Stayin' Alive

Yesterday was Jen’s birthday -- she turned 42 -- just a wee bairn. Tomorrow is her big scary-ass surgery. So yeah, we’re eating a lot of cake this week -- birthday cake, anniversary cake and, of course, surgery cake.

Jen’s having a bilateral radical mastectomy and reconstruction (We can rebuild her!) or as she refers to it a “boobectomy.”  No, there’s not been a recurrence of cancer -- this surgery is for making sure there isn’t one.

No one goes into surgery truly, utterly calm or happy but Jen and I both try wickedly hard to remain upbeat and peaceful (you know, for us anyway), with a our respective senses of humor in Olympian form. It certainly helps that we’re married to transcendentally tranquil, wonderful, hilarious men -- dudes who totally get our twisted view of life. Honestly, how can you not grin when you hear ”boobectomy” (or lipread that in my case :-)?

Me, when I’ve been in her pre-big-hairy-ass surgery place, I’ve promoted the idea that Barker and Ojemann (neuro-surgeon fellas) are just going into my freakish paisley cranium to see if I have a brain there at all. To date, I believe all they’ve found, is marshmallow fluff, stale chewing gum and a dead mouse or three.

Nf2 Woman and Cancer Girl -- we ALWAYS win!

Maybe there really isn’t a way to fully prepare, cushion yourself, for this level of invasion. Perhaps especially not when you’re getting a sizable chunk of your very personal bits removed and then replaced.

I’ve spent my prep times trying to wrap up as much work and studio crap as possible -- that and I fuss endlessly over poor Bob (you know, because he could NOT possibly cook for himself while I’m out of commission! snort). Jen’s been doing the same except she seems to trust Oni, AKA Grill Wizard, to cook for himself.

Brightest Bulb is not one of my nicknames here at home.

Jen and I have both been called brave by some of our dear friends. We just shrug and say “it’s what I have to do -- it’s not bravery. I mean, what’s the alternative? Death? No thanks.” Is it brave to embrace reality and dive through all the hoops needed to stay alive? I don’t know -- I’m asking.

Oh great, now I have the Bee Gees stuck in my head and no one to blame for this but my own self. And I’m rambling -- something I do when I’m nervous? Nope, something I do when I’m breathing.
Stayin' Alive -- Bee Gees

Turtle's Treasures

The good and bad thing about traveling incredibly light -- I don’t need to move to a larger 

 house or create a museum so that I'm able to contain all the awesome stuff I see and want to take home from my travels.

Last weekend I visited Jenny Jones at her home in Phoenix, Arizona. Her husband owns a vintage shop and I was wildly keen on going there. I wasn’t prepared for the mother lode of awesomeness that I found -- stunningly beautiful furniture with astoundingly reasonable prices.

And, yes indeedy, the question “can you ship” escaped my mouth. The Amazing Bob™ has a very strict rule for our tiny cottage though -- if I bring something new home I have to get rid of something equal in size. Impulse buying has become a thing of the past. 

The other fabulous bit -- tie dye! Yes, for those of us who enjoy lots of rich color with organic abstracty shape and forms there is some wild goods to be had -- all created by the owners buds. This being the one thing that I could bring home -- it fit into my backpack AND I didn't need to get rid of something in order to shoehorn it into our home. 

Win!

Turtles Treasures 2133 E. Indian School Road Phoenix, AZ 85016 (602)374-8317

http://www.turtles-treasures.com/

I Get By With a Little Help From My Friends

Yesterday The Amazing Bob and I celebrated the anniversary of our getting hitched, the knot being inextricably tied, the solemn observance of matrimonial shackles donned, the day we made all that sexy-time legal in the state of Massachusetts.

Now then, the getting hitched biz happened years, scads, eons after we initially hooked up, set eyes on each other and had our very first conversational riff. That inaugural banter involved Philip K Dick titles, the habits of water-dwelling, predatory animals, old jazz dudes and his son’s name (Miles — AKA The Green Miles) and more. This badinage naturally set off every damn last one of the love/sex/love/fun/NEED receptors in our tiny brains. Yeah, it was astronomically huge, mad love at first conversation. We got each other.

Since the matrimonial bijou bit came light years+12 after that first reality altering conversation, we just mark January 27th as our overall Celebration of Wild Crazy Love.

Dave is the one on the left exuding Eddy Haskell-ish menace

Here are some brief observations on friendship from Bob:

“I’ve been lucky about friends — don’t have a lot but the few I have are durable. I’ve been close friends with two people for about 30 years. One of those is my soul-mate Donna*.

I’ve been good friends with Dave for over 60 years now.

Thinking about things that we all have in common — we all like cats, we all used to play sandlot baseball**, we all like cookies. Among the four of us (Donna, Dave, Joe and me), we’ve accumulated four marriages, three divorces, two military tours, an abundance of surgeries and (I flatter myself***) four equally agile wits.

There’s a song by the Beatles which says “I get by with a little help from my friends.”

There it is."

*Yes, yes, I pay him to say such lovely and romantic stuff.

**Bob totally misrepresents himself here — he wasn’t just a sandlot baseball player, he was an outfield gazelle — the Baryshnikov of second base.

*** Does not — he’s being baldly truthful. So there PLHBT!

Berlin Transformationplatz

A year and a half ago I visited my cousin Della and her family in the Charlottenburg/Wilmersdorf area of Berlin. She grew up in Yonkers, her husband Martin (my “cousin-in-law?) grew up in Berlin.

This was my first visit since my drunken dawn arrival on a midnight train out of Poland 16 winters earlier. At that time, the wall had only recently come down -- there were still stretches of it standing and wild amounts of rubble. The buildings, just east of where the wall stood, were all dull, grey and then more of that very dull thing. In a few short years, the place would be utterly transformed. I knew back then, that I was walking through the architectural equivalent of a hormone sodden 13 year old.

 In 2010, it was as though I’d never been there before. Completely unrecognizable, in fact. It was even a wee bit disconcerting -- like seeing an old hipster friend now decked out in Brooks Brothers by way of Beverly Hills.

I asked Martin what it was like for him -- having grown up there. This what he told me:

"The actual realization - sensation - that something had changed came to me quite a while (a few months maybe) after watching the wall come down on TV. My friends and I were invited to a party in the former east. So instead of passing through checkpoints (which always included some form of humiliation, even if only slightly) we SIMPLY DROVE TO THE EAST - no border police, no visa that had to be applied for 3 days in advance, no more compulsory exchange of money, and you could even stay there overnight, too. It felt very strange to wander around the other side of town which was only a few blocks away but always difficult to get to.

In the early nineties everything still looked dreary, and you'd see that every single building was in dire need of fixing and restoration and that the streets needed to be improved. Now, about 15 to 20 years later you find that the east of Berlin has become the shiny new center of Berlin, everything is either newly built or has been restored - smart contemporary architecture next to beautifully ornamented buildings from Berlin's past, a whole island of influential museums, two opera houses, major theaters, new and varied restaurants … The western part of town starts to look a bit pale in comparison.

Unique about this whole situation is that the pre-war center of the city - Berlin-Mitte - has become a center again. Before the wall came down, the west side bordering it was not well cared for because no one liked to live next to the wall and of course, the east was the heavily guarded so-called "death strip" (Todesstreifen) which tried to block people fleeing to the west. Where the wall once ran, the new downtown has been built.

New focus on the east of the city has made the west less attractive. West Berlin had once been the alternative forward-thinking place in Germany* and has now become second best. Artists, the alternative crowd as well as expensive fashion stores and car showrooms now show off their goods in the east. People under 30 who now move to Berlin tend to move to the east while the older crowd chooses the more quiet and settled west to stay in.

* When the wall surrounded Berlin it was theoretically "owned" by the allied forces. This meant that it was illegal to draft anyone residing in West Berlin for the compulsory one-year training in the German forces (which will be suspended throughout Germany p.s., next year)."
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Martin Wenzel isn't just my cousin-in-law, he's the father of two awesome teens, husband to my fab cousin Della AND he's a type designer -- check him out at his site Martin Plus!

Ain't It Good To Know You've Got a Friend -- Take 2

So many people poo poo Facebook, declaring that Facebook friends aren't real friends. To a large extent, that is true. But if, out of 50 of these artificial friends, one becomes an actual real friend, then it’s worth sorting through those 49 not-so-real friends,  to find the true ones.

Through Facebook, I've had a 2nd opportunity to get to know people who I've known casually at one point in my life but never got a chance to really know.  From my current co-workers, to cousins and extended family, to people I knew of in high school and beyond.  Two of my friends, who I barely knew in high school, have become instrumental in lending me the social support and encouragement I need in this life to evolve and become a better person. Both of them have actually flown out to Arizona to visit me. How cool is that?

Jenny

Both of these friends inspire me, as I watch them struggle through daunting challenges, with the tenacity and courage of a pit bull. Donna is one of these friends.  I was very shy in high school. I was not one to join activities; my horizons, in those days, were limited mostly to the people I sat by in classes. Regrettably, I went through the motions in high school and missed out on so much. I didn't get involved in activities where I would meet people with similar interests. 

I knew who Donna was.  I knew absolutely nothing about her.  And I’m sorry to say, at that point in my life, I did not have enough self confidence to go out there and find out.  Donna, on the other hand, had the courage to put herself out there and join in some of the high school activities. Unfortunately, as I found out later, she was bullied on a regular basis. A small group of girls found it quite entertaining to harass her and do very hurtful things to her. I so admire her courage for getting through that horrible time.  This courage has served her well throughout her life and inspires me to take chances in my life -- to get past my fear of failure, which has played too large of a role in my life.

Donna

I wish I had known Donna back then. I wish I had had the courage back then to get more involved and befriend people like Donna -- kindred spirits who could have helped me to become more adventurous and live life more fully. I could have helped them brave the cruelty and bullying that our fellow humans are so capable of orchestrating on those who seem different -- those who are not quite “one of us.”  Thank goodness Donna never has been and never will be “one of them!” My not real Facebook friends give me the support and courage to be myself and act accordingly in my everyday life.

Thank goodness I have, in the last 40 or so years, figured out that I really am a pretty awesome person (do you know how hard it still is for me to say that?).  Thanks to Donna, and many of my not real Facebook friends, I can say that -- AND believe it. I may not be able to gather all of these friends together into a Utopian little neighborhood, where we could be present with each other physically, as well as virtually but I can, for an hour or so a day, be with them as my schedule allows.  I am thankful that, through Facebook, I have been given a 2nd chance at Friendship. I have met many people that I may never meet in person. But I can tell you, they are real. They are like buried treasures that I have walked by a hundred times, never knowing they were there.  It took Facebook to unbury them and point me in the direction of new friendships.  These are very real friendships that help me to make it out there in the “real” world.

=====================================================================
Jenny lives in Phoenix Arizona with her husband, 2 dogs and 2 cats. And she totally ROCKS!!!

Ain't It Good To Know You've Got a Friend

Back in the Pleistocene Era when Jenny Jones and I were in high school, “hell” as I refer to it, we didn’t know each other. In a class of only 250 students we were aware of the other’s existence but that was it.

Why?

Incredibly, to me anyway, she was tremendously shy. I remember her being this Jennifer O’Neill/Cheryl Tiegs-esque beauty -- what all of us were supposed to look like back then. She, even from the distance I kept, exuded a calmness, a Zen-like tranquility. I was a bit in awe. It never occurred to me that someone with her looks and mien could be anything but utterly confident.

Me, I had a mortal fear of my classmates, particularly the girls -- this brought on by the assholic bullying I was subjected to on a daily basis by a nasty gang of sociopathic, miscreants whose behavior would make the cast of Mean Girls appear as helpless, mewling baby kittens.

Given Jenny’s shyness and my fears, it’s no surprise that we never connected. Then, 6 or 7 millennium later, Facebook was invented.  My initial intent in joining was to use it as a marketing vehicle for my paintings and sculpture. I began receiving all these “friend” requests from people I didn’t know -- girls I went to high school with. The old fears and anxieties sprang up instantly -- like Goosegrass in a Spring garden.

I reminded myself “I’m an adult now. If these were my childhood tormentors:

A)  I’m a, mostly, secure, confident adult with a scalpel sharp, lethal wit -- they can’t hurt me anymore and god help them if they try.

B) You never know who will end up being an art appreciator with bucks. (closet capitalist here)

and

C) Schadenfreude!”

One of the friend requests was from Jenny. I sent her my lame-o, canned response: “I see that we went to the same high school but we’ve never met. Thank you for the friend request. Click on the link to see more paintings -- sculpture and tile images are within my Facebook albums. “ blah, blah, blah...Incredibly, amazingly, she wasn’t put off by the pitch. We began exchanging emails about life, travel, politics, religion and more of that general life stuff. A friendship grew.

Fast forward to Winter 2012 -- I HAD to get out of the icy, wet Boston weather even just for a weekend. Jenny had given me a standing invitation to visit her in Phoenix so off I went.

Now, despite corresponding for a couple of years, this was the first time we would meet live and in person. On the westward flight a panic attempted to grab hold -- what if she’s one of those mean girls and I’m about to be stood up and worse! I gave myself a solid internal what-are-you-nuts eye roll and “get a grip” shout. I’ve managed to survive and thrive through  3 seasons with some pretty skanky ass carnivals, being a female pressroom manager back in the days of nudey posters over presses and guys coming to work cracked out or drunk, 4 brain surgeries and another for my back where every major muscle had to be severed and reconnected. IF Jenny turned out to be a sociopath, well, it’d make a very interesting story. Some of our best stories are the tales of how we’ve survived crazy shit -- anticipated crazy and otherwise.

Jenny, even more than expected, is marvelously warm, funny, fun, mature, smart as all hell and still very much the beauty.

All that AND she’s a great cook. Sigh. Me? I totally crush at take out.

You've Got a Friend -- Carole King

Good Vibrations

Dr. Michael McKenna arrived at MGH and onto the Maderer Brain Pit Crew in 1989. He’d missed my first surgery by seven years but he’s been with me for every single one since then. (For those playing the home game, that’s 4 total just for the old brain)

Dr. McKenna always struck me as this: what a Beach Boy would be like if he was really, wicked, stellar smart, creative and all ‘round warm and 20 kinds of spectacular to boot.  I mean, honest and true and in 142 point Arial Black, the man exudes a caring, supportive, earnest, radiantly present and will-totally-take-care-of-you vibe. He’s there for me and, boy howdy, I want to do well in each of of my surgeries to, amongst other things, make him smile. His smile is big time gold. Serious and true.

Dr. M is my Neurotologist --  “a surgeon who specializes in disorders of the ear and hearing, and brain tumors that originate from the cranial nerves or structures adjacent to the temporal bone portion of the skull. The most common tumors include acoustic neuromas, meningiomas (hey, I've got those!), glomus tumors and advanced parotid gland and ear skin cancers.“ 

Basically he’s dealing with that pile of nerves, the ones which are more tightly packed than the B Train after an April Fenway game -- the ones which flow around the ear and effect sight, sound and sensation. You know, all that wretchedly important stuff.

“ Dr. McKenna’s dedication to patient care and research came together in his involvement in the development of Mass. Eye and Ear’s Auditory Brainstem Implant (ABI) Program. The Auditory Brainstem Implant is a surgically implanted electrical device that provides input to the auditory system for people without functioning auditory nerves.  (that's me!) The device has been FDA approved for those who have hearing loss as a result of Neurofibromatosis, Type II. An ABI research facility is currently under construction at the Mass. Eye and Ear and will contain areas for clinical care and basic science research, headed by Mass. Eye and Ear neurotologist Ronald de Venecia, M.D., Ph.D., and Christian Brown, Ph.D. The facility is the first of its kind in the New England area.

“It gives me great pleasure to know that Mass. Eye and Ear will have a hand in possibly improving this device and passing that knowledge on to future specialists and ultimately helping thousands of people with hearing loss,” says Dr. McKenna.”

I’ll be getting one of those ABIs one day and Mike’s gonna take me there. I’m always a wee bit more optimistic and just know I can tackle any old shit that comes my way after I see him.

Yeah, I’m more than a little in love.

Good Vibrations -- The Beach Boys

Polish Potato Vodka and Postcards From Hell

I did eventually, hours and much sweat later, get my passport only to have a Polish official take it once we’d crossed that border -- the Polish official’s grooming was not quite so knife edge AND he didn’t bark, so of course, less intimidating. The train pulled into Dworze Glowny station in Krakow during the evening rush hour, a light snow falling onto sooty snow piles. It was only as I exited the station to a dimly lit, gritty neighborhood that I realized I just had no clue where I was or what to expect (gee, duh!). Where would I stay the night? Where would I exchange money (at the time Poland still used zlotys and those couldn’t be bought or sold outside the country)? Where’s the interesting part of town and was I anywhere near it? As I passed a taxi queue just outside the station all the cabbies started calling out to me “Auschwitz, I can take you to Auschwitz.” Well, what a cheery and unexpected welcoming. Of course, considering I’d read nothing about Krakow, everything was unexpected.

As I hustled past the cabs I saw a patch of sidewalk cleared of snow. Painted there was an arrow and the name Hotel Polonia.  I took a few more steps, another snow free bit of sidewalk, another arrow for this hotel. I decided to follow figuring, at worst, the hotel is a total dive and I'd keep on looking OR I’d stay at a wicked dive for one night -- how bad could it be?

I got to the entrance around the corner to find an enormous, gleaming chandelier, deep carpeting and a doorman and thought, “there’s just no way can I afford this but maybe I could splurge for one night and find some place cheap in the morning.”  After a fair amount of linguistic tango (he spoke no English. I spoke no Polish and his accented German was light years beyond me) we got to what became the norm for the remainder of my stay in the country, charades. It worked magnificently. He showed me the cost for a night, some thousands of zlotys. I asked, somehow, "what’s that mean in dollars." Amazingly, he had the exchange rates. A room for one, breakfast included, WITH PRIVATE BATHROOM (luxury city!) was $15.00 USD a night. SOLD! I indicated that I would like to stay for 4 nights. After settling in I went out in search of a money exchange kiosk, bread, cheese and beer. You know, the essentials.

After a couple of days wandering, I thought I’d take an english language tour of Auschwitz/Birkenau. I know, way cheery and uplifting but I couldn’t be so near what had once been Hell itself and not go. I boarded the van and, after two straight days of charades, mime and broken (OK shattered) German for communication, I was thrilled to hear and communicate in English. Two of my fellow tourists were Peace Corp workers on vacation from the Ukraine, another was a history professor from the University of Canberra. We were all chatty and, now that I think of it, oddly upbeat until we passed through the gates of Birkenau. From the main guard tower Birkenau was a flat seemingly endless,
snow covered lifeless plain. There weren’t even any birds. No book’s description, no movie scene could have prepared us for what we saw over the next few hours.

Auschwitz, strangely, infuriatingly, looks from the outside like a 1940s New England boarding school.

Hannah Arendt’s book came to mind: Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil.  Though we’d exchanged only a few good words on the bus and had been silent throughout the tour, my new friends and I had formed a bond of sorts. We were herded to the gift shop (!!!) and cafe (!!!) for coffee and a snack before heading back to Krakow. All I could think was -- “yeah right, I’m gonna send postcards from Hell. ‘Wish you were here?’”

Once back in Krakow we decided that a very focused pub crawl was in order and Polish potato vodka was the drink of choice. This, as could have been expected, failed to reboot our happy souls. Spending just a few hours in a place that even Dante couldn’t have imagined took quite a toll. So, we went for a second night of potato vodka fueled pub crawling after which my friends poured me onto a midnight train bound for Berlin.

Slow Down You Crazy Child

I took this trip 15 years ago in the early days of Eastern Europe being open to the west.

The goal -- get from Vienna, Austria to Frankfurt, Germany in ten days, see awesome paintings, live and in the flesh (OK, canvas) by my art heroes and have a bit of adventure along the way. This was about as defined and planned as this vaca was gonna get.

I landed at Flughafen Wien, found a bus into the city and a pay phone (remember pay phones?) where I dialed up a bunch of prospective B&Bs and fleabags motels. I ended up at the Austrian version of the Y -- a good, central place from which I could explore the city, specifically the incredible art museums. I’ve always been a huge fan of Gustav Klimt, his student Egon Schiele and

Oskar Kokoshcka -- this was their city, their hometown -- a fabulous opportunity to witness the goods, live and in person. While there, I also managed to fall in love with Vermeer and I finally “got” Warhol.

For all that this was, and still is, painting Heaven for me, after a few days I was done in, all museumed out.

I packed up my rucksack and trundled down to the Südbahnhof to peruse the big departure board. Where to go next? Should I try Budapest? Ljubljana? Prague? Krakow?  I’d never been to Poland and the train for Krakow left in 30 minutes -- decision made! Despite struggling a bit with the language in Austria I figured I could get by with it as the bridge language in Poland (assuming that most Poles spoke German and that I could understand German spoken with a Polish accent). Have I mentioned that I’m an optimist?

The first sign that I was not in Kansas anymore, (or Austria for that matter) was at the Slovakian border where the train crew changed. A conductor came into my compartment who looked like every inch the1940s film noir villain. Hair cropped short and slicked back, a shave that looked more like he sanded and burnished his face daily, pants so crisply ironed you could cut diamonds on the creases. He barked at me – seriously, he barked. I had no idea what he was saying – it didn’t sound like German. (OF COURSE it didn’t, we weren’t IN a German speaking country anymore!) Between the barking and the diamond cutting pants I was getting a little nervous and shouted back “Ich spreche keine…..” I waffled my hand, feeling really stupid for not being able to come up with the dominant language of the country, He switched to German, now barking the much more recognizable “pass, pass” at me. I handed over my passport wondering if I’d see it again and whether I was now entering into more of an adventure than I’d anticipated.

The adventure continues tomorrow!

Maybe It's Just Me

As I get older I find that I’ve little interest or patience for the really deep, depressing movies like The Seventh Seal or Midnight Express, books such as The Gulag Archipelago or Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee or Guernica-esque paintings. No, nyet, nein, I’m not sinking my head, my brain into a Disney-esque fog -- I just don’t want to live/breathe/eat the horror of the human condition every moment of my waking life.

So, while I can appreciate the beautiful, gritty metaphors of Pan's Labyrinth and District 9 I’m thrilled to bits to escape into Cowboys and Aliens.

And I’ll take Martin Millar’s The Good Fairies of New York, Jonathan Lethem’s She Climbed Across the Table and Christopher Moore’s Lamb, thank you very much.

And sometimes, some days it’s really OK to just sink into the beauty of Monet’s Waterlines or Klimts’s Danae.
A little beauty, some laughter and a bit of weird science -- is that too much to ask?

Maybe it’s just me.

As I get older I find that my friends and I celebrate our birthdays for longer and longer periods of time. It’s not just a day, it’s a week-long anniversary jubilee and then, later, a month long carnival of cake.

Or is that just me?

Bob’s birthday is January 10th. Jen’s birthday is the 29th. Bob and I celebrate our anniversary on the 27th. This is all after the gingerbread and pumpkin pie filled holiday season.

I will, undoubtedly, die from a pastry overdose. Happily though.

Elatedly even.

As I get older I’ve less patient for idiots even the relatively harmless ones. I’m far more diplomatic but WAY less with the patience. Diplomacy--a skill I wish I’d had when I was younger....like last week even.

"Diplomacy is the art of saying "Nice doggie" until you can find a rock."
-- Will Rogers

Yeah, I can dig it.

Wild Cats of Hough's Neck

Trixie and Skitter -- sounds like a Singapore Sling sipping tart and her earthy, soccer playing best pal. They’re always seen on the same stools at Union Bar with Trixie keeping an eagle eye out for the young stockbroker types who are always an easy touch for a drink in exchange for a little flirtation.

Nope, that's not who I’m talkin’ about here. Sorry. That particular Trixie probably has a tale or 70 of her own to tell.

This Trixie is is a fluffy grey Maine Coon cat who showed up on our porch one early spring morning. I’m, at best, half awake when I go out to feed the ferals, our porch visiting feline population, so I didn’t notice that the small grey cat crowding the food bowls was new until she realized I was behind her and looked up in a mad panic. I automatically started my, hopefully, soothing “there, there, have some breakfast” spiel. Poor thing was horribly scrawny, obvious even under her long, matted hair. After she finished one bowl of Fancy Feast I brought her another. She became a regular visitor, in fact she moved onto our porch.

Trixie

Trixie began to gain weight, her coat took on a soft shine and she seemed content. Then, in mid summer she was gone. I fretted horribly until...until Rob, with his binoculars, spotted her in the epically tall grass of our next door neighbors yard. With a kitten. Just one. After a few more days Trixie came back on the porch but just for meals, returning to her kitten afterwards. A few weeks later, she began showing up with the small white, nervous toddler whose name quickly became clear.

We all got to watch Skitter learn her lessons -- how to eat solid food (Fancy Feast. natürlich), catch mice, run away from the scary mailman and the total art of attacking all threatening shoes (and all shoes pose a clear threat) left on the porch.

Skitter

Coco

When Skitter became more independent, Trixie started dashing into our house, refusing to go back outside. She made it abundantly clear that she wanted to be an indoor cat. Late November was on us and it looked like the winter would be a hard, snowy one. We couldn’t keep Trixie but we couldn’t leave her outside in all the cold, harsh precipitation either. She moved in while we looked for a safe, loving new home.

Coco, the timid feline we had adopted the previous summer became depressed -- stopped zipping around the house like an atomic particle, stopped waking me in the morning, stopped purring and wasn’t eating enough. We had to find someplace soon but the person, the new home for Trixie had to be right. Luckily a wonderful co-worker of Jen’s sister was keen on adopting. She came out and met Trixie and a love story began for both of them.

Around the same time, Skitter followed Jen into her home and decided she liked what she saw. Jen and Oni’s other 2 cats were thrilled to bits. Thelma -- “a new playmate, woo hoo!” And mildly annoyed. Rosie -- “she’s not gonna eat MY food is she? and I get to sleep on top of the long haired chick NOT the kid!”

Cranky Rosie

We get periodic emails "from Trixie" telling us how she’s doing (great!) and Skitter, now a year and a half old, is nearing oversized Yeti proportions and loves chasing her older “sisters” around. A couple of months after Trixie moved on, Coco’s sadness lifted and she began to purr once more.

God, I love happy endings.

Deaf Sounds

Juan Pablo Bonet, one of sign language's daddies

Grammar? ‘the hell is this stuff? Did you know that American Sign Language has an entirely different grammatical structure? It’s nothing like spoken English at all. I’ve a hard enough time stringing a coherent, grammatically correct sentence together in English, let alone doing that in a language with a totally different bone structure.

 As my struggle to learn this new language continues, I think of my mother’s childhood language battles. Her parents were Italian immigrants — they lived in an all-Italian neighborhood in New Haven. She heard English for the first time when she started elementary school. Tiny Lucia learned by watching other children. When a classmate would say they were going to the water fountain, she came to understand that water equaled agua.

Immersion learning is scary and, for us late-deafened folk (my hearing took the last train for the coast when I was in my late 40s), not often possible, but it does seem most effective.

 In advance of losing my hearing completely, but not too much in advance — I’m a procrastination queen after all — I enrolled in a couple of ASL classes at the local adult ed. center. Unfortunately, both classes were geared toward people with hearing, and, by that time,  my hearing had degraded to the point where I couldn’t understand what the teacher was saying.
Relying on lip-reading to make sense of the sounds I heard, I was mostly fine one-on-one but not in groups — too confusing.

The instructor’s lecture and class discussion were incomprehensible. I also felt intimidated by all these young, vibrantly healthy, hearing individuals who were taking the class because they thought ASL was cool. Fun for them — survival for me.

After this The Amazing Bob, Jen, Oni and my sister and I hired a tutor who came into our home to work with us all. The small group, that it was my family and we were in our living room, made everything less daunting and intimidating. Plus, the instructor was deaf and showed vs. told. This made an enormous difference in my ability to understand.

Currently mia famiglia and I communicate using a combination of strategies — ASL, signed English, written notes and lip-reading. Our mélange method works for us. I suppose we’ve created our own cobbled-together sort of language.

Given this it’s no surprise that I’ve a hell of a time keeping up when I have professional interpreters for my med visits. Even though the ‘terps understand that they need to sign slowly for me, they’re using straight-up ASL. That’s très splendid for fluent types but that ain’t me, babes. I get the essence of what’s being communicated but miss the details.

 At Mass General (AKA my home away from home) now, the docs can set up a CART type of deal — as they speak their words appear on their computer screen. It’s a buggy system and doesn’t always work but when it does it’s double plus awesome.

I’m motivated to learn more ASL and leave this in between place with language. I’m not able to fully comprehend any spoken or signed language and not too many folks speak my family’s secret language.

Yet.

Get Lost

I like getting lost. No, honest and true. When you’re lost, without a set time to be someplace important like a job interview or meeting your aged auntie, you can kick back and enjoy seeing places and things you otherwise wouldn’t. You can discover new worlds—anything’s possible when you’re lost.

The absolute best place to get lost —the Victorian Shrub Maze City. Yeah, I’m talkin’ about Venice.

Jen and I flew into Marco Polo airport on a chilly winter morning, grabbed our rucksacks out of the overhead bins and headed for the vaporetto. We knew there was one that stopped just down the calle from the penzione we’d booked ourselves into. Zattere is the stop we wanted. It was, however, completely underwater. What? It was Aqua Alta—when the stunningly high tides of the Adriatic are at their stunningly highest.

Given that I rarely prepare for my trips—a combination of work inspired discombobulation and yeah, I’ll look at that guidebook next procrastination˜—I knew nothing about this wild and wet environmental deal.

So we took a different vaporetto—one which would drop us off in San Marco Square. I looked at a map, (hey, I had a map—for me that’s massive travel prep) and it looked relatively close. Nothing's really far apart in Venice. And yeah, it was way close IF you knew where you were going, IF you hadn’t been up all night on a flight from Boston after a killer work week, IF you weren’t walking/balancing on top of strung together tables, IF you weren’t carrying a heavy rucksack and, OK, 3 bottles of chianti.

90 minutes later we finally found our way and collapsed onto our hotel beds.

An hour later we were energized/fortified (Chianti—cures what ails ya!) and set out for a mid-ish day meal and exploration.

We happened on a fabulous outdoor cafe, a place I would never be able to find again—we were lost, once again. It had exactly what we needed right then—pizza. As we were perusing the menu over a nice glass of chianti (nice and Chianti—I think that’s redundant. right?), we saw a couple headed our way. They were the stereotypical Jersey Shore sort, complete with giant white trainers, gleaming white socks, oversized swinging black leather car coats and far too much hair product and make up. Jen and I started chanting, quietly, don’t come here, don’t come here but they did. They sat at the table right next to us too and ordered a pizza with bacon. When it didn’t come out looking like US bacon the couple went into full metal asshole tourist mode, insisting that they were not served what they’d asked for. Yelling! There was shouting as well as euros thrown and loud, butt twitching stomping off. The waiter, for his part, was yelling back with great dramatic hand and arm gestures. Beautiful!

Meanwhile, Jen and I attempted to look small and British, possibly Canadian or, at the very least, not from New Jersey. The waiter came to our table and, in our tremendously halting Italian, we ordered more wine and a spinach pizza. He responded to all our requests in English with a lovely you-poor-dears smile.  We overtipped. And took 12 wrong turns on the way back to our penzione. Of course.

We spent the rest of the week happily exploring and being lost in the shrub maze.

The actual distance from San Marco Square to our hotel? At most, a 15 minute walk.

Rock and a Yoga Place

This story is by the tremendous Brenda Rock, bon vivant, world traveler and friend 'o' mine!

My earliest yoga memory is with my mum and siblings sitting in the attic space we kids had made into a play area. We were doing a candle meditation with her. I must have been about 10 or so. Mum started her yoga journey when she was pregnant with my sister who is now 30. I remember liking the candle and closing my eyes and still seeing it in my mind’s eye.

It was 2 years after this that I fell out of love with yoga! We lived close to the wonderful Anne Marie McGlinchy and I suffered from asthma so my mum thought it would be good for me to go to Anne Marie for some therapy. However this clashed with a gym class my friends had taken up after school. I couldn't go to the gym class and so resented the yoga/breathing exercises. It is funny when I think of it now, my poor parents trying to get me to do the postures and give me the space to do it. Not easy when there were 5 siblings below me.

I cannot remember Yoga featuring in my life after that until I was in my twenties but I am sure it was always there in some aspect or another in my thinking etc. I was vegetarian for many years much to the amusement of friends. I have always been against violence and injustice. Very much a pacifist. I always believed in treating others as I would like to be treated.

In my late teens I started to have trouble with my back. I went to chiropractors, mainly, for many years. I had my first massage from my mum when I was 24. I also went to a few of her yoga classes. It was around this time I did an evening course in Herbalism, something I always had an interest in. This led me to working in a Health shop when I moved to Galway and then onto working with Dr. Dilis Clare, medical herbalist. It was here I met other therapists who rented rooms from the clinic. I got to experience some wonderful, varied body work. I was however still having problems with my back. I did little or no exercise. The most I did was walk but I was working hard with a part-time job waitressing. My lifestyle probably was not the best but I was aware when I was "good" to eat well and sleep.

It was around my world trip and visit to a great chiropractor in Sydney, Australia when the penny finally dropped. She told me in a roundabout way that I had to take up yoga if I wanted to save my back. She put it in such a way that it all made sense. I am forever grateful for my chat with her that day. How progressive she was too as up till then my experience with chiros had been very much based on repeat visits to them. I called my mum and she told me some basics to get me started until I got back home. Forward bend, cat pose and lying down/knees bent twist. I remembered doing all these with her in her classes. When I got home, mum did a programme for me and let’s just say I have never looked back. The level of pain I used to experience with my back was enough for me to not work some days. Now I felt as if I was in control. I took many classes and workshops during my time living in Galway too. I was always interested in the other aspects of yoga. Mum had done pranayama with us over the years and I loved learning about the neti pots in a workshop. I especially loved the relaxation. Whenever I was stressed and couldn’t sleep I would practice the techniques I learned in class. I went onto become a massage therapist, something that I would have laughed at years before because of my back trouble.

As I write this I almost forgot to mention my asthma which is now totally under control. A little help from modern medicine but a lot of how strong my lungs are now comes down to the breathing exercises. I fully believe Yoga has helped my breathing.

I want people to know that they can take back control of their bodies and stop pain. I understand now of course that pain has emotional attachment too but again yoga comes up trumps on that aspect by helping the person come to terms with their bodies and minds better. I want to massage people and help alleviate the pain but I want them to take responsibility too for their bodies by giving them the tools to do exactly that.

I am in a good space in my life now and I know much of this has to do with yoga - physically, mentally and spiritually.
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Brenda now lives in Slane, Baile Shláine --  Homestead of Fullness, just north of Dublin but has traveled the world living in such disparate places as Goa, San Francisco, Germany and Galway.

We're Going to be Friends on D-PAN!

We're Going To Be Friends by The White Stripes

A vid by the Deaf Professional Arts Network -- check it out -- too awesome!

Born To Be Mild

We were playing some tiny town just outside of Lincoln, Nebraska when word came down the midway that bikers were passing through town and headed our way, to the carnival. I got the definite impression from my fellow jointees that this was supposed to inspire me with fear. Being 19, too trusting of folks who didn’t fall in with the mainstream and interested in whatever new experiences could come my way, I was intrigued. That and, being short on experience and imagination, I was wondering why, in god’s name, carnies would fear bikers.

 I had first on the right that week -- sweetest hole/location on the midway, just to the right of the entrance -- so when the bikers came, I’d be the first joint they’d pass and I was hoping they’d not pass but stop and play.

The spot was dead, like most of them that season. Darkness fell, I’d just barely broken the ice (had my first customer of the day) so when the first small contingent of bikers stepped onto the midway it was as though they’d stepped onto a fully lit, empty Hollywood soundstage. And, boy howdy, they were sure as hell close up ready. The 2 men were solidly muscled yet slim, broad shouldered and well over 6 feet tall. The woman was nearly as tall, trim, with long brown hair. She looked like she could kick nine kinds of ass and not break a sweat. All three were clad head to toe in black leather (of course. that’s the uniform and all. when’s the last time you saw a biker in powder blue paisley leathers, hmmm?) with chains hanging from their belts. Yeah, I had a big, industrial strength infatuation going on.

 I called them over to play (the bushel baskets -- “one in and you win,” was my ever so original call) and they were well spoken, polite and even more attractive up close. They walked away with a big, ugly Mike Dog and my solid wish to run away from the carnival to join their gang.

Later that night, after we dropped the awnings (shut the show down for the night), I decided to walk my dog and my brother in law’s dog. You know, because they needed a good walk and maybe, hopefully I’d run into the stunning bikers again. My carnie pals were feverishly concerned -- to which I responded “hey, I’m walking two big Dobermans and their leashes are heavy bike chains. I think I’m gonna be safe.” Off I went.

Turns out there was a party going on at the Trabant. All the ride jocks and a group of bikers were having a beer or 30. I stopped, socialized for a bit and then came down with a wicked case of the shys. Impressive folk totally brought out my inner Willow Rosenberg back then.

The dogs and I, dispiritedly, headed back to where most of us jointees were camped out and bedded down for the night.

Now, when I hear/read the term “biker” the image that first comes to mind is of a fat, dull witted, quick to violence, woman subjugating dickwad who’s in serious need of a solid shower and shave. Mostly I think combustibly dangerous. Back then though I believed they were all variations of Peter Fonda in Easy Rider.

Steppenwolf -- Born to be Wild

Gila Wilderness Visit Part 3

The third and final installment of The Gila Wilderness trip by my awesome friend Jenny Jones
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Day 3: On our 3rd day at the Gila Wilderness area, we explored the Mimbres area of New Mexico.  This time, we headed East on the Trail of the Mountain Spirits. This area is named after the Mimbres Indians, who once lived here. Although the area is a little lower in elevation than the Gila Wilderness area, it was just as scenic. We ambled along rolling hills, pastures, and wildlife, including an abundance of mule deer. We had some excellent New Mexican cuisine at a little bar and diner we stopped at, along the way.

Day 4 took us to Silver City, New Mexico. Along the way, we stopped and explored the town of Pinos Altos, about halfway between our hotel and Silver City. Pinos Altos (High Pines) is located smack dab along the Continental Divide, at a little over 7000 ft in elevation. The town was originally inhabited by gold miners, in 1860. Today’s inhabitants are mostly artists and tourists.

There are several historic buildings in this town, and they provide you with signs to follow for a little driving tour of the points of interest. Among the treasures found here, were an old adobe church, the Buckhorn Saloon and Opera House (which was closed for renovations when we were there), and the old courthouse. The Two Spirits café, in “downtown” Pinos Altos, served us up a wonderful breakfast. The menu offered some unique and diverse cuisine -- I really need to go back there so I can try some or the other dishes!

We hit Silver City on Farmer’s Market day. We enjoyed wandering around the booths, and chatting with the locals. Silver City is a very dog friendly town. The local downtown businesses were happy to have Bonnie come in to visit, and most had treats to offer her. I’m sure she thought we were trick or treating!

The next day, we headed back to Phoenix.  We took the longer, scenic route, back. Highway 180 runs north and south along the AZ, NM border, taking us through beautiful, mountain and high desert terrain. We passed through many old towns, with beautiful old adobe buildings, both restored and not.  We knew that we would need to come back and explore this area in more detail.

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Jenny lives in Phoenix Arizona with her husband, 2 dogs and 2 cats. She works full time as a customer service agent for a property and casualty insurer. In her spare time, she likes to help her 
hubby out with his resale/consignment store, volunteer, and has recently become involved and passionate about  "protesting," AKA advocating for social and economic justice.

Friday Ramblings

1) Cats — how did I ever live without them?

2) I never got a tattoo because:

 a) when I was in my 20s tattooing wasn’t a field which attracted skilled artists. If I wanted a “lil’ devil,” Betty Boop or a heart with an arrow through it I was all set — repro of Hokusai’s “The Great Wave,” eh, not so many tattoo practitioners had the chops back then.

b) Thought seriously about getting Mondrian’s Broadway Boogie Woogie on my ass (hey, it’d be hilarious!) but, even at 20, I got that bodies age and what looks good at 20 is not gonna be all that and a bag of chips at 60. See, I was wicked smaht back then.

 3) “I married you for your cooking” words which will never pass The Amazing Bob's lips (poor dear). Naturally, I had to ask “why DID you marry me, Sweetheart-Love-of-My-Life-Honeypie-Babycakes?” This earned me a solid “I married you for the cat,” said while pointing at the divine Coco who we got four years ago. For those playing the home game, that’s 24 years after we first hooked up and, yes, we’re on our third cat.
So, to distill all this — I was succinctly and poetically “yes deared.” The man’s a god!

3) That kiln’s just NOT going to fire itself. Dammit.

4) A competent, friendly yet respectful-of-private-conversation barkeep will pack a joint tighter and more consistently than T.T.’s on a Saturday night with Nine Inch Nails at the top of the bill. A low/no skilled barkeep with an obnoxious and/or needy mien will empty even the Middle East on a Saturday night with Mission of Burma headlining.

5) A brand, spanking, new, shiny oversized, humongous pick up truck (especially one that's all jacked up like this one) is the best and surest way to communicate that you have extraordinarily low self confidence, a huge ego and your paycheck’s size is inversely proportional to your brain's functional ability. That and it’s better than a billboard for informing the market at large “I AM YOUR MARK. Play me!” (mebbe not to be confused with Neil Diamond’s Play Me.Sorry, sorry, sorry. Look, if it’s stuck in MY head I gotta share!)

Day 2: Jenny and John in the Gila Wilderness

Part Two of The Gila Wilderness trip by my awesome friend Jenny Jones

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On our 1st full day at the Gila Wilderness in south western New Mexico, we headed for the Gila Cliff Dwellings National Monument, about an hour or so from the hotel. 

The Trail of the Mountain Spirits byway took us north, through the Gila Wilderness area. Along the way we stopped at the Gila Hot Springs for a nice soak and a picnic lunch.  We were completely charmed. We drove in and not a soul was to be seen -- this being a good thing.  A sign proclaims that you are at the Gila Hot Springs and Campground, and there is a box and envelope in which to deposit the exorbitant (snark!) fee of $3 per car. For those $3 you have the run of 3 hot springs, each a different temperature and a lovely, shaded picnic area. The entire “compound” is decorated with junk art mobiles, crafted from old metal “stuff” -- discards.  Shade structures were liberally positioned throughout. The 3rd Hot Spring has a privacy fence, so you can “let it all hang out”.  The Gila River runs right behind the hot springs and it was a beautiful day for kicking back and enjoying the quiet beauty of nature this delightful spot afforded.  Our picnic lunch could not have tasted better in the most upscale restaurant in the country! 

Time to move on to the cliff dwellings.

It was a half hour or so from the Hot Springs to the cliff dwellings. Here, a moderate, one mile scenic trail takes you to the dwellings, inhabited by Native Americans from circa 1270 to 1300 AD. Dogs were not allowed on the trail but they had several nice, clean kennels, located under shady pine trees, with volunteer attendants for our Bonnie. She had a very nice nap.

 The trail ascends to about 180 feet above the canyon floor to the cliff dwellings -- the view is just astounding.  The steep, pine studded canyon stretches as far as the eye can see. 

Several volunteer docents were located throughout the dwellings to answer questions and imbue visitors with their vast knowledge of the ancient people that inhabited the area. A small museum showcasing the plant and animal life of the area completed our tour -- we then made our way back to our hotel.


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 Jenny lives in Phoenix Arizona with her husband, 2 dogs and 2 cats. She works full time as a customer service agent for a property and casualty insurer. In her spare time, she likes to help her hubby out with his resale/consignment store, volunteer, and has recently become involved and passionate about  "protesting," AKA advocating for social and economic justice.