Thirteen

Yesterday, deep in denial that my weekend was over, I sat knitting the matching sock to the spruce colored pair. I flicked through the channels and came upon Antonio Banderas as The 13th Warrior in the movie based on Michael Chrichton's book, Eaters of the Dead. A favorite. I watched the movie (again) while knitting away. I got to thinking that there wasn't much Crichton wrote that I didn't like. His books, usually ahead of their times, were always thought provoking and often, down right frightening.

In 1993, I saw the movie Jurassic Park. Though too scary for my six year old son, I saw it twice. By 1997, The Lost World was in theaters and he saw the video release of the first movie and then went and saw the sequel. My son was thrilled. I remember telling him that if the movies thrilled him, the books were sure to scare him half to death. I made a promise to save those books for him to read when he felt ready. He hasn't taken the challenge, but the books are still here. Truth is, I own a lot of what Michael Crichton wrote.

I recall reading Jurassic Park while pregnant with the Rachelheimster (she of many names). I had nightmares about dinosaurs chasing me through an endless jungle. I dreamt, in desperation I laid my newborn baby in a nest with eggs.  Duh.  I had to hide her from the velociraptors.  Double duh.  Movies don't do this to me-sure they make me uneasy but not like books do. Especially Crichton's books. Reading makes me imagine I'm the one who is stuck deep within the plot. I had horrible nightmares about a certain horse's head when I read Mario Puzo's book, The Godfather. I still think that book was a thousand times better than movies 1, 2 or especially, 3.

I know it's been two months now since he died, but I have to say, it saddens me to know I won't be able to read new books from Michael Crichton. I miss Robert Ludlum the same way. I don't even need to look up the year Ludlum died, it was the same year my dad did. Certain authors do that to me. Someone else is writing Robert Ludlums books these days. Don't be fooled. It isn't that he's come back to entertain us-it's all to line the pockets of someone else. I hope the same thing doesn't happen with Chricton's books. He was a prolific writer and had a brilliant mind that I'm pretty certain none can match.

It's been years since I read Eaters of the Dead, but I think it's time to take it on again. Maybe I'll make this the year I reread The Andromeda Strain too. As for Jurassic Park, I feel no particular need to go there again anytime soon.  In fact, once may have been enough.

Can't Explain

After about a week of feeling like death warmed over, I finally did a bit of work around the house.  I always listen to music when I clean.  I plugged in the ipod and selected a Christmas cd (Stockings by the Fire) my niece had gave me last weekend.  Out of the blue, while mopping the floor in the kitchen, I was overcome with a feeling of holiday spirit.  I'm sure in part, it was the music, but it's a feeling I haven't felt in what seems like forever.  For many reasons, it seems I'd lost what used to bring me joy at this time of year.  In fact, I'm usually just beginning descent into a mild to moderate depression funk I attribute to diminished sunlight and so much loss.

For five years, I've not felt like celebrating this holiday.  It's probably been a little longer, perhaps since the death of my dad in 2002.  Two years later, my best friends daughter was hit by a car and did not survive.  In 2005, my mother in law died after an  8 month battle with cancer.  In 2006, it was my mom who passed.  So much loss just sapped my joy.  It seems it's been one catastrophic event after another and truly, I've had a hard time feeling anything but grief through the holidays. Half of these years, I've been downright Scrooge like.  I'd go through the motions with my sights set on January and a reprieve from the holiday farce I had to endure.  This is huge for me, this reawakening of spirit.  I don't know what's done it.  No ghosts of past, present or future have come to visit me in my sleep, but I feel the spirit deeply.  I had to quell the desire to start putting up Christmas decorations.  Seeing as I haven't even planned Thanksgiving, that seems like a wise thing to do.

Nevertheless, I'm getting excited and thumbing through recipes.  I called to invite my brothers for Christmas dinner.  I feel an urge to bake Christmas cookies.  Beware, for soon the flour shall fly!  I want it to snow.  Big, fat flakes of snow to cover the landscape.  I want to pop It's a Wonderful Life into the dvd player.  What has gotten into me?

Hope.

The 3 Day List

Lists are a great thing when you're juggling and find you have too many balls in the air.  That's my problem right now.  As far as the new job goes, it helps to be motivated enough that I keep on top of all the paper work.  Sometimes, if I don't write things down, I  find I quickly forget what I did.  I take a lot of calls from people while I'm out on the road.  If I don't jot down those calls, poof!  Gone.  I have little sticky notes all over the joint and my car.

One such sticky note was a reminder to send my Breast Cancer 3 Day team leader a check for my red medical crew fleece.  The deadline was yesterday.  Oops.  I need more 3 Day sticky notes because the Detroit event starts two weeks from tomorrow for crew.  Here is what I need for that:

1. Stop being a sloth and download that CEU thingymabob so you can get those 21 credits.
2. Find out where in the hell you stuck that sleeping bag you used 3 years ago.
3. Come to think of it, where did you hide that not so luxurious pad to cushion your back?
4. Where did you put your little pillow?
5. Do you plan to freeze your ass off or should you get some jammies and warm clothes for this event?
6. Don't you think you should put a last squeeze on friends and family for donations?
7. Huh?  Well don't you?
8. What unobtrusive knitting will you take with you?
9. Don't you think you should give Sandy a buzz as a reminder that you're crewing for her soon?
10. How about you wash those camouflage scrubs you plan on wearing?  They feel like sandpaper.
11. Hows about you make a packing list now instead of waiting until the very last possible minute?
12. Who will drive you to this thing and pick you up?
13. Call Sebba.
14. Call Sebba.
15. Call Sebba.

Pretty soon I'll have enough sticky pads to wallpaper my house.

The Aunts Honey, Act 4

Be careful what you wish for....you just may get it

As the years passed, the Aunts aged. Sadly for us, they never mellowed. When I'd married my husband, Aunt Honey the First had already had heart surgery once. Living with Honey the Second always was a strain for her. To give herself a break, she'd fake some kind of heart issue to get herself admitted to the hospital.  It was just my luck that she always chose the hospital I worked at.  Why?  There were plenty of other places to go!  When the doctors could find nothing, they'd prepare to send her home. This is when I'd get a call to go see her and try, in some way, to get her stay in the resort hospital extended. For her, it was a vacation and of course, a way to garner sympathy from the clan. I'd visit, speak with the docs (who'd always offer sympathy that I was related to this woman) and try to calm Aunt Honey down. Typically, the docs would say, "Jesus, you're related to her?" At this point in the conversation, they would tell me Aunt Honey the First had assaulted them in some way when they told her she had to go home (she'd throw something from her bedside table at the bearer of bad tidings.) Being a lowly staff nurse, I don't know what kind of magical powers she thought I had.  It's not like I had afternoon tea with the CEO, for God's sake, I was too busy emptying bedpans!  I'm certain when they'd discharge her anyway, she thought I'd failed her.

Aunt Honey the Second, never the sharpest tool in the shed, had become senile. She also began to wet herself and her bed. This was such a strain on her sister. They owned their home together and had very little in terms of assets to provide long term care for a person with dementia. Medicare doesn't pay for this kind of stuff and she didn't qualify for Medicaid. For that, you have to deplete your assets (that would be the home they shared.) They were like an old married couple who had failed to look ahead. None of the other siblings wanted to take in a bed-wetter although, Mr. Larger Than Life had halfheartedly offered to take her in once or twice. His wife, God rest her soul, stood up for herself and adamantly refused.

Time continued to pass and the bed wetting became more routine. So did Aunt Honey the First's list of maladies and hospitalizations. It wasn't unusual to get a call a month that she was hospitalized due to chest pain. Her lab work and other tests never panned out and she was routinely bounced from her hospital bed within a day. She became the boy who cried wolf.

After one such hospitalization, a cousin dropped in to visit the two Aunts. Aunt Honey the Second was in her bed, soaked in urine. Aunt Honey the First was beside herself. She began to scream at our cousin, "I can't take this anymore!" "I don't know what I'll do if she doesn't stop pissing in the bed!" She was on a tirade which ended with, "I wish God would strike me dead!" 

And he did. Right then and there.

Throughout my life, I've looked for signs that there is a God. This was affirmation at its best. Aunt Honey the First had suffered a massive myocardial infarction moments after asking God to strike her dead. Massive. I can only imagine how high her blood pressure had to have been, during the peak of her tirade, to blow out a vessel like this!  And I don't know why our cousin panicked and called 911, but she did-just saying, God's will and all.  After all, wasn't it what she'd asked for?  Despite medicine's interference, Aunt Honey only survived a day; Aunt Evil had her removed from life support so she wouldn't suffer. I always wondered about this because I think Evil knew she and her kids would be the beneficiaries of the sisters' estate. With Honey the Second, too feeble now to fight for her rights, Aunt Evil would finally be able to redecorate her home.

The funeral was pretty sedate for an Arabic event. No one tried to claw their way into the casket. There was no caterwauling and few tears. She'd worn us all out. Aunt Honey the Second, now a dotard, just sat quietly and sadly bobbed her head. At the meal following the funeral, her surviving siblings screamed at her for not eating any food.  They weren't consoling in the least, this poor thing had just lost her life partner.  They may not have been married, but they were partners in crime their whole lives.  This is one group of people you don't want to upset by not eating their food.  Incidentally, there was no Arabic food served at this most auspicious of events.  None.

The big issue was what to do about Aunt Honey the Second. She was too demented to care for herself and no one else could manage a bed wetter. Aunt Evil had tried placing her in a nursing home. She immediately applied for medicaid on behalf of her sister and for herself, began to make a list of modifications she wanted to do to her own home with the money earned from the sale of her sisters' estates. I kept telling Mr. Larger Than Life that this would not be allowed. Under law, it's illegal to divest a dotard of their assets.  I told him the nursing home had first dibs on her estate.  I was dismissed because obviously, I didn't know what I was talking about.  Aunt Evil, undeterred, went ahead with her dream list.  She hired contractors to start planning her dream kitchen.  The shit hit the fan when it became clear that the law did indeed protect Aunt Honey the Second's money. Evil, trying desperately to preserve her home makeover plans, tried to care for her sister in her home but was hard pressed to care for such a prolific bed wetter. In defeat, Evil threw in the towel (and sheets), along with the dream kitchen  and admitted her sister to just about the worst nursing home in the area.

With her mind completely gone now and no worries at all, Aunt Honey the Second survived several more years, all in a nursing home. To Aunt Evil's chagrin, she survived long enough to completely deplete her estate and finally qualify for medicaid. Evil never did get to redecorate.

The Aunts Honey, Act 3

The Aunts Honey had difficult childhoods. Born to immigrant parents from Tripoli Syria, they were forced to work like animals so their father could sit on his ass and reap the benefits. There were 6 children, 3 of each, who spent their formative years as indentured servants. Even their brother, Mr. Larger Than Life, was forced, at the tender age of 6, to go out on the street corner to peddle newspapers. It didn't matter if the weather was in the subzero range, if he didn't work, he got a beating. If not for the grace of a kindly physician, my father in law probably would have frozen to death trying to earn a living for his slacker father. This doctor would bring the boy inside his office to warm up and would buy all of his papers. Their friendship lasted a lifetime along with a misguided notion that this particular doctor was the most talented practitioner in all of medicine. Ever.

As other folks of Middle Eastern heritage will confirm, every neighbor is a cousin. Except the Middle Eastern muslims. They weren't cousins, they were the enemy. Mr. Larger Than Life speaks fondly of getting his ass soundly beaten for playing with the muslim children in the neighborhood. He wasn't allowed to play with Jewish children either. In their particular cultural melting pot neighborhood, that left his cousins.

As teens, when the children would come home in the evening and head upstairs, their father would whack them on the tops of their heads with his Shriners ring, which he'd turned inward so that the raised part of the ring was to his palm. There was no particular reason for this peculiar show of affection. I'm sure they all had interesting Shriners geometric imprints on their skulls. Aunt Honey the Second probably took the brunt of this. I'm convinced it stole her intellect. It was either the ringings she took or the fact that her father made her drop out of high school so she could work and support him that made her appear dumb. One of these things was responsible for her becoming a bobblehead. Poor Aunt Honey the Second was not allowed to have a thought of her own. Nor was she allowed to marry. It was her duty, until her father died, to stay home and support him. She'd had two marriage proposals she was pressured to turn down. Don't get me wrong here, she wasn't a complete simpleton. She could be as mean as her sisters, Evil and Honey the First. I know for a fact, she was one bitter old lady (in sheep's clothing.)

We know a lot of this early family history is true because we ran across school records for Mr. Larger Than Life and his siblings. They were tucked away in my father in law's attic. Even back in the 1930s, social workers were sent to the home at the request of the school. In turn, they'd documented their concerns about the abuse and neglect these kids suffered at the ring hand of their father.

Interestingly, not a one of them had harsh feelings for their father. They adored him, Shriners ring and all. When he died, Aunt Honey the First was the most distraught. At his funeral, she attempted to jump in the casket with him. She wailed and tore the curtains off the wall in the funeral home. She was so destructive and demonstrative in her grief that the funeral director had to tell Mr. Larger Than Life that if he didn't get her to knock it off, she'd be banned from the funeral (he was probably too afraid to tell her himself.) I'm certain this is the only service in this funeral home's history that didn't turn a profit.

I got a front seat to an exhibiton of this very physical demonstration of grief when Aunt Evil draped herself over my father in law, as he lay intubated and on life support in his ICU bed two years ago. She begged him not to leave her alone-she didn't want to be the last. It was all very dramatic, loud and worthy of an Emmy. The whole show rang false and what fell from her eyes were crocodile tears. For the entire week he was on life support, she visited once. For 10 minutes. Later, I would ponder why she said she didn't want to be the last sibling left since they had a younger brother who was still alive. I think the youngest was spoiled and they all hated him. Therefore, in their twisted minds, since he didn't suffer the abuse growing up that they had, he was a nonentity. Like Aunt Honey the Second, he is a bit on the slow side. Unlike the rest of his siblings, he is a very nice man. To rectify this, he married a bitch. And once again, I've digressed from my original story.

Anyways, a few days after their father's funeral, the Aunts caught wind that my mother in law had used a vacuum to clean her home and they went ballistic (I wonder who ratted her out?). It was unheard of to be so callous and uncaring of their customs and they decided to teach her a lesson for using electric appliances in the immediate aftermath of Pa's death. She shouldn't have used anything electric or battery operated for a full month. No TV, no radio, no vacuum, nothing electric and nothing that brought pleasure was to be utilized. How stupid could she be? Like Aunt Em, who was punished for casting aspersions on the local news anchor, my mother in law was shunned for months. Although they ultimately allowed her back into the family fold, they never forgave her. Her flippant attitude was a topic of discussion for decades.

Some years later, my mother in law was again ostracized for daring to send the family a Christmas card with an owl stamp. The Aunts were inordinately fearful of owls. According to The Owl Pages, in Arabia, the owl is a bad omen; one that will steal your children in the middle of the night. Why they worried, I have no idea; they had no children who could be stolen! Now, my mother in law had a great sense of humor. I'm not convinced the owl stamp debacle was entirely innocent. In my mind, I can see her at the post office asking, "say Mr. Postmaster, do you have any stamps with owls?" She knew they suffered from severe owl phobia. Perhaps it was her way of getting back at the Aunts. In my heart of hearts, I hope it was.

Don't miss The Aunts Honey, Act 4 where you will learn how Aunt Honey the Second was directly responsible for killing her sister.

The Aunts Honey, Act 1

Nothing could have prepared me for the introduction to my husband's relatives. By the time I met my Knight in Shining Armor, I was divorced and had a young daughter. I had a useless ex-husband (no one will disagree) and was raising this child on my own. I was working full time, mothering full time and carrying 12 credits in nursing school. If not for my parents and my baby brother, I'd have floundered. I was so busy, I barely had time to acknowledge that I was intensely lonely.

Then out of the blue, I met my soul mate. He caught my eye across a crowded, smokey bar and I was smitten. I was out celebrating the end of a brutal semester of nursing school with my friend who was celebrating the end of a not so brutal semester of art school. We were sitting at the bar, oblivious to the free drinks being sent our way. For whatever reason, the men around the bar were outdoing themselves in an attempt to be the next one to send us drinks. We weren't looking particularly beautiful or slutty sultry. At least I don't think we were. We for sure weren't wearing signs that said for a good time, buy us a drink. And I know our names weren't scrawled on the john door in the men's room-at least, I don't think they were. I think it was an unspoken challenge. One of them would send a drink and we'd thank them, but that was it. Nada. We didn't ask anyone to buy us a drink. It was their game, which Marybeth and I were playing in a rather sporting manner.

My husband recounts this episode differently. He always has had a different interpretation when he reminisces about our meeting. He recalls us flirting with all of those men (uh-uh) and thinking he didn't have a chance. When he walked up to me at the bar (something the fellows sending drinks did not do) it was like I'd been struck by lightening. Something definitely clicked. I recall that he towered over everyone in that bar that night. He was 6'4" and very handsome. He is still handsome. He'll laugh about this, but it was his eyes that sold me. And his laugh. It wasn't his dancing, that's for sure. But, I digress.

Some months after we began dating, he introduced me to his sister and his mother whom I loved instantly. I kept wondering when I'd meet his father. It was quite a few months more before he let me meet his dad. I kept wondering why. Was he ashamed of me? I mean, I wasn't exactly unsullied goods. Looking back, I know better. I think he didn't want me to go running from the asylum when I finally did meet his dad. He is a little larger than life and by that, I don't mean tall. I mean overwhelming. You do recall, this is the same guy who screamed at me in the doctors office, forcing me to go home and change my underwear.

It was an even longer time before I was introduced to my husband's aunts. Aunt Honey and Aunt Honey. I always called them that because that's all they ever said, "hi honey, how are you honey?" Honey, honey, honey. I remember wondering if they ever said anything else. They were spinsters (well sort of) who lived together. Aunt Honey the First was married at one time but had to divorce her husband on account of her neurosis. It seems he had a non-contagious form of tuberculosis and she couldn't wash the dishes enough because of it. She would wash the skin right off her hands trying to kill his non-infectious form of TB. What could she do? She had to leave him or face life skinless and perpetually oozing. I can't say I blame her as it is the lesser of two evils.

Aunt Honey the Second seemed like a nice enough old lady. She didn't truly have a mind of her own though. Like a bobblehead, she'd just continually nod in agreement with whatever the other Aunt Honey said. Honey the First definitely was the boss of that relationship. They would always be so nice to me, but I could never get rid of the feeling that somehow, they weren't very sincere. It wasn't until my wedding day that I found out what they really thought. Of course, they'd never tell me to my face until the deal was done. Those women were nothing, if not shrews, I mean shrewd.

I didn't want a big wedding. Really, I didn't. I wanted something small and intimate, but Mr. Larger Than Life was not going to have that. This was his only son's wedding day and he wanted to go all out. So, all out we went. We invited about 250 people, most of whom I did not know, to the most expensive joint in the area at the time. It was hotter than Hades that day. Close to 100 degrees with a matching humidity. We did the whole reception line at the church and then again at the hall. We ate a little dinner and then made the rounds of the guests. As we approached "our" Aunts' table, they were smirking. One pulled me close so only I could hear and asked "Do you really think you should you be wearing white-seeing as you aren't a virgin?" The other Aunt Honey sat there bobbing her head in agreement.

That was my aha! moment when I learned there and then that these two spiders spinsters in sheep's clothing, really only used the honey to catch their flies. Throughout the years, on occasion, what they really thought would accidently on purpose, slip from their tongues and cement my beliefs.

Next week, don't miss The Aunts Honey, Act 2 where the Aunts go Christmas shopping in the attic. It was there they would perfect the art of regifting.

Get The Vote Out

This is Louisa Harding Grace.  The color will be # 5- a rich, mossy green.

It is always a surprise to me to see what people will choose when it comes to voting.  To ask someone who and what they'll vote for is a rather indelicate question.  But in the case of the autumn sweater project I'm planning, it's clear it's the textured tunic from Stefanie Japel that's winning the race.  Voting isn't closed yet so if you have a different favorite, you need to vote on my sidebar.  I'll be knitting the favorite.

The eldest child has indicated that she wants to own sweater number three.  In all fairness, it'll look best on her.  I don't think she has a spare ounce of fat on her so it'll look better on her body than on mine.    In order for me to knit this for her, she must present herself at my home for measurements. That, at the least, guarantees a long visit with my first born babe.   The yarn?  Well, she wants green, probably a yellowish green, if I know her.  So much for the color.  But the yarn itself has been staring at me for a few days now.  If I don't knit this in Louisa Harding's Grace, well then, I'm just losing out.  And so is Sebba.  It is half wool, half silk and has a beautiful sheen to it.  It's incredibly soft.  This yarn beckoned me to acknowledge its existence the day I went to fetch roving for Rachel's thrummed mittens.  I haven't seen it in green, but I know it exists.  A mossy green. Even though it won't be me who is wearing it around town, I'll still be able to see it worn on occasion.