It's a Dog's Life

This is my dog, Molly.

I don't talk about Molly much, because her life isn't all that interesting. These past couple weeks, however, I've noticed that our lives have become strikingly similar. For example:

Molly is getting old, but she still likes to play. She just can't play quite as often or quite as long and she needs a little nap after a good romp.

Molly likes (needs, craves) attention and doesn't mind kissing up a little bit to get it.


Molly loves a nice sunbath.

Her favorite place to be is curled up against Tom.


She's loyal.

I'm loyal, too. (How's that for a segue?) I know this because my buddy The Scholastic Scribe herself awarded me this Loyal Friend and Visitor Award, and I couldn't be more pleased.


Purdy, ain't it?

I am fortunate enough to have many loyal friends and visitors (including the Scribe herself), so I would like to bestow this upon a few of them. (I usually hate this part because I'm always certain I'm leaving someone out, but this time it was easy - I looked over my last 10 posts and the following folks commented on 7 or more of them.)

MiMi
Unknown Mami
Blue Violet
Bonnie K
Pam
Joanna Jenkins
carma
Housewife Savant
Badass Geek
Kathy B.
Gibby
mama-face
Anita
Whispering Writer
Sandy

Pick up your award, if you like, and pass it on to your most loyal friends and visitors!

And if you get a chance to have a nap in the sun today, be sure to think of Molly and I - it's likely that we'll be doing the same thing.

By Any Other Name

Sorry about the whinefest yesterday - hope you all had cheese!

How awesome is it that instead of rolling your eyes and becoming annoyed with me you all sent me great suggestions and well wishes instead? What a loverly land the blogosphere is.

All the support led to a refreshed attitude today - I'm ready to take on boredom with a sword and a cape. You know, from my couch where I'll be taking it easy. And maybe ordering a cape. Capes are cool. But the sword will probably remain figurative. I wouldn't want to cut anything off and have to convalesce again.

Sooooo. So the new season of 'Saturday Night Live' started up this weekend. It is a much anticipated event in our household as I have been a fan (a BIG fan) from day one. (Yes, I am aware of the fact that that makes me old. Well excuuuuuuuse me.) I have been a fan through the dark eras - always knowing the light would shine again. The hubs is a fan. The kids are fans (And yes, I have turned them on to the old stuff, too.) If Saturday night's offering was any indication, we are heading into a dark era again. A very dark era indeed. We need Justin Timberlake, stat. Preferably in a cape. Bring it on back to humorville. I laughed once and gasped once. In an hour and a half. That is not sufficient. Not at all.

The gasp? When the brand spankin' new girl on her very first show ever dropped an f-bomb on live TV.

I miss Casey and Mikaela (Bish pleeeeze).

But that's not where I intended to go with this.

The one moment I laughed was during Weekend Update, when Seth used two of my go-to funniest words in one joke. He showed us that they're developing new underpants for left handed men, so that the opening will make things, um, easier. His line: No one uses the wiener slot.

The joke was moderately funny, at best. But those words - underpants and wiener - make me giggle every time. Not the concept of them. I'm not twelve (an arguable point, perhaps). The words themselves. They're funny words.

Panties, too. Not as funny as underpants, but pretty funny.

When I was in pre-op, one of the nurses who came to call on me told me to recover quickly so I could go right out and buy myself a pair of pretty panties. Panties is funny, but pretty panties - for some reason - cracked my stuff up. It came from her lips, but my ears heard Spongebob. Her eyes did that Spongebob thing, too. You know. Where he grows eyelashes and they sparkle? Preeettttty paaaaanties. I may or may not have been under the influence of hospital drugs at the time.

'Tis a gift to be simple, and I have been generously gifted indeed.

My dad used to call pancakes and beans pannies and beans. I adopted the first part for quite a long stretch there, paying homage to my dad and not really hearing it. One morning the girls called me on it and pointed out that calling their breakfast 'panties' was unappealing. Well, yeah - I guess so! (Until you add fresh maple syrup. Then you could pretty much call them festering sores and I'd still find the appeal. What's in a name?) They've been pancakes ever since.

So are there any words that just crack your stuff up?

My girls are getting the ball rolling with 'hobo' and 'afro'...

Just a Little Patience

Isn't it funny how we all long for things and then when we get them, they're not what we expected them to be at all? Towards the end of summer I was longing for just a little time to myself. Just a little time to myself with no obligations seemed too much to even dream of. I'd be willing to bet a few of you are reading that wistfully right now and thinking, "If only...." Well that's what I've got now. I've got all the time in the world. Every moment is "me time".

And I am bored out of my skull.

Apparently I'm not great company for myself.

I took a ton of books out of the library and even bought a couple in anticipation of an extended convalescence. There was a week there where I read voraciously, but now I can't seem to concentrate on even the simplest of plots. I can't stay on track for an hour long TV show, for Pete's sake. I have been knitting, but only small projects. I have no patience. A project I couldn't finish in a day or two would yield nothing but frustration. People try to visit with me, but I bring nothing to the table. Try having a conversation and having nothing to contribute. It's not fun. Especially when concentration is an issue. My conversations are more like lectures that I zone in and out of. I feel myself doing it, and I'm fully aware of how impolite it is, but I just don't seem to have any control.

Tom wants me to rest and heal.

I know I need to do this.

But I am so bored with myself.

Late last week and early this weekend I incorporated a few outings and some light housework. And now I'm in pain. I hadn't been in pain before, I'd just been tired and bored (and a little sore). Now I'm tired, bored, sore AND hurting.

So I'm back to taking it slow. Can anyone suggest a nice anthology of short stories? I bet I could get through a short story or two...

Baby steps baby steps.

No wonder babies cry so much...

Football Friday Night

On Friday night, when Lea asked if she could go to the football game with friends, I was thrilled. My dark daughter has, in the past several months, gotten a haircut that is sassy and cute and decidedly NOT designed to hide her face. She has started to wear colors. She has a nice social group and all of the attached angst and drama associated with a teen social group. And now she wanted to go to a HS football game.

How awesome.

How very normal.

I indulged in memories of attending HS football games when I was in Jr. High. It was warm and happy and wholesome. It smelled like autumn leaves and tasted like hot chocolate. I loved cheering with the cheerleaders and watching the band - knowing that soon I'd be a part of it but for those two short years of seventh and eighth grade I was free to just absorb it all. To be a part of it without any obligations. To be a part of it from the sidelines. To be old enough to be interested but too young to actively participate. It was one of the few 'between' stages that I actually cherished.

I loved football Friday nights.

So when Lea said she wanted to go to the game with a girlfriend who lives basically across the street from the school, I couldn't say yes fast enough. Yes. Absolutely. Go. Blessings be upon you. My only concern was that there would be a traffic cop to help them get across the street, because it's a busy one. I was assured that there would be. I rested easy. She made plans to sleep over at the same girlfriend's house after the game.

How awesome.

How very normal.

When she came home the next morning she told us excitedly about the game. She asked if she could go every week. Yes ma'am, you sure can.

I'm still not able to drive and Tom REALLY hates to shop and is a little bummed that he has to do all of my errands, anyway, so I asked my sister (who assuredly does not share his aversion to shopping) if she'd take Lea shopping for some spirit wear for next weeks game.

Spirit wear has NEVER been something my former child of darkness has ever requested. I was positively giddy at the prospect and started planning sweaters and scarves I could knit for her. We've got spirit, yes we do! We've got spirit, how 'bout you?

How awesome.

How very normal.

My sister's response? I've used the comparison before: 'twas the needle scratching and bumping its way across your favorite album. Screeeeeeeeeeech! You won't be enjoying THIS song anymore...

"You let her go to a football game without parental supervision?"

"Yeah - What? WE went to all the football games without parental supervision." I don't want a kid who runs wild in the streets, but I don't want to be a helicopter mom, either. I'm working hard to find that balance. I felt sure a high school football game was a safe place to give her a little freedom.

"Do you KNOW what goes on under the bleachers at those games?"

"Nooooooo....." I replied, feeling considerably less awesome.

"Well, everything, that's what. It's crazy."

"Everything?"

"Everything"

"Like smoking?"

"Yes."

"Drinking?"

"Yes."

"Drugs?"

"Yes."

"Making out?"

"Yes."

"Wow." I said, feeling pretty defeated, naive, and duped.

"And more."

"There's more?" Now I just felt deprived.

"You name it."

I greeted that with an extended silence. I thought I just HAD named it. All of it. The conclusive list.

Frak.

So now either Tom or I will have to go to each game and work once again to find that balance. A little freedom, but not too much. Watching but not hovering. A presence. Frak, frak, frak. Just when I thought I was getting it right.

How non-awesome.

How very normal.

A Purple Letter Day

Oh, man, have I been looking forward to today. But not as much as my friend Ellin has. Today, you see, is Ellin's birthday. It's a special one. Yep. Today Ellin turns 47. Now you may be scratching your head at this point and saying, "Forty is a special one. FIFTY is a special one. But forty-seven? Isn't that one that just comes and goes?" Normally you'd be right. But forty-seven is a special one for Ellin. She hated being forty-six, and as of today SHE ISN'T ANYMORE!!!


You can clearly see that Ellin is beautiful. What you can't see is that she's strong (one of the strongest women I've ever had the privilege of knowing), loyal (she's put up with my dubious antics for around thirty-five years, but I'm far from the only one she's loyal to. If Ellin loves you, she loves you. Period.), and she makes the best pizza west of the Schuykill (if my hometown readers aren't eating Ellin's pizza at least once a week, well, what the heck is YOUR deal?)

Ellin hated being forty-six because both one of her favorite aunts AND her beloved brother passed away when they were forty-six. She dreaded turning forty-six the way many of us dread changing that decade marker on our birthday cake. Forty-six wasn't a banner year for her. She's one of the best people I know, but the world sees fit to batter her around way more than her share. She gets to practice that 'strong' trait I mentioned more often that she should. It got a workout this year.

But you know what? She made it. And today she's forty-seven. Today is a new day. Today is important. Today is big.

Ellin and I have been friends since Junior High. I had my first drink with her. (yep, she's to blame) My parents were (and are) teetotalers, but Ellin's were not, so she would go through their liquor cabinet and pour out just a little bit of everything. We'd add orange juice and call it good. (it, um, wasn't) We are probably lucky to be alive. She was also the one right next to me when I went to my first concert (Nazareth, for those who haven't heard that story before. Now you're messin' with a son-of-a-bitch.) Somewhere around tenth grade we made a countdown chart to our High School graduation. That was the day we were gonna hop in a purple van and head to California. Instead, we headed to different colleges. Sometimes, in retrospect, I wish we'd done it. College would've waited a year. Many years and many adventures later we had our first daughters within six months of each other. I could tell you stories for a month, but I won't because, well, even the guilty deserve a little privacy sometimes. Of course if I told you purely fictional stories about Helen and Sammy's adventures some day...

(Don't sweat it, babe - not gonna happen)

I love Ellin.

Happy birthday, my friend. Cheers!

Comfortably Numb

This is the song that has been my recovery soundtrack, making me - not unusual at all.

Of course if this song is the soundtrack, "my hands felt just like two balloons" was the earworm. Even if it was only one hand. No one ever wrote an iconic lyric about that (or if they have, I'm not aware of it). More on the hand in a moment.

I'm not sure if I've mentioned it here much before - it's certainly something everyone in my real life knows about me - I love to write longhand. It is quite habitual for me to pull out a notebook and jot down random thoughts and phrases as they occur to me. When I was out of surgery and brought to my hospital room, the first thing I asked for was my notebook and pen. Now this was the night that my best friend was the button that delivered my pain meds. I hit it pretty fast and regular (I know, I know, that's what he said...). I dreamed lovely dreams and - because jotting things down is habitual - made notes about them when I was awake. Alert would be overstating it. But awake happened.

What a hoot.

I wrote of pure white cliffs and clear skies. I wrote of rocks and waves and clean air. I saw the course my life should take with utter clarity. And it was beautiful, man. (The same could not be said for my handwriting.) The word bliss was utilized with an almost shocking frequency. I wanted everyone to know this pure, true - well - bliss that I'd discovered.

Then the writing took a turn as true clarity started to make it's return. In letters not quite as tall and not quite as loopy and spidery, I wrote, "What if this is all just an effect of the drugs? Oh please don't let this be an effect of the drugs!" and later "What if this is all just an effect of the fasting?" (I hadn't eaten in 48 hours at that point) "Don't some religions utilize fasting to facilitate insight? Oh please, don't let it be an effect of the fasting!" Reality bites.

It was just funny to be able to read it over later - to actually be able to watch myself bliss out then crash. It's nice to have a recorded memory of the revelations, though, even if they are awfully silly in retrospect. It's nice to know that I was conscious of feeling that way - at least for a little while. Conscious enough to want to record it for posterity. Bless my little drug-addled heart.

When I stopped hitting the pain button so often, my recovery began in earnest and it went well. I did everything I was asked to do and, in my humble opinion, was a model patient.

Then the hand thing happened. Around 4 am Sunday my nurse came in to very routinely change my IV bag. Immediately after she did, I knew all was not well. My hand hurt and started to swell. It started to stretch. It got scary pretty fast. I'm a little bit on the older side of young, which means, for the purpose of this story, that there is a little extra skin on my hands. (Sometimes I see them on the steering wheel and don't recognize them. It freaks me out for a minute.) That extra skin filled up in no time flat as my hand literally blew up like a balloon. I estimate that it was about four times it's usual size before my (rather desperate) nurse got it all taken care of. I developed the wrist equivalent of cankles as my hand faded directly into my forearm. Which was also beginning to swell. There's a name for this - my nurse used it, my mom used it - but I can't retrieve it. At any rate, it's just something that happens and it wasn't a result of anything my nurses or I had done wrong.

It took two solid days before my hand returned to normal size.

I couldn't write in my notebook anymore.

I had a hard time signing my discharge papers.

And, as Tom told you a couple days ago, I couldn't type.

As of this morning, it is weak and it still hurts. I won't even tell you how many typos needed to be corrected in this post because I don't have the control that I would like. It'll come back. Stronger every day.

I Heard You Missed Me, I'm Back (Sorta)

Tom here again, typing for Tammy, as she is still pretty weak...too weak to type, that is. She's not too weak to tell me what to do...including typing this blog entry (including this very sentence). :)

First off, I/she (pronouns are tricky with me typing...bear with me/her/us) is very thankful for all the kind words and thoughts that you have expressed over the last few days, both on the blog and on Facebook. She would love to respond to every one of them, but as she has already told you, she's a tough stick. This procedure proved no exception. So there were multiple IVs, one of which blew in her right hand around 4AM Sunday. This was quite painful and she is just today gaining limited use of that hand. As soon as it feels better, probably in the next day or two, she'll be back to typing regularly.

Believe it or not, she's not lying around in the drug induced haze that the doctors made available, but is instead trying to limit the good drugs until bed time. Her recovery is pretty much on schedule and she looks forward to returning to life in the blogosphere within the next couple days. To my/her bookworm friends, she is finally able to concentrate again and is reading voraciously with all the time in the world. So that's cool.

Well, she says it's ok for me to stop typing now, so...