Coming up: Snow day, s'no way! The sodden slushing of margaritaville commences with a slurp, as finances are finagled and imbalances abound. Will Adella cluck her way to the final concussion or can be fight back against the sling and arrows of outrageous physiossassins? This just in: Researchers discover an overwhelming link between zoetic experiences and death! Further research reveals that breathing causes cancers, and viability may play a role in acne. Chairs breath a sigh of relief, or would had they the requisite anatomy to do so (in which case they'd no longer have anything about which to be relieved). Existence takes its toll on Papa T's shoulder and tears are shed for tears in his shoulder. Needles and thread are at hand, and surgery night. The (W)rights rush in to aid and succor, but mostly just steal soup. And time, tacit little vixen, Marches on. Will the ice-fortress restore our heroes' kinfolk's spirits? Will the (W)rights survive their sleep on broiling sheets under the wooden glare of icy angels?
All this and more shall be revealed to he who dares read on...
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711 Slushee-Land Recalled 'Hamstertown begins the long de-sog.
Our winter wonderland wonders no more, having embraced the simultaneously nihilistic and revelatory stillness that lies where being and non-being intersect in glorious unity beyond rational comprehension. And/or we slushed out yesterday. While I did manage to prod my baby kia out onto the roads after a day's hiatus, getting off my street felt like racing a Fisher Price Power Wheels through one of those monster margaritas on tap during happy hour (excuse me,feliz hour) at the local Mexi- joint. Except less colorful and more just dingy. Perhaps a mottled oyster margarita? I'll leave that tangent where it is and throw a syntactical lifeline back to the original meteorological thread of this paragraph. Heave!
Yes, the long-awaited "warming" came some time on Tuesday mid-morning. While conditions were not significantly better for the morning commute, things were back to about 300% grosser by noon. Gross as the streets may have been, the sun lulled in the sky and the roads regained traction. We were, in other words, free. Physically at least. It's hard to shake the lulling narcotic of those gently suspired words "snow day" ... Snow day is far more than a physical state. The crystalline stillness of streets, the crackle of the fire (or whirr of indoor heating vents), and that inevitable quietude that accompanies a good blizzard is perilously intoxicating. It was a mental struggle of Homeric proportion to make all of my appointments and treat the day like any old day.
But I did! I made it to work on a skid and a prayer. And then I made it to my Physical Therapy appointment after only twenty or thirty minutes of soliloquy on the merits of cancelling on sheer principle of "ice and snow" I was well rewarded for my efforts, of course. There was a mediocre half cup of coffee with my name on it (hard to write one's name on warm ebony liquid, but glitter pens work wonders!), and a series of increasingly humiliating feats of imbalance to perform.
As I am continuing to improve, my therapist is continuing to tweak all of my exercises. So, now basically everything I could do with any facility, she would like me to do standing on one leg, clucking like a chicken, and crossing my eyes. More or less. A few that couldn't be tweaked have just been increased by volume. Sometimes I think she and my massage-assassin have allied and are conspiring to bring about my death in some humiliating cracked skull incident. An increasingly functional foot is a nice side effect until my concussive demise.
And I didn't stop at the PT appointment. I made my exercise date at the gym. Azita, living out in the hinterlands of Sudden Valley and a day away from her tropical vacation in Aloha-land, inevitably stood me up. But least I didn't let myself succumb to snow-day-itis.
On Monday, in the midst of the blizzard, I even made it to an appointment and lunch with my financial planner. She gave me an insanely large packet to fill out, involving my anticipated needs thirty to forty years down the road. At lunch, she also asked a somewhat interesting question: what were my early messages about money when I was growing up. It took me a while to articulate, but my mom definitely made budgeting and managing money a fun game. We had play checks, little budget books, and all manners of ways to figure out our allowance spending and savings. When I was old enough, I got my own debit card and quickly became the family grocery shopper (compiling lists, and presenting the receipt for compensation at the end, a responsibility I enjoyed and took quite seriously). The other messages were from my parents' behaviors. Both were inclined to save money, but only to a point. My father would spend lavishly on a few chosen pursuits, but then cavil about price differentials on soda brands (opting for generic whenever possible). My mother was quite moderate herself, but effusively enjoyed gifting. I suppose those work behind my general approach now, which permeates far more than finances: delay gratification, save up, and then know when to let go of the savings on something great; rinse and repeat. Debt remains anathema to my being, which could interfere with certain risks and ambitions if I don't check that queasy feeling.
Anyways, I carry on the tradition of abstemious living mixed with splurges, most often of the gifting or vacationing variety. Adjusting to the idea of paying for cable or cleaning service was a bit of a stretch to me. I have a list of other indulgences to add as disposable income goes up, but it will be interesting to see what my concept of "disposable" becomes if my net income increases.
But from slush funds to flush to dry roads, we are here at the mid-point of the week and ready to take the world by (rain instead of snow) storm! May all your wheels find traction and may your massive PHALUMMPPS of melting rooftop snow land somewhere other than your head!
Snippety Snip Surgery Day for Pappa T, and Double Adventure Fortress Time for (W)rights
My father is a highly accomplished (read: insane) swimmer. He has been so since he was a wee little tadpole. By tadpole, I mean teenager. His college education was funded by a swimming scholarship, he swam in the Olympic trials, and he's been a regular pool-rat (pool ferret? pool otter??) long before my glorious cha-cha onto our mortal coil.
As I'm becoming increasingly tangibly aware, athletics tend to take a toll on one's body. This toll taken to extremes may eventually rival that of being a sedentary slob. Although probably not - from all the sensationalist articles I've read recently, a minute spent sitting is pretty much riskier than a minute spent smoking cigarettes dipped in strychnine out of one's eyes while rolling down a mountain of asbestos and discarded medical needles. But major takeaway: human bodies typically fall apart at some point and the very activities which, in moderation, may forestall such desuetude can also have the opposite effect when the needle is pushed any further. Also, we're all going to die! And curing one disease is most likely the leading risk factor for dying of some other disease.
In my dad's case, he's been fairly lucky. He does have some heart irregularities which may or may not have anything to do with years of high-end training. And he's had his shoulder tweaks and back pangs and so on. But beyond sixty, he's still kickin' it freestyle-flutter and butter-FLY like a playah. Except his rotator cuff. Apparently it has a few cavils. Like, how it currently has four tears (as in the ripping kind, not so much the lacrima, although I assure you the poor rotator cuff has welled at lachrymose ducts here and there)!
Yes, four tears. This calls for surgery, and that calls for Adella to don her little nurse hat and come spinning to the rescue! Well, really, more like my jaunty driving cap, so I can play chauffeur. My aunt, who wanted to fly out immediately has already given me specific instructions. She is of the belief that my father, a stubborn man indeed, will be up attempting to do yard work and heavy weight training by the time we hit home.
Perhaps, I exaggerate. Perhaps she has a point. My dad is certainly the glass half full of plague water when it comes to (1) the unknown, (2) any possible interpretation of anything any one else says ever, unless they actually are already distressed, in which case he is suddenly surprisingly supportive and positive (he's a very yin-yang fella that way). Pessimism aside, he's also overly ambitious and flip about his own present well being. Combining (1) his anxiety about the obviously inevitable fifty thousand pounds of sheer visceral fat that he will most certainly gain during his suspension from pool ottering, (2) his distaste for diminished autonomy, and (3) his tendency to dismiss his own physical distress, it's quite likely he may be bopping about the house with a vacuum in one hand and a whisk in the other far earlier than best-practices would merit. And my aunt will only enjoy her sixtieth birthday Hawaiian dream vacation if she knows that I'm tamping that nonsense down on her behalf.
I, having done my first year internship at PeaceHealth General Counsel, have already stock-piled significant research on the relevant statutes and constitutional rights related to minimal patient restraints... so there may be appropriate intervention measures. He may be stronger than me in a fair fight, but I'll know his weak spot this time! Also, the TASER, very helpful. Just kidding. I'm just going to put all of his pain meds into tranquilizer darts and deliver them as such. By golly, the man shall sleep!!
It was also recommended that out-patients not sleep alone on their first night (best pick up line ever? Not, really no). As such, Andrew and I are having a little adventure in ice-camping (the supernaturally frigid Victorian home without a hint of nocturnal heating should give my slippers and jammies a run for their fluffiness). My father has, of course, already started dinner for the evening in the slow cooker. I'm instructed to bring bread and "very large bowls."
Andrew, also being an insane athlete of a different medium, will be going home to torture himself on the trainer and then arriving just before bedtime to warm me up a bit. I'll be picking Papa T up at the hospital and hanging out all evening with my dart gun cocked. So, pretty much a typical family dinner kinda situation, really!
Papa T in Convalescence and the Incalescent Ice-House-
The dads hath been snipped and sewed and otherwise reworked like a sinewy patchwork quilt. As promised, I provided his kia chariot for an early afternoon drop-off, and then remained on call for the pick-up.
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| "If possibility of pregnancy, please inform an RN" Well, I am taking lady pills, but ... I declined to comment on the possibility, slim as it was |
The surgery people told me he should be done by 4. I don't know where they came up with that number. My father had previously predicted "six at the earliest" which was far more accurate. I nonetheless was ready at four, just in case. I even had time to pick up the bread that I'd been instructed to bring over (in addition to "large bowls" for the soup). After which, I waited... and waited. And changed locations... and waited... and read.
** Side note here: I am now pinkie toe deep (17% give or take) into Infinite Jest, so casual readers be warned. Foster Wallace's prose makes mine look like a particularly laconic section of See Spot Run, and I tend to pick up accents, intonations etc. of whatever I'm exposed to. So the tumescent typety-type of my turgid little fingers could well get Infintely (bwahahahaahaha PUN!) worse. Run while you still can. **
But yes, I sat about, waited, read, and updated various solicitous family members about the unchanged stasis of "so far so good, but that's all I know." Just after six, I saw the WomBat Signal and knew it was time to sneak in through the after hours parking garage elevator so that I could read some more in a different location with an intermittent farrago of beeps and blips and slightly drugged out palaver with the papa.
He was feeling both the effects of the general anesthesia and the effects of it eventually being his bed time, so I'm pretty sure we were headed towards an overnight stay at the hospital when the very sweet night shift nurse woke him up and gradually weaned him from the sweet nectar of saporous zzzzzzzz.
Andrew, in the meantime, had returned to our house and tortured himself on the trainer. Since soup was waiting in the oven, I instructed him to go ahead, let himself in and serve himself some. He was there midway through the 40 ounce bowl I purchased for (W)right soup and stew nights, when we returned. Papa T was pretty tuckered, falling asleep on his hand when left alone for a minute or two. Although he did oversee the addition of bacon, hamburger meat, and some other kind of sauteed meat thing to the soup, he was far more ambivalent about any actual soup consumption. We are happy to say he avoided passing out and drowning in his split pea burger, but only just barely.
Being the exceptional host that he is, he staggered about a bit trying to help us warm up the master bedroom. As he was sleeping on the lounger downstairs to avoid flipping onto his shoulder while he slept, we got the full cherubic host to lullaby us to sleep. And a surprisingly warm bed given my general understanding of my father's gelid domicile. He has a warm blanket and a warmer mattress pad. Unlike ours, which is a doddering senile little thing, his works in a no nonsense effulgent sort of way. We both woke up dripping in the middle of the evening and had to sleep with the covers off for a good half hour after I turned the mattress pad off.
This morning, the cherubs nudged me back into this world with little lute larks. I did some dishes and ad libbed some breakfast for myself and the old bike-and-chain. Since the leftover french bread I brought for soup was not really sandwich bread, Andrew even got an omelette and hot crispy buttered-bread. Andrew got off to work and I hung around long enough to watch my father's very entertaining one-handed breakfast routine. Actually, he planned ahead well enough to have everything almost entirely sussed out. Lids had been preemptively loosened. Meals were pre-made. Most everything was convenient.
I'm now treading away at work, and will check in again in a bit. So far, he seems to agree that no yardwork shall be done today, so I suspect all is well...
Cue the Souza: Merrily Marching (har har, see what I did there?) Into the Light -
The February mud-month turned out to be more of a slush-fest, but it has in turn melted away in a blizzard of confusing and inconsistent weather alerts. It brought some good things. There were scandalous athletic stories about sports nobody cares about outside a two-week pocket every four years. There was that whole Super Bowl (har har, pot, remember pot and how it's legal in Washington and Colorado and how "bowl" can refer to drug paraphernelia and, and and so like super bowl get it?? Yeah, that was this last month, we chuckled at that meme. Seems like ages ago! How time flies) thing. We hereabouts, being the baffled and surprised winners, shut down Seattle for a parade I hear. Yes, that's Seattle sports fans for you. In Vancouver, there are hockey riots. In Seattle, we have football parades. And a couple of our 2013 trials are free of limbo and theoretically "finalized" for the next stage of gruesome appeals and modifications that may follow after.
So we stumble out of our snow drifts upon March. Hail, Ares! It's our merry little month of farming and warfare. Celebrated as the first month by Romans, Russia and Great Britain at various point through history, the dawn of March remains the official "wait for it... wait for it..." bellwether of spring, so I'm a bit excited. It's like New Year's Day all over again, except with fewer fireworks and not so much exercise equipment in the "seasonal" section of local stores. But hey, Mardi Gras (my excuse to wear green and purple and complain that nobody makes King Cake around here, even though I don't really love the flavor, and just really enjoy the oddity of baking the baby jesus into a cake), my sister's birthday (my excuse to occasionally say "Hey, it's Rachel's birthday" to Andrew and possibly get a hold of her by text as she runs triage with whatever birthday celebrations the nephews have inflicted on her), St. Patrick's Day (traditionally, my excuse to drop the most awesomest irish-themed tango play list ever, but this year just my excuse to wear lots of green and orange and reference my Irish heritage in passing), vernal equinox (my excuse to go feral and celebrate spring or at least to stop moaning about the lack of day light hours), and the ubiquitous pi day (the internet's excuse for several thousand memes, which in turn are counter-responded to by memes touting tau as waaay cooler, if much harder to pun).
I'm less thrilled for the asinine chicanery of Daylight Savings, which looms in the near future. Andrew craves it, so that he can do his evening rides outside. Given that I rise with the chirruping of the earliest of aviaries, I'd just as soon keep my earlier sunrise and spare us all the circadian confusion. This shift will also contribute to our silly mid-summer evenings, in which the sun obstreperously refuses to set in the evenings, more churlish than my nephews on a school night about the whole bed-time thing. Perhaps, as a compromise, we can still do DST this year, but only set everything back by a half hour. Then every one's happy/unhappy!
In the meantime, I'll be settling into the month, by starting a war or two and then planting some lettuce. Or maybe just stumbling about the treadmill and checking in on Papa T. Who can say!
But there will be a lot of green. And orange. And a smattering of purple and gold!
Happy Mars-Bars (incidentally, not available in the US, and their US to British-Canadian-European counterparts of Milky Ways, Three Musketeers, and Snickers Almond are not nearly as tasty somehow) everybody!
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