have a different time. The microwave clock is seven minutes fast. The oven clock has the correct time (i.e., matches my phone).
The microwave clock is my bad clock. It yells at me "Hurry up! You are running late! The Boy is going to miss the bus!" I panic when I see this clock.
Moments later, I turn to the oven. The oven clock is the good clock. "You have plenty of time. No worries. Don't rush."
I need both of these to get my son on the bus in the morning. Without the fast clock, I wouldn't move. Without the accurate clock, I would rush him out the door without a lunch.
The microwave clock is my bad clock. It yells at me "Hurry up! You are running late! The Boy is going to miss the bus!" I panic when I see this clock.
Moments later, I turn to the oven. The oven clock is the good clock. "You have plenty of time. No worries. Don't rush."
I need both of these to get my son on the bus in the morning. Without the fast clock, I wouldn't move. Without the accurate clock, I would rush him out the door without a lunch.
Thursday, March 6, 2014
My Old Pink Jacket; Or, Hipster, Dork or Middle-Aged Muffin?
My favorite jacket is this old, beat-up rag that I got at the Gap several years ago. I bought it because it was super comfortable and I loved the color.
Let's review its current state.
Does wearing this ratty old jacket make me a hipster, dork or a middle age muffin? Hipsters like old clothes. They buy things that have holes and have been washed in industrial chemicals to make them look aged. I think most hipsters would draw the line at grease stains, though. I am sure there are some stains that might be fashionable in some parts of the world, but I don't think dressing like a fry cook is popular anywhere, except for maybe Bikini Bottom. To be clear, SpongeBob is a dork, not a hipster.
That rules out hipster. Dork? I could be a dork, but I don't think dorks wear pink very often. Plus, this jacket is less than 10 years old. I think it would have to be between 15 and 20 years to be considered dork wear. Older than 20 or 25 years kicks into retro, which is hipster. (You can do the math on my husband's ski jacket.)
Dorks are unaware and hipsters try too hard. I don't fall into either category. I guess that leaves me and my pink jacket in the "Middle-Aged Muffin" category, a term I just made up. I could abbreviate it to Mam, as in "Will that be all, Ma'am?" (Not to be confused with mammary. We are not going there.)
Muffin comes from my muffin top belly and that muffins imply something cute. I don't think I am cute compared to my daughter, let's say, but I do have countless middle age friends who look good for their age. That is not meant to be a backhanded compliment. Not one of us looks like a crone, which is good. The other day, my husband said I don't look old. I think he was trying to be sweet. My friends (hello you reading my blog!) appropriately look their age and still look good. These women don't try to dress like their daughters. They dress like themselves, and have fun with it.
So where does my tattered pink jacket fit in? It makes me happy. I feel warm and lazy and relaxed wearing it. It says "I am not leaving the house today, but isn't this a great color?" This jacket means I am passed the painful stage where fitting is means so much. I make my own decisions. Like Goldilocks' search for a place to rest, this jacket is just right.
And maybe I am a little bit like my jacket. I might not look old according to my husband, but cronehood is not so far away. The gray streak in my hair expands, and I need more and more moisturizer each day to keep the wrinkles away. I don't want to talk about the aches where there used to be none, or the slowing metabolism. Just because it is a little worn doesn't mean I still don't love it. I bought it because it was comfortable and I loved the color. That's still true. Old things need love, too--holes, wrinkles, gray hair and all.
Let's review its current state.
- The cuffs were fraying to the point they looked fringed. I couldn't cook without the edges dipping into the food, which was kind of gross. I thought "This is it. The jacket needs to go." Then I had a flash. I took my good fabric scissors and removed the fringe. Good as... well, the jacket became functionable.
- There are holes where the cuff meets the sleeve. I think of this now as a bonus feature, like a mitten sleeve that comes with those fancy exercise jackets sold at Lululemon or REI.
- The tag on the bottom zipper is broken.
- The pockets have holes. I lose keys and kleenex. No selling point here.
- The elbows have holes. Ditto no selling point.
- There are grease stains from cooking. Oy.
Does wearing this ratty old jacket make me a hipster, dork or a middle age muffin? Hipsters like old clothes. They buy things that have holes and have been washed in industrial chemicals to make them look aged. I think most hipsters would draw the line at grease stains, though. I am sure there are some stains that might be fashionable in some parts of the world, but I don't think dressing like a fry cook is popular anywhere, except for maybe Bikini Bottom. To be clear, SpongeBob is a dork, not a hipster.
That rules out hipster. Dork? I could be a dork, but I don't think dorks wear pink very often. Plus, this jacket is less than 10 years old. I think it would have to be between 15 and 20 years to be considered dork wear. Older than 20 or 25 years kicks into retro, which is hipster. (You can do the math on my husband's ski jacket.)
Dorks are unaware and hipsters try too hard. I don't fall into either category. I guess that leaves me and my pink jacket in the "Middle-Aged Muffin" category, a term I just made up. I could abbreviate it to Mam, as in "Will that be all, Ma'am?" (Not to be confused with mammary. We are not going there.)
Muffin comes from my muffin top belly and that muffins imply something cute. I don't think I am cute compared to my daughter, let's say, but I do have countless middle age friends who look good for their age. That is not meant to be a backhanded compliment. Not one of us looks like a crone, which is good. The other day, my husband said I don't look old. I think he was trying to be sweet. My friends (hello you reading my blog!) appropriately look their age and still look good. These women don't try to dress like their daughters. They dress like themselves, and have fun with it.
So where does my tattered pink jacket fit in? It makes me happy. I feel warm and lazy and relaxed wearing it. It says "I am not leaving the house today, but isn't this a great color?" This jacket means I am passed the painful stage where fitting is means so much. I make my own decisions. Like Goldilocks' search for a place to rest, this jacket is just right.
And maybe I am a little bit like my jacket. I might not look old according to my husband, but cronehood is not so far away. The gray streak in my hair expands, and I need more and more moisturizer each day to keep the wrinkles away. I don't want to talk about the aches where there used to be none, or the slowing metabolism. Just because it is a little worn doesn't mean I still don't love it. I bought it because it was comfortable and I loved the color. That's still true. Old things need love, too--holes, wrinkles, gray hair and all.
 |
| Me, Fox and the pink jacket |
Monday, March 3, 2014
Bad Pictures of My Dog
Like any proud parent, I like to take pictures of my new baby. While we have had Fox for a few months now, he still feels new. The honeymoon isn't over. Actually, the honeymoon analogy doesn't apply to dogs. The first few weeks we had him were hard. Definitely not honeymoon-ish.
Some of the pictures I took of him were bad, yet I can't seem to delete them from my phone. I need to clear stuff off my phone as I am running out of storage space. And yet, these goofy ones stay. What is it about a bad picture that makes me want to keep it?
 |
| There is something about a goofy picture that makes him seem more adorable. Is it because it shows our imperfections? That he is lovable anyway? |
Did I ever tell you about the dog Asher I wanted to adopt? He was a border collie and a wired haired pointer mix. He was ugly. Hideous. He had white bristly fur, blue lopsided eyes and his nose was too big. He nuzzled his head against my leg and I fell in love. It was not to be, and that probably was a good thing. My hairdresser has a similar breed.
"You know, those dogs never get tired. Ever. They were bred to keep up with horses. Do you have a horse?"
No.
I guess I dodged a bullet and ended up with a lap dog. Here are more bad pictures of Fox.
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| This is a blurry picture of Fox's eyes. I must have dropped the phone in the middle of shooting this one. He looks like an evil alien, and yet it stays on my phone. |
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| This one was taken at Magnuson Park on the shore of Lake Washington. He kept looking out at the water and not at the camera. |
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| This is Fox's car seat. The Boy took this one. This is just a regular bad picture-- blurry with eyes closed. A normal person would have deleted it immediately. I keep this memory of the Boy trying to photograph the dog. The Boy also took some good pictures of Fox, but the bad one stays with the rest of them. |
Saturday, March 1, 2014
Offline, Salt and my Madeleines
I've been offline for the past two weeks. The kids had mid-winter break, and then week after was crazy. During the break, the Boy's Lego Club made it to the First Lego League State Championship in Ellensburg, WA. We also skied for a few days. All good, but we have been eating out. A lot. As a result, I've eaten so much salt in the past two weeks the Atlantic Ocean is jealous.
Speaking of salt... Last night my daughter was skiing and John was working, so the Boy and I ordered pizza for dinner. We usually get Delfino's, which is a Chicago style place that serves a deep dish spinach. This is only place west of the Kennedy Expressway that serves deep dish like this. Anyhow, at the Boy's request, we did not order from Delfino's. We ordered from the national chain that serves this garlic dipping sauce on the side of their pizzas. Ingredients: soybean oil, water, salt, and then a bunch of chemicals. I was at the AWP Conference yesterday when a woman read a poem about desire and lack of control written by a prison inmate. The way this guy feels about cocaine, I feel about this garlic sauce. This morning, I went to the refrigerator in the basement and ate a piece of cheese bread covered in the sauce for breakfast. I didn't use a plate. I just ate it over the box. Maybe this sauce won't ruin my life and cause me to lose my family or end up in prison, but it could clog my arteries and cause some serious hypertension. I know this sacue is bad for me, but I could not resist. I was a victim to its powers.
And then there was Potbelly for lunch. Potbelly used to be a one shop operation on Lincoln Ave in Lincoln Park in Chicago, very close to where I lived in my twenties. The story goes that Potbelly started as a antique shop in the 1970s that started making lunch for its customers. Soon, the sandwich business took over the antique sales. Anyhow, John and I used to go to Potbelly on a regular basis for lunch. On a beautiful summer afternoon, the line would sometimes snake around the place and out the door. I would get a ham and swiss baked on a hogie roll with mayo, lettuce, tomato, onion, oil and Italian seasonings. John and I would usually split a bag of chips and a milkshake. Sometimes we'd just go for a milkshake.
Now Potbelly is a chain, and there is one on Pike and 4th in downtown Seattle. This ham sandwich is my madeleine, sending me back through a vortex of time to my twenties, living a yuppie's life in Chicago. When I had time to wait a half an hour for a sandwich and not worry if one of my children would meltdown from lack of food. When I could slam a milkshake and not feel like I had to compensate by detoxing on only lettuce, rice and tea for the next two days. While I love this place, yesterday I left feeling like I was pregnant with a ham sandwich and oatmeal chocolate chip cookie. Those days of freedom weekends and high metabolism are gone.
That didn't stop me from returning today. I wonder how many times Marcel Proust returned to his madeleines. Did they always bring him back to his childhood, or at some point, did he just remember the last time he had the cookie? Did he ever decide a cookie was just a cookie and leave it at that?
Speaking of salt... Last night my daughter was skiing and John was working, so the Boy and I ordered pizza for dinner. We usually get Delfino's, which is a Chicago style place that serves a deep dish spinach. This is only place west of the Kennedy Expressway that serves deep dish like this. Anyhow, at the Boy's request, we did not order from Delfino's. We ordered from the national chain that serves this garlic dipping sauce on the side of their pizzas. Ingredients: soybean oil, water, salt, and then a bunch of chemicals. I was at the AWP Conference yesterday when a woman read a poem about desire and lack of control written by a prison inmate. The way this guy feels about cocaine, I feel about this garlic sauce. This morning, I went to the refrigerator in the basement and ate a piece of cheese bread covered in the sauce for breakfast. I didn't use a plate. I just ate it over the box. Maybe this sauce won't ruin my life and cause me to lose my family or end up in prison, but it could clog my arteries and cause some serious hypertension. I know this sacue is bad for me, but I could not resist. I was a victim to its powers.
And then there was Potbelly for lunch. Potbelly used to be a one shop operation on Lincoln Ave in Lincoln Park in Chicago, very close to where I lived in my twenties. The story goes that Potbelly started as a antique shop in the 1970s that started making lunch for its customers. Soon, the sandwich business took over the antique sales. Anyhow, John and I used to go to Potbelly on a regular basis for lunch. On a beautiful summer afternoon, the line would sometimes snake around the place and out the door. I would get a ham and swiss baked on a hogie roll with mayo, lettuce, tomato, onion, oil and Italian seasonings. John and I would usually split a bag of chips and a milkshake. Sometimes we'd just go for a milkshake.
Now Potbelly is a chain, and there is one on Pike and 4th in downtown Seattle. This ham sandwich is my madeleine, sending me back through a vortex of time to my twenties, living a yuppie's life in Chicago. When I had time to wait a half an hour for a sandwich and not worry if one of my children would meltdown from lack of food. When I could slam a milkshake and not feel like I had to compensate by detoxing on only lettuce, rice and tea for the next two days. While I love this place, yesterday I left feeling like I was pregnant with a ham sandwich and oatmeal chocolate chip cookie. Those days of freedom weekends and high metabolism are gone.
That didn't stop me from returning today. I wonder how many times Marcel Proust returned to his madeleines. Did they always bring him back to his childhood, or at some point, did he just remember the last time he had the cookie? Did he ever decide a cookie was just a cookie and leave it at that?
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