Guess who went outside last night for a final romp before bedtime?
Guess who encountered a skunk?
Guess who got to bathe the skunkified dogs?
Guess whose house still stinks?
Guess who’s now thinking, in retrospect, those parent-teacher conferences weren’t all that bad?
Thank you again for all the good wishes regarding Zippy’s heart. Yesterday he went to work and felt fine, even as he took a nearly two-mile walk on the mall. He walked slowly and with a friend, and enjoyed being out in the fresh air.
Since many, many people are suffering in this poor economy and job market, I wanted to share something that might help someone:
We thought Zippy’s feelings of low-energy and breathlessness (and eventual tightening in chest) were a result of stress since the company he works for filed for bankruptcy in November and his job terminates at the end of March.
But Zippy now realizes there was a major difference between how stress affected his body and how the blocked artery affected him.
In the past, whenever he was under stress exercise always made him feel better.
When his artery was blocked, exercise did NOT make him feel better (physically or emotionally).
(My siblings found this info helpful since they’ve been walking around clutching their chests, wondering if they’re also on the verge of heart attacks. My family has a history of heart disease, as does Zippy’s. And yes, I realize Zippy and I had no business having kids since we’re both practically blind and have family trees filled with clogged arteries. But that genetic ship has sailed).
Yesterday was Friday the 13th.
The day for Zippy’s appointment with a cardiologist because of chest pains that started eight days earlier.
Chest pains that progressed from only during exercise (running) to walking to the bus to pains felt while driving to the cardiologist and then again while filling out paperwork in the cardiologist’s office.
Yesterday was Friday the 13th.
The day when Zippy’s body screamed out for attention so that rather than a meet-and-greet, gathering of medical history kind of appointment, Zippy was sent to the hospital for an angiogram.
Yesterday was Friday the 13th.
The day doctors detected Zippy’s severely blocked artery and fixed it with two stents.
Yesterday was Friday the 13th.
The day we learned Zippy hadn’t suffered any heart attacks, that his heart wasn’t damaged,
and that his heart muscle is strong.
The day we averted medical disaster.
Today is February 14.
Valentine’s Day.
The day the love of my life is home with us again, feeling so much better than he has in the past two months.
Today is February 14.
Valentine’s Day.
I’m so very grateful.
Tonight Zippy and I saw a man who is bald on top and has shoulder-length hair.
Since Zippy is headed toward bald on top, I pointed out he could wear his hair like that.
He said, "I like mine better."
I agreed.
He said, "Shorter hair is just easier, there’s no hassle."
I said, "I love short hair and if I looked like Natalie Portman, I’d shave my head."
He said, "If you looked like Natalie Portman, I’d shave my head."
We’re not quite sure what that meant. But we laughed a bunch.
Had to take Zebu to the orthopedist yesterday.
He suffered another basketball-induced injury Sunday.
He was on crutches all week.
This is what we found out:
The hamstring (behind your thigh) is responsible for bending the knee.
The quad (on top of your thigh) is responsible for straightening the knee.
If the hamstring is tight, the knee wants to stay in bent position and
the quad has to fight it.
If the quad is putting all effort into fighting the hamstring, the quad is
not doing its work to stabilize the knee.
If the knee is not stabilized, there is much greater risk of injury.
Boys who play sports are particularly susceptible to injury because:
1) their hormones (testosterone) are more constrictive than estrogen (which is
why girls typically have greater flexibility)
2) they are still growing and since bone grows much faster than muscle,
the muscles can’t keep up and are tight
3) they are building muscle as they play their sports, and muscle
is tissue that contracts
Moral of this story? STRETCH YOUR HAMSTRINGS!
Today was supposed to be our day to pack for our trip to Florida.
Zebu and I went out to buy swim goggles since we can’t find ours.
On the way home Zebu and I discussed our flight.
I said we couldn’t get a direct flight to Tampa.
He wondered where we changed planes.
I said, "Atlanta?"
An hour after getting home I checked our flight itinerary to see if I’d remembered correctly.
WTF?
Date of departure: Friday, December 19 at 9:40AM
Isn’t today Friday,December 19? Isn’t it nearly 1PM?
Called Zippy at work to give him bad news.
Zippy said many colorful things.
Zippy apologized over and over, blaming himself.
I reminded Zippy of all the pressure he was under when making those reservations a month ago.
I pointed out how hard it is trying different airlines, different dates and times, in an
attempt to get the best deal.
I told him he had nothing to apologize for.
Not sure if he believed me but he stopped berating himself.
Well, we lucked out because the airline changed our flight to Sunday for no extra cost.
We can thank today’s weather advisory which made this change possible.
Called my mom to tell her we wouldn’t arrive until the 21st rather than the 20th.
She said, "When you first told me you had reservations you said they were for December 19."
Oh, my.
Zippy didn’t screw up.
I did.
I think I got it in my head we were going from December 20-27.
And I repeated that false info until we all took it as fact.
I’m trying hard to remember all the kind things I said to Zippy when he was beating himself up.
Wish I’d tape recorded that spiel.
As for that change-over in Atlanta? WRONG! We were (and are) flying through Indianapolis.
Sigh.
Today is four weeks since my dad died. Early on, several people who do grief counseling told me my thought processes would be messed up/foggy for three weeks. It’s true. They were. Are.
This morning for the first time I not only itched to get working again but felt as if I could do some decent work. I’ve fallen out of my 1000 words/day habit and haven’t started revising my funny MG boy book. However, last week I wrote up notes and thoughts surrounding draft 1 of another book (BB) and printed those out so I could hit the ground running on draft 2 when I pull it out again in several months. I forced myself to do this because I was sure that project was the culprit taking up valuable space in my brain, keeping me from the revisions and writing 1k words/day on a new project.
So this morning, free from that other project, I felt the itch. Not only that, I felt like my old writer self feeling the itch. Me and the itch. I decided it was time to do some scratching, time to get serious about those revisions.
I opened my laptop and started reading through revisions notes I’ve taken over the past four weeks. Suddenly, I felt teary and panicked and overwhelmingly tired. And I knew I wasn’t quite ready.
I closed the laptop and took a nap.
I’m sure I was right about the other project taking up valuable real estate in my head. But I obviously still need a little more time to make a little more space for my grief.
Patience isn’t one of my strengths but in this case, I guess I don’t really have a choice. It just means I’ll have more time for watching birds in the feeder. That is, until the Cooper’s Hawk arrives to sit on my back fence and all the juncos and sparrows and finches disappear until the coast is clear.
Eventually they’ll be back, and so will I.
Wildebeest considers me the enemy. The Man.
His friends are nervous around me as a result of
the Wildbeest rants they’ve heard over the years.
I’m strict. I’m controlling. I’m a hippie freak. I don’t
like video games about killing. I make him take vitamins.
Friday night Wildebeest had his two best friends over for a sleepover.
One friend, D, is on the wrestling team. D’s coaches told him
he needed to cut his Shaggy-do before the next day’s tourney or
they’d cut it afterward using the tape scissors.
After much consultation including me reminding everyone what
Wildebeest’s bangs looked like in sixth grade when I accidentally
chopped them off WAY too high on his forehead, we came up with a plan.
Wildebeest did the early work as he used the clipper’s #5 attachment
to remove inches of hair. J snipped rogue strands. I offered suggestions
and swept the floor. When it got to the final shaping stage, I took over
the clippers.
Two hours after we started the consultation, D had a new haircut. And you
know what he said?
“My mom was right. She kept telling me I’d look better with short hair.”
Did Wildebeest immediately ask for his haircut?
No.
Is that okay by me?
Hell, yes. We choose our battles around here and hair ain’t one of them.
D looks good. Wildebeest is actually proud of my help with D’s hair.
And yesterday when J overheard Wildebeest giving me some mild-mannered lip,
he admonished Wildebeest about being sassy.
Wow.
Yesterday I wasn’t my usual Birthday Gal self.
Despite kind messages from friends afar.
The sky was cold and gray, and my heart was heavy.
Then my loving Zippy came home early bearing gorgeous gifts.
It’s hard feeling down in the presence of sunflowers.
I decided it was time to make that new hoop I’ve wanted.
I find myself smiling again.
Life goes on.
Thank you to all who share it with me.
Wishing everyone a wonderful Thanksgiving.
Last Saturday my 82-year-old father went for his daily ten-mile
bike ride. He came home, talked a bit with my mother, and took
a shower. While in the shower, he suffered a major heart attack.
He never regained consciousness. He died on Monday morning.
My mother, a sister, two brothers and I were with him when he
died. He passed very peacefully. For that, I’m grateful. He was an
active man and would not have wanted to live on in a diminished
capacity.
I posted this photo from many years ago because when I was in
high school I wanted to be on the basketball team. Dad fed me
lay-up after lay-up in preparation for tryouts. I didn’t make the
team but I have those memories of practicing together in our driveway.
Tomorrow is an informal open house at my mother’s apartment in
Florida. Wildebeest is attending as our family’s ambassador. He
and his grandfather had a difficult relationship but Wildebeest wanted
to be there. He’ll be flying out with his cousin and flying home
alone which he’s never done before.
We’re all starting new chapters in our lives.
We’re a video-game free household and Wildebeest is always off at friends’ houses playing those games. Watching movies on enormous screens. And eating junk food.
This morning we went out and bought a ping-pong table. It’s set up in the basement where Wildebeest and three of his friends (plus Zebu) are now playing ping pong.
I just took a bunch of food downstairs.
I’m hoping they’ll be here a while.
Zippy called yesterday afternoon to say he was sick and headed home.
Told my parents who were visiting they must leave so they don’t catch the plague from Zippy.
They need all their strength for their drive across the country to their winter home in Florida.
Zebu arrives home and hugs grandparents goodbye.
Then Zebu reveals he felt sick at school.
Parents rush out front door as Zippy enters from garage.
Parents swallow much Vitamin C before driving away.
Wildebeest arrives home with sniffles but says "I’m impervious to colds."
This morning – a workday, a school day – the house is quiet.
Zippy tucked into his bed. Zebu reading in his bed. Wildebeest snoring in his.
Mother calls me from my brother’s where she spent last night.
So far, so good. Maybe they got out in time.
Me? I’m still blowing my nose from the cold that started two weeks ago and hoping I don’t get sick again.
I’ve got a conference this weekend.
And JoNo writing goals.
Please pass the tissue.
It’s been a wild ride the past few days but emotions have calmed and personalities have stopped clashing, at least for this moment. And for that, I am thankful.
Wishing all of you a calm and peaceful Thanksgiving.
My office somehow became the family office and then the family dumping ground. I’d post a photo of what it looks like today but it’s too damned scary. Visualize piles of papers, stacks of books next to full bookshelves, a dead computer on the floor, various cords and plug-ins, dust, tax files, homework, more dust, bins and boxes, magazines and unpaid bills. Did I mention the dust?
Believe me when I say there’s not a whole lot of space for creativity.
Well, I read
notes on Laurie Halse Anderson in which LHA said writers must create a sacred writing space. Dot quoted her as saying “Writing space creates focus. You’re planting a flag.”
I thought, yeah. But how?
Then today I was flipping through Monica Wood’s THE POCKET MUSE (a great book, by the way) and came across Ingredients of a good writing space which includes “The space should be marked as yours by the decor: a favorite vase, a framed photo, a special charm or knick-knack. Put up a sign, a flag, a fence; pee on it if you have to. It’s yours.”
So I mulled over the possibilities before moving a little desk out of the office and putting it in the weight room. I figure I’m safe in there since I’m the only one in the family who lifts weights.
And I didn’t even have to pee to make it mine. 
Sunday is our cleaning day.
Wildebeest and Zebu cleaned their rooms, vacuumed, and “scoured” the downstairs bathroom.
Zippy Ramone vacuumed and cleaned the two upstairs bathrooms.
Guess what I did?
Here’s a close-up in case you need another hint:
I’d forgotten you’re supposed to be able to see the contents of the fruit and veggie bins.
(Visibility! What a concept!)
So long, expired vitamin powder. Farewell, fossilized chile relish. Ta-ta, coagulated strawberry syrup.
Oh my . Get outta here, half-cup of sauerkraut. And take that furry whatever it is with you.
(Confession: I keep opening the fridge to admire my handiwork. That tells you a little something about my worth as a domestic goddess).
Do any of you out there come home from the salon and put your head under the faucet so you can see what your new haircut will really look like in the hands of a rank amateur? (You know, minus the products you never use, the blow dryer you never apply, etc.)
That’s my usual M.O. but today in honor of spring, my stylist threw me a curve: after cutting my hair, she French braided it.
I don’t have the heart to destroy her lovely work.
Guess I’ll wait until tomorrow to discover the reality of this latest cut.
Had just gotten dressed, washed face, brushed teeth, and was drying off glasses before jumping back into my WIP. The glasses snapped in two. Am now wearing old glasses with old prescription, feeling woozy and slightly nauseous. Welcome to Monday……..
This is a view from my patio, taken in June. My garden doesn’t look like this now – mums and asters are blooming today – but I wanted to document that early summer day because it holds only good memories for me. Mate and I spent afternoon on patio, talking and laughing. Watching butterflies flit from flower to flower, listening to bees buzzing and the snake slithering through the dry leaves alongside the patio. We relaxed into the little piece of beauty we’d created in our own backyard. It was a truly wonderful day.
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Tracy Abell 