miscellany

Mary, Mary, quite contrary....

2010-04-27T00:09:00.009-06:00

I live for these moments in early spring. I have not yet lost my battle with weeds. The gusto's still there. And each year, at spring's first blush, flowers that have volunteered to be in my yard join those I planted, offering the most pleasant of surprises.

Here's a peek at what's growing at my house. Besides weeds, of course.

Hello, World! I"m back. Kinda

2010-04-21T20:40:00.005-06:00

Long time, no post. I've been crazy busy, tired, stressed. But we did manage to sneak away for a couple of days to San Francisco. Beaux's health is in kind of an odd plateau and we figured we'd fiddle while Rome burns. Saw Alcatraz, rode every mode of pubic transportation, ate well and even slept well. We also lucked into free Wednesday at the Exploratorium. It alone is worth the trip. Oddly enough, though, my favorite part of the trip was 10 minutes on the wharf watching some crazed street artist make pictures of planets with a pie plate and spray paint. Amazing and cheap.
Can anybody tell me what kind of bird the fellow above is? Saw him on the water and he's a stranger to this Rocky Mountain girl. Let me know.

The girls got a little money for souvenirs, so Jen's now sporting a Hard Rock San Francisco shirt (she really does take after her dad). And Al opted for the planet art and a couple of glass necklaces.
But the coolest thing of all was what we came home to. Check out Tiger getting a little snuggle from Beaux. My boys.

Uh, brrr.

2010-02-13T18:54:00.009-07:00

Today, my sister invited the girls and me to Ogden to watch the Polar Bear Plunge. It's an Ogden first and a highlight of its WinterFest, which dragged thousands of people downtown to watch horses pull skiers, human bowling (sit on a disk and head for the pins), snowmobile races and more.
Forget that Ogden's been buried in snow. Today, most of it melted and it rained a cold misty rain most of the morning. They had to truck in snow by the huge load. Nevertheless, it was fun.
By the time we'd left the house to travel the 30-odd miles, Jen had decided she was going to jump with her cousins into the freezing-cold Lorin Farr Park swim pool.
After we stood in the brutal rain for a bit, Al decided to join her.
I figured someone would chicken out, but I figured wrong. The only chicken (sane person) among the three of us was me.
Beaux had to work. Here's what he missed.
Cheers.

Weird family shot. The shot's not weird. The family is.

Lined up, in the rain, waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

Wish we were still waiting. CCCCCcold, huh Avery?

Thanks, Mr. Polar Bear, for the very nice cups.

Open sesame!

2010-02-01T20:41:00.003-07:00

I had a little car repair need so freakish that the dealership folks looked at me blankly when I pulled in. Then proceeded to tell me they'd never seen such thing. Followed by billing me for such a princely sum that none of us will ever forget it.
Sunday afternoon, I went out to my car and discovered that the driver side door would not open with a remote or with the key. I could lock and unlock the other doors. But to get into the driver side, I had to drag ~~my pudgy middle-aged butt and bum knees and hip~~ myself over the console, bend parts that no longer do to clear the steering wheel and then scrunch in.
At that point I discovered another way the driver's door would not open: from the inside.
Beaux and I nearly killed ourselves maneuvering in and out trying to change fuses and try other tricks because this couldn't be real, right?
Monday, I started my day at the dealership, which is never a happy thing.
The very nice manager looked at me blankly , clicked the remote and tried the key a few times and couldn't figure it out, either. I got one smile out of it when he went and got the littlest, youngest worker to climb in and try from inside.
A few minutes later, he told me that no one had ever seen such a thing, but they'd called around and found one Ford guy who said he had. Sounded like the latch and motor had gone busto. Swell. And it was going to get better. The conversation went something like this:
"The good news is I have the latch in stock, but it's $183. From there it gets tricky. We have no idea how we will get the door panel out, since we can't open the door. And labor is a flat $115 an hour. Plus, if he damages the door, the door panel goes for $243. And we might have to take out the seats to maneuver. This could get ugly. We'll do the best we can."
It's not like I had choice. I really can't drag myself in and out two or three times a day when I go on assignment. So I told him to tell the kid doing the repairs to be careful, work fast and if he ruins my door, I won't get it fixed, but will live with it, so there's no money to be made there. So don't ruin the door panel.
Then I sat down in the waiting room and tried not to watch the clock, which felt like watching the rolling log on a fundraiser. One half hour! $57.50! Whoohoo!
Finally, they came back to tell me the good news -- job done, door panel intact. And, he added quietly, "You took quite a hit on the labor costs. Sorry."
Final cost for the repair: $459 ~~I don't have~~. The assurance the repair is fully, completely guaranteed for ~~a measly peasly~~ two weeks?
Priceless.

Love you, Osc! RIP.

2010-01-30T15:03:00.002-07:00

Oscar P. Scruffy, 23, died Jan. 30, 2010. Love you, buddy!

Strong feet to follow

2010-01-21T22:06:00.004-07:00

Alyson's almost beside herself with the joy of today's encounter: She met — no, she talked to! — Helen Thayer, the first woman to cross Antartica on foot.
In the past three hours, I've heard about the day Helen encountered three separate polar bears and what a brave dog Charlie she had.
I've heard the details of her trek across the Gobi Desert.
And I've heard the sweetest words from my youngest child's mouth: "She's right, Mom. You can do anything. I can do anything. She said you just need a plan."
In a world that seems sadly lacking in role models, I've tried hard to expose my girls to different people and ideas and the concept that you can accomplish a whole lot if you make it a priority.
I've emphasized, I think, strong women, because I want my girls to be warriors when they are convinced that something matters. And I want them to feel, like me, that equality is a given. They are bright, they have the world to offer the world and they should be surprised if someone expects less of them because of their gender.
But I want them to have great respect for all people of accomplishment, regardless of gender or other factors.
So I took Jen a few months ago to hear Daniel Schorr and Roxana Saberi, the freelance American journalist who was imprisoned for a time in Iran.
I remind Jen that I knew, although not well, Rosa Parks. I interviewed her years ago. That my mother started a correspondence with Coretta King after her husband, Martin Luther King, was killed. The two women found they had a great deal in common, starting with love of family and passion for country.
There are many things that will discourage my girls as they grow up. But today, Helen Thayer lit a fire in Al and sparked a conviction that everything truly is possible.
What a lovely thing to give a child.

Little faces

2010-01-16T14:28:00.004-07:00

Sorry I've been gone so long. It's been a very, very weird month or so. More on that later.
For now, enjoy the beautiful faces of some of the Haitian children I loved when I was there a few years ago. This is a little school at an orphanage in Haiti near Port-au-Prince. The little doll on the left is my lovely Bela, who was 4 -- the same age as my Jeni at the time. For years, they thought she was "Haiti" when I talked about the place.
Say a prayer, send a gift, be mindful in some way of the suffering.

Give me three days

2009-11-08T22:08:00.002-07:00

In my three days off work, I managed to:
-- Shovel Al's bedroom, which in fairness to her, was a hybrid problem. Jen moved downstairs but left a mess behind. We moved Al into a partially cleaned room, because we are shuffling everyone around for the day when Beaux can't do stairs anymore. We know it's coming.
-- Install a bargain price but high-security router (took 10 minutes, including playing online to see that it worked).
-- Sew the curtains I've been promising Jen for her new room. Did I mention I hate to sew?
-- Cook a real meal every night. No microwave. Ta dah!
-- Turn the room that used to be Al's into a storage/work room.
-- Do a ton of laundry. Ugh.
— Organize the computer room.
— Take the girls grocery shopping at 10 p.m. just because it seemed like an odd thing to do.
There's a lot I didn't get done. But I made a dent. Hoo-ah!

Boo! I want my mommy

2009-10-31T23:47:00.005-06:00

The porch light's been extinguished, the friendly ghost that howls "Happy Halloween" silenced, and I am approximately $40 worth of penny candy lighter, but I love Halloween.
I think it's because of my mom, Mary. She was born blind, but loved the costumes and revelry of Halloween. I grew up in more innocent times, when you could hand out homemade treats. And my mom would get up really early to pop lunch bags of seasoned popcorn to give to the kids who came to the door. They loved it. In her later years, when store -bought was the safety decree, she switched to penny candy, too, and I felt bad about that because the popping was a service she performed for love.
She had a little metal counter that she'd keep on her hand and as she dropped the candy in to the bags she'd click away, then gleefully tally it at evening's end.
I use the counter now. And I inherited her delight in opening the door, though I can gaze at the pirates and princess and scary goblins, while she had to say "what are you this year" as she directed them to hold their bags out where she could feel them.
I like to open the door with a loud, "What did you bring me?" Sometimes, the littler ones shyly offer me my pick of their treasure and I laugh and give them triple the candy.
We live now at a crossroads, the only actual house on our side of the street, between two neighborhoods. We get children from both. And because Beaux decorates like crazy and the ghost yells "Happy Halloween," we sometimes have kids 20 deep on our porch. Seriously.
I remember living in an apartment in college and being disappointed I only had about 20 trick or treaters. I have friends who say no one stops. Tonight, we got 268 before 10 and a few stragglers after. The teens, to my surprise, were the ones most apt to say thanks. The littles told me repeatedly my house was "pretty" with its graveyard and zombies, pumpkins and ghosts. Their parents stood at the end of the drive (except the ones that carried their own trick or treat bags -- what's that about?) and took photos.
It was not the biggest crowd; I once clicked 371 on a spooky night. But I feel sorry for the folks who don't bother to stay home and greet the kids with treats. A lot of houses are dark because both parents go out with their children. They miss the part about giving, although they do the receiving part okay. Me? I could care less how much the girls bring home. But I love the excited buzz of children on the porch, the surprise of "You're Jeni's or Aly's mom!" from classmates who live further away, the sheer pageantry of the evening.
And I think my mom would have liked this house on Halloween. It draws the kind of crowd she craved.
Happy Halloween, Mama.

Jen reveals her secret...

2009-10-12T20:36:00.006-06:00

My oldest, Jenifer, who is 12, this week decided to make me privy to her darkest secret.
She is, it seems, part unicorn.
Now I was understandably surprised by this, since I am her mother and know her father very well.
It got even more interesting when she started telling me some of the unicorn rules. So I asked her to write them down.
Imagine my surprise when I came home and found this. I've typed it up and, yes, I did punctuate. Can't help myself. If you've ever wondered what rules the creatures must follow, read on.

UNICORNS by Jeni Kyle, age 12:
Unicorns are known as myths. They used to be called mystics. Jhon H. Unicorn discovered a group of them. No one believed them. Of course, people decided to make stories of them and they decided since Jhon Unicorn found them, that would be the name.

Unicorns can transform into any living thing but can only be one for less than 24 hours. If a unicorn stays a fish, it will have a small amount of fish DNA. If a unicorn stays a fish for 48 hours, it will be a fish and lose its powers. Unicorns can basically breed with anything living except for leap frogs. They have a unicorn poison.

All unicorns are allergic to oil, celery, cauliflower. Unicorns can't eat carrots, avocado, ketchup, pine trees, fish, cactus or lemons after 6 to 9 p.m. Unicorns were made beautiful, so they are also allergic to makeup, which is sad when a unicorn breeds with a cat.

Unicorns try their best to keep quiet about themselves. The population is bigger than you would think. Picture a row of ten houses. Every house is made up of only humans except for one. It has all humans and one unicorn. Unicorns have many powers. They can fly, transportate, run fast, jump fences, eat 36,000 leaves in one day and other things.

The Unicorn Mountain Council is not allowed to tell creatures unicorns are considered one of the smartest animals at 28 years of age. Unicorns are helpful and are herbivores. Lots of unicorns are afraid to tell family about it because humans will not want to play checkers, tag or baseball with them and they love to play. Unicorns at the time they are born are uncooridnated and fall a lot. At the age of 15 a unicorn should be rightfully ready to handle flying and should be sure-footed.

Unicorns are cool creatures because their hair grows very fast. It's a unicorn's natural instinct that tells them their hair needs to be in their face. Unicorns are playful creatures that are trustworthy.

Most of the world still does not see how important unicorns are. Every spring they use their super eyesight to produce more cow milk. During fall they paint leaves with their wings and put them on trees. That's why the wings of their close friends, Pegasus, are beautiful and colorful.

From the heart of strangers

2009-09-28T21:03:00.004-06:00

I've heard of prayer quilts before, but never actually held one in my hand until today. For some reason, the sight of it set me weeping.
A week or so ago, I got an email asking whether a stalking-horse bidder had been found for an oil refinery that's for sale. I didn't know the answer, but said I'd watch for it.
I asked about her interest and she told me that her husband hopes it sells so he can go back to work. We chatted like neighbors over a fence, comfortable and personal both. I told her I sympathize; that my husband will soon be unable to work because he's on a transplant list and is starting to struggle.
She told me she's part of a prayer quilt ministry and asked if they could pray for him.
Absolutely. And thanks. We accept all prayers and good wishes. And we believe in their power, as well.
The card that came with it shows what they prayed as each knot was tied — the gist, not the words.
They prayed for Beaux to get a transplant. They prayed help with the cost of the antirejection meds he'll need. They prayed that shifting insurance will not put his placement on the transplant list in jeopardy. And that he will have comfort and peace and feel God's presence.
And as I held that beautiful, loving gift from strangers in my hand, tears streaming down my face, I reached out and grabbed every blessing I could get.

Do it for them...

2009-09-27T20:50:00.004-06:00

Every year somebody suggests ethics reforms for our elected officials and every year our state or national legislators find some reason to vote "No."
This year, my tolerance took a serious nosedive. I think it has something to do with the realization that when the Old Boys Club sins -- whether it's faulty financial practices within the banking industry or said ethical lapses by lawmakers — somebody's going to step up and bail them out.
And somehow, the rest of us will pick up the tab.
I think it's time, folks. And I think we start by demanding that lawmakers live by every single law they inflict on the public. Every one. That means no free pass when they speed, not carve-out that lets them have better health coverage than the rest of us, no exemption of any type.
We are all in this together -- just one big, happy family.
Which brings me to the next thing: Stop ripping my country apart with your partisan politics. Start viewing America as a country and not two teams in a competitive sport.
I think lawmakers need to explain every item they take as a gift and I don't care what the value is. I'm not telling anyone not to take gifts. Just tell me what you took. No limit, no exception. And if you're embarrassed to own up to it, do not take it.
And for lawmakers who have served decades and decades: Thanks. I mean that sincerely. Now go away. You have perpetuated a system where you make yourself too important and powerful. And the citizenry has bought the theory that without your seniority they won't get good representation. I believe it's possible that because of your seniority — and your entrenched-ness, if there's such a word — we won't get good representation. We need to start seeing other people.

My name is Lois and I have a story...

2009-09-20T00:39:00.004-06:00

The child's name is Annie and she is 10 years old. She's tiny, with a smile that seems somehow bigger than her face, shiny dark brown skin and the weight of the world's orphans on her shoulders.
600 million children in trouble worldwide, she says. Enough that if they held hands they could circle the earth 18 times.
I don't know if her math is accurate. But I know that there are many children in war torn or poverty-ravaged countries in real trouble. America has its share of children in trouble, too, whether because of poverty or parental absence or just inertia on someone's part.
Annie was part of the Matsiko Children's Choir, which gave a concert at Northwest Middle School in an assembly, on Friday. Jeni came home enraptured and asked if we could go to the free show that night. Sure. Why not?
So I loaded up Jen and Al and two strays (dear friends of theirs).
Matsiko means hope back in Uganda, where the children come from, Jen told me. These kids are trying to give hope to struggling children worldwide.
What they gave us Friday was joy and love and exhaustion. It was such a high-energy performance that I burned calories watching it. And you just had to clap and laugh and go with it. The love came at the end, when some of the littlest kids hugged a visibly moved audience.
There was no pitch, although it was clear they hope to find sponsorships and donations for related children's programs. It was low-key that way.
And somewhere in the middle of the orchestrated, choreographed program, I had a Eureka moment. I need all of them I can get.
The kids were passing the mike down the row as the choir sang Jim Croce's "I've Got a Name." And one by one, they introduced themselves. "My name is Anita. I've got a name."
The Eureka part is the realization that it's tempting and far too easy to lump people together. The children's choir. The Democtrats or Republicans.My girls. Journalists do this. Teachers are like that...
I'm not like any other journalist. None of us are. I've got a name.
The "girls", Jen and Al, couldn't be more different. Why would I expect everyone else to fit in a little mold?
A name. And a story. Unique indeed

If I told you 'bout my life, I'd have to kill you...

2009-08-28T08:27:00.003-06:00

I've been possibly the worst blogger in the history of the sport this summer — which, incidentally, beat all speed records for how fast it flew by.
Time does fly when you're being thwarted.
Beaux and I have been creating two separate realities this summer for the girls. By night, we do things like hang out until 2 a.m. watching the meteor shower out by the lake whenever we get the chance and can muster the energy. By day, we work long hours and drag home exhausted, him from disease and me from I don't know what.
On that recent jaunt, I made a mental note that, hopefully, that moment would stick in their mind as they recalled this last year. Memories of time together, instead of fears about what may be coming as Beaux gets sicker and his need for a liver transplant grows dire. We know it's coming, but we really are trying to do happier things. And although we don't talk about it, I suspect we're trying to fix memories in those young minds.
The other daytime activity has been the most aggravating of my life. Here it is, in a much-condensed form:
In May, our health insurance at work changed. The transplant will be covered. Anti-rejection meds will not. Those are a lifelong necessity and, depending on how much rejection you're experiencing, run between $900 and $3,200 a month. We don't have it. So we've been trying to connect Beaux back in with the Indian tribe to which we've been told he was born. That meant opening his adoption, which took place in 1965 when he was almost 4 (he'd been in foster care with his adoptive parents for quite some time).
People said that would be hard, but aside from having to figure out which county in Arizona did the adoption, it was not bad, thanks in large part to a very nice judge. We used the Indian Child Welfare Act and in early July received information about his birth parents. She was reportedly young and unmarried, so he was "allegedly" the father.
The tribe ran a quick scan and said they had only one match, and the girl was too young. I pointed out we thought she was very young and they said we should get a birth certificate.
Laugh here. Ugh. It's been sealed for almost 50 years.
I provided the court order opening the adoption records, but it wasn't good enough for Arizona vital statistics folks. So I asked the judge for another order, which she granted. It, too, was not worded to the taste of vital statistics. But third time's the charm (Thank you, Judge for being so patient!) and we finally, last Friday, got the original birth certificate.

Which listed entirely different parents than those named in the adoption. . . I have no clue what we're to make of that. I literally alternate between wanting to cry and throw up. And I've talked to a couple of friends who are juvenile court judges here in Utah who say they've never heard of such a thing.
I am not sure how we resolve it. I've written to the poor, long-suffering judge who probably wishes she'd called in sick the day the original adoption petition came in. And I have fantastic scenarios playing in my head, like the 28-year-old of the birth certificate is actually his grandmother, who managed to get someone to fake it so she looks like the mother instead of her daughter, who is listed on the adoption paperwork....... But nothing really makes sense and I have no idea who to ask or what to do.
In the meantime, the tribe enrollment officer, who asked me to get the birth certificate, isn't returning my calls. And we don't qualify for help from the pharmaceutical companies.
That sound is me shrieking in frustration....

The photo, which shows how I feel, was taken by Alyson Kyle, age 10 at the time.

Have we met?

2009-08-06T15:45:00.001-06:00

The Deseret News not long ago hired a fellow who for whatever reason appeared to dislike me. I decided, at first, it was a generational thing. He's one of the younger journalists, a fellow half my age.
Still, I'd watch him in animated conversation with practically everyone else, but though he sat right next to me and I tried countless times to strike up a conversation, he refused to take the bait.
"So, Ryan, what do you think of the healthcare reform debate?"
Not so much as a turn of his head.
It has really bothered me a lot, perhaps in part because I've always prided myself on being friendly. When we hire new people, I've always tried to get to know them and help them figure out the minutiae.
As we've gone to different shifts, though, it has become harder. For instance, we hired a fellow named Ethan on the police beat, but we've apparently always worked different shifts. I'd never so much as laid eyes on him.
About a month ago, I had one of those lightbulb moments that I seem to be in increasingly dire need of.
"Ethan?" I whispered tentatively to the oh-so-snobbish Ryan. "Is that you?"
His head whipped around and he smiled at me.
It helps immensely if you call someone by his actual name. I have no clue, now, where I came up with Ryan.
I'm thinking about this because my friend Ethan -- who got a tremendous kick out of my stupidity -- became my friend. (I think he thought I had an imaginary friend named Ryan and he was too courteous to make fun of me for it). And now he's moved on to graduate school and other adventures and I miss him.
This kind of thing seems to happen to me increasingly. And I'm left wondering if I'm confused or just too lazy to be a good caretaker of other people's details.
And I'm hoping it's the former, because the latter is a choice.
A bad one.

Forget abstinence...

2009-07-27T20:43:00.003-06:00

Nancy Reagan made "Just say no" to drugs sound easy, but a whole generation of kids proved it was a lot harder than that.
In my fair state, they like to take the same approach to sex and the twin problems of sexually transmitted diseases and teen pregnancy. Abstinence education -- just say no -- is the core of the effort to deal with the raging hormones and poor judgment that are so much a part of adolescence.
And guess what? It doesn't seem to work as a deterrent for sexual activity any more than it did for experimenting with drugs and alcohol. Go figure.
I've given the issue a lot of thought. And by that, I mean A HELL OF A LOT OF THOUGHT because my two girls, now 11 and 12, mean everything to me and I want them to have their very best shot at an education and a childhood and .,.. well, you know what I'm saying. I don't want them to sabotage themselves.
I have listened to experts, read the books and yet, my moment of epiphany came in a most unexpected moment. I was sitting in the grade school library, helping ring up sales at a book fair, when it hit me.

Tell them about PTA. If you get pregnant, you will have children. Who will go to school. And you will be expected to participate in PTA. Tell them in detail. About the meetings. And the projects. And fundraisers.

If that doesn't scare them into behaving, they're already lost.

It really is peaceful

2009-07-25T23:52:00.002-06:00

We've been dividing our time this summer in an almost bipolar fashion.
On one hand is the frenetic, almost-panicked efforts to get Beaux reconnected with his tribe so he can access the anti-rejection medications that a change in our insurance put out of reach.
I've learned to write legal petitions and whimper and take nothing at face value. For instance, two days ago we were told Beaux is not Yaqui, according to their records. I asked a simple question and now no one's so sure. We need more information to figure it out. Next up for us is a quest to get the original, before-the-adoption-created-a-rewrite version of his birth certificate.
We're also frantically trying to keep up at work, an extension of the adoption/tribe/medical stuff.
The really good stuff is happening on the side, when we move slowly, more wandering than anything. At least a couple of times a week, we go looking for a spectacular sunset or a photo or flowers or a piece of nature.
This past week, we discovered what may turn out to be my favorite place ever. And it is, oddly and ironically enough, a cemetery.
Mt. Olivet, up by the University of Utah campus, is one of the loveliest places I've ever been. And I'm not the only one that thinks so.
A small herd of deer have moved in. So have a few rabbits, some ducklings and I can't begin to count how many birds.
Twice this weekend, we wandered over there to meander in the shade and read the headstones and -- the main event -- take photos of fawns who are wandering around.
Their ears are so big they look like kangaroos and their legs are so skinny and wobbly they seem like stilts. And I'm enamored with all of them.
I don't believe I'm going to care where my corporeal remains wind up after I'm gone. I'm not going to need them or hang around them. But if I believed that my body was going to roam near where it was buried, I'd vote for Mount Olivet. My body's pretty happy there while I'm alive, too.

God's foot and other wonders

2009-07-03T14:46:00.007-06:00

I've been watching the skies a lot lately because they've become really colorful and funky, no doubt because of the wild little thunderstorms we've had every day or so.
Two days ago, I saw a cloud formation I'm calling "God's Foot."
Unfortunately, I was on my way to pick up Beaux at the time and didn't have a camera with me, so I called Alyson and asked her to run outside and look south. "You'll see what looks like a gigantic foot coming out of the clouds," I told her. "Take a picture. No one's going to believe me without proof."
She called me back a few minutes later with sad news. By the time she grabbed the camera and ran outdoors, then searched the sky (trying to remember which way is south), "the toes have separated from the foot, Mama. Now it's mostly just a mess, though I can see how it might have been."
This morning, when Beaux and I left for work before 6 a.m., we were stunned by a rainbow perfectly framed down the end of our street, a ribbon of color that hung suspended in the sky, unattached to anything. It was just a piece of joy, hanging there. I ran into the house and grabbed the camera and did catch that one.
What a lovely way to start the day. And it stayed in front of us all the way to work.
Beaux's getting sicker now, but rather than dwell on that, we're finding joy in odd places. Like a piece of eye candy in the sky.
If you click the second picture, you'll find there's a bird flying across it, as well.

See you in a few days

2009-06-18T22:40:00.003-06:00

Hello, blog. Sorry I've been neglecting you.
I've been hellaciously busy and all the lovely rain, which otherwise delights me, has kicked up my allergies to the point of insanity. Seriously. This morning I got a Z-pack for the resulting sinus infection.
Work has also been insanely busy. Between 12 hour days and my sinus issues, my house looks like kindling in search of a blow torch. If I don't get ahead of it soon, I can't even predict what will happen.
Today, I had a million things to do, but between dropping Beaux off at 6 a.m. and visiting the doc, I managed to finish some shopping so we'd have crucial items like mosquito repellent wipes and red licorice — not necessarily in that order. Got the girls new sneakers and held an impromptu deli picnic lunch in a small park, then we drove them to Pleasant Grove for an overnight space-simulation camp they've been hyped about since Feburary. Today's the day.
Found out Beaux needs an MRI to see what a "shadow" on his liver is. Could be good or bad -- good because it can move him up the transplant list although we haven't lined all our ducks up for the antirejection meds. We'll deal with that one when we get back.
Tomorrow's my last chance to get ahead of things and get ready, but I've got to go back to Pleasant Grove 45 minutes south and pick up the girls, then deliver my great-niece to Paradise, 90 minutes north. I can feel my day trickling through my fingers. We're leaving tomorrow right after Bx gets off work.
And, yet, I am just busy counting blessings. And ignoring you, dear blog. Sorry.

Did I mention?

2009-06-07T21:10:00.008-06:00

We've been spectacularly busy the last couple of weeks, but are seriously loving the wet, April-like days in what's usually a water-hogging month in the garden. But I am way behind in updating anything and I don't actually have much to say. So on the theory that a picture's worth a thousand words, here are a few things we've seen in the last couple of weeks.
Sunday we went to the air show. Never go the sunny day. Much more fun to go when it might drizzle a little.

This is what our "drizzle" looked like at one point! Whoohoo!

This lovely fellow is Tiger, our super-sized creature. He has a super-high falsetto voice, a foot fetish and the softest fur I've encountered in 50 years of cat lovin'. But he's dumber than dirt. Seriously.

And it wouldn't be us, taking pictures, if we didn't see birds somewhere.
Have a great Monday and beyond!

I'm glad you're here...

2009-05-28T22:13:00.006-06:00

The sixth grade class at the girls' school always closes out its multicultural night by having the students march in with the flag of their homeland.
This year, there are 13 countries represented in their class, from the single member of the Navajo Nation to the trio from Bosnia, the 20-some from Mexico, the smaller groups from Somalia and Guatemala and — I can't even remember all of them. The "Americans" marched in last, my Jen among them, amid raucous applause from the entire group because they're all here, all proud, all American.
It's my favorite part of the entire program, a strangely emotional display of solidarity from people who come from vastly different backgrounds.
In grade school, they're not arguing about immigration or whose country it is or who's to blame for this or that. They just play together and accept one another.
In my grade school, there was one little black girl in a sea of white. My brother and I were also "diverse," because we were a different religion than the majority. It was uncomfortable at times, painful at others. My husband and I picked a diverse neighborhood so our children would grow up with all kind of people and ideas and experiences.
So today, as the children marched under their flags, I cried. The beauty of that moment rivaled the most spectacular sunset.
The debate about immigration will rage on, fueled in large part by misinformation and the very human tendency to want to blame someone when times are tough. And the truth is, who did or didn't do what is no reflection on these innocent kids. Looking at the multicolored young faces, so full of hope and promise and joy, I had only one thought.
I wish you well -- for all our sakes.

A half-century later

2009-05-23T20:31:00.004-06:00

There's a "Barbie at 50" ad campaign circulating that resonates with me. It was created for an anti-obesity message by Latinworks, Austin, USA.

Barbie and I are contemporaries, born in 1959 and starting to expand a half-century later. I'm like an optical-illusion statue. Turn me one way, I have jowls, another and my butt looks bigger than my car. If the angle's just right, it doesn't look like I have changed that much.

But amid the list of things that have grown (in some cases, significantly), it's easy to forget a couple that aren't so bad: My self-confidence and my sense of humor.

There are a lot of things that the "old" me can do that would never have occurred to a sleeker, younger version. When I lose a bet with the girls these days, the penalty is apt to be a starkly different color hair. It's kind of fun and neither defines nor explains me. I could do robin's egg blue without blinking, I think. Red and dark, dark brown are particular favorites.

I can laugh at myself, too. And given the perspective of the cancer I had years ago and Beaux's placement on a liver transplant list, I honestly don't sweat the small stuff much.

And at the end of the day, looking back with the perspective of lots of years and a lot of experiences, it's all pretty much small stuff.

Maybe next time...

2009-05-16T23:19:00.004-06:00

This morning, I took Beaux to work at 6 a.m. and came home and crawled back in bed, where Aly found me a couple of hours later.
Get up, she said. Weren't we going to the park for breakfast?
For the past two weeks, we've repeatedly passed a sign announcing the Lions are cooking breakfast in Riverside Park Saturday, from 7 a.m. to 11 a.m. And repeatedy, I've said, we should go.
So I jostled Jeni into getting dressed and we headed out, only to discover we didn't know where Riverside Park is. We called Beaux to find out, but we circled around toward the sign to see if it said, too. And there we discovered that we'd been looking at the right park, but the wrong day.
They're cooking breakfast next Saturday.
No sweat, I told the girls. McDonalds, here we come.
As I was pulling in, my cell phone rang. It was my friend Maggie, who is 102 years old and was next up on our to-do list.
"Can you come next week, instead?" she asked. I have workmen coming and going all day and it's so distracting."
No problem.
When I told the girls, Jen cocked her head to one side and said, "I get it. We are going to do today next week."

Hurray! The tomboys score!

2009-05-11T20:36:00.003-06:00

And so ends the nightmare saga of the graduation dress.

Things that make me happy

2009-05-08T20:59:00.007-06:00

My surprisingly good-humored better half. He's fighting for his life, but laughing more than he used to, as well. And he wears his wit on his sleeve.

These sassy, savvy girls, who keep me on my toes.

I love our strange visitors. There are three of these that basically live on our roof and chill on our fence post. Plus a few dozen little guys who hang out for the free food.

I love birdhouses and flowers and the first signs of spring.

This month, I celebrate a birthday, anniversary and motherhood (Can you see why Beaux hates May?). Here's to life. I feel blessed.

Tomboys in search of a gown

2009-05-04T01:19:00.003-06:00

Jen casually mentioned that all the girls in her sixth grade class have photos of their graduation dresses on their phones, like screensavers. "It's lame," she opined.
About the third time she said something about it, I realized she was trying to tell me something. She's approaching a fashion crisis and in typical NotMommyoftheYear Fashion, I'm not picking up on. Duh. She has an event coming -- and nothing to wear.
Now mind you, there's great irony in all of this: I am the anti-fashion queen. I am the bag lady of journalism, completely indifferent to clothing, as long as it's clean and comfortable and semi-presentable. I don't wear sweats to work. But I am wearing a few favorites regularly that are approaching classic status because I've had them so long. And makeup? Takes too long and I frankly need the extra 10 minutes sleep in the morning.

Perhaps because I've never emphasized fashion, my girls have been left to sort of develop their own personal style. And while Jen has inherently good taste, apparently a genetic gift from her dad, she has my love of the casual. Al's a mini-me, clueless and mostly not troubled by the fact.
But the thing is, the graduation requires girls to wear a dress -- and who the hell, by the way, thinks kids need a full graduation at every stage of life? Kind of takes away from completing high school, if you ask me. When we were kids, we got our report card and started junior high, sans the pomp. And it didn't ruin any of our lives.
Jen would rather wear Levis and long-sleeved shirt. I think she figured I'd back her on it. But I think she'd regret that on the actual day. So I suggested that she, instead, decide to go whole hog and glam it up a bit. We'd do her hair (Good Lord, who is this woman masquerading as her mom?) and shock everyone who's used to super-casual Jen. And as soon as it's over, she can change. Like instantly, at the end of the ceremony. I also agreed she can wear her Convers sneaks, since they make her happy. What the hell? It's her graduation.
She decided she might be able to stand that, if it really provided some shock value. But there are rules. The school has one: The dress must be modest and for some reason, the litmus test for that is how wide the straps are. Huh? They have to be two inches which, by the way, is not easy because everything on the racks right now celebrates the sun with skinny little straps. Jen's rules are different. NO color. The dress has to be black-and-white or plain black, below the knee, and killer cute but not too frilly or femmy. Etc. We've now been to 12 stores, her friend Ayla calling every half hour to see if she found one.
Not yet.
I'm thinking her jeans idea wasn't such a bad one after all.

America, 60 years later

2009-04-29T21:58:00.002-06:00

My first overseas trip for the newspaper was to Luxembourg, which, world traveler that I was, I had to look up on a map. There, at age 24 or 25, I stood in the vast grand hall of a genuine and humongous castle and looked down at the most verdant valley I've ever seen while an elderly man described a day when tanks rolled through but could not overtake the castle because of its position on the steep hill.
It was on that trip that I heard the stories of how younger Jewish families were "sold" the idea that their elderly loved ones needed to be moved to a safer location where they'd be safe from the Nazis. They were loaded, along with their treasures, into trains .... you can figure out the rest of the story. Although many Jews from Luxembourg would ultimately get away without being sent to concentration camps, only 36 of those who were sent to such death traps came out alive.
In this tiny country, I knelt in a chapel below a stained-glass window that depicted Jesus in a garden with his disciples -- and an American soldier. The American soldier, in fact, was everywhere in stories of the country's history. Someone had cut an American soldier into another stained-glass window among the 12 disciples at the Last Supper. It was jarring. And charming.
It was the American soldier who brought me there, to spend July 4 celebrating America, in a land across the sea. Americans liberated Luxembourg in World War II and they had not forgotten that debt. I heard so many tales from elderly Luxembourg residents of what young American soldiers had done for them.
Not long before that, I'd huddled in a doorway in a commercial district in Athens, Greece, while angry young men marched the street protesting American capitalist policy. It was scary, but I was "saved" by Greek shopkeepers more than willing to invite this capitalist inside to buy souvenirs while the demonstration raged outside.
It was never easier to be an American than in Luxembourg as they celebrated our independence day.
Amidst the horrors of World War II, there really was no better time to be an American, although there were certainly grave challenges. Our role in the war could not be second-guessed. There was a rightness and purity and unity of purpose that America in wartime has never since achieved.
We represented freedom and justice and that old cliche, the American way back then, some 60 years ago.
As I see the stories of road rage and celebrity stupidity and corporate malfeasance and greed and plain stupidity (watched any TV lately?), I'm not sure what we look like to outsiders -- or even to ourselves -- these days. But I think it's worth giving some serious thought.

Then Aly drew a name....

2009-04-28T20:57:00.001-06:00

Kath wins the giveaway. And your Amazon.com $15 certificate is quite literally in the mail.
Thanks for playing, kids.

A bigger, better giveaway. Jewelry, anyone?

2009-04-27T22:30:00.004-06:00

My new friend Lorrie Veasey, the funny chick at OurNameIsBlog.blogspot.com and creator of Our Name Is Mud pottery, is always generous about directing traffic to other cool blogs and giveaways. To that end, she published a pre-Mama Day note about a friend's jewelry creations. They're handsome and original and could be yours. You just have to visit Lorrie's blog here by Wednesday morning and leave a comment. Go get yourself some really cool bling.
And come back here Wednesday morning to see who gets the Amazon gift card, as well. There's still time to post a caption. Pretty please?

The picture says it all

2009-04-23T15:21:00.004-06:00

Words fail me. But if you can come up with the perfect caption, you'll be well rewarded in the first-ever Miscellany giveaway. So comment away and see what delights await. Here's a hint: Gift certificate to Amazon.com.
-- Lo

Whaddya know?

2009-04-17T19:13:00.002-06:00

Today I feel a little like the paranoid guy who figured out that everyone really WAS out to get him.
For at least three years, I've said I'm a little off my game. Not breathing right. Exhausted. And all the allergy meds, antibiotics for sinus infection and miscellaneous other attempts to get ahead of it have done nothing.
Turns out that task belonged to a strong-stomached surgeon willing to put a variety of creepy little tools in my nose and pull out entire walls of tissue that were completely blocking six out of eight sinus cavities.
Bless him, he even provided me with a stunning little DVD that documents the mess. Mr. Gorbachev, tear down that wall. He held one particularly lovely piece of tissue against the base of my nose so that I could see it was bigger than my nose.
So today, I'm miserable because there's a lot of swelling. But even with the swelling, more air is getting through. And I know that I'm just a few days away from feeling better than I have in years.
I'm also being watched over by my 23-year-old buddy, Oscar. Me and my shadow.

Dude, this both sucks and blows

2009-04-08T20:43:00.003-06:00

Unfortunately, it's not my nose. These days, that marvelous orifice of aromatic attraction does neither. That baby is clogged.
Next Wednesday, though, it's going to be a different matter entirely. I'm having a nasty little outpatient procedure at Intermountain Medical Center whereby a nice white coat will clip some scar tissue and polyps and flush out what are supposed to resemble donut holes (empty) and instead look like a toxic bog.
They assure me it will hurt like hell. And I can hardly wait.
Increasingly, I feel like I'm wading through marshmallow cream, bogged down in slime and muck so thick I cannot think. I am slow and sluggish and want nothing so much as a good nap.
That's apparently the result of the sludge in my head.
When it's gone, I'm gonna find Me again.
Whoohoo!
Bring it!

The Creepiest Thing About Coraline

2009-04-01T21:54:00.002-06:00

Was the guy sitting next to Aly. We're hunkered in the dark, watching this odd little animated film about the girl who longs for attention but can only get it by trading in her eyes for a pair of buttons. And the guy next to Aly (also known as Burt, Bertie and Albert) absent-mindedly wipes his hands on her legs to get rid of the popcorn grease.
Seriously. Weird. And. Creepy.
I didn't get the impression he was a perv. Just an idiot. I know I certainly have trouble telling my own leg from someone else's. But I think he's one of those slobs who just wipes their hands on the furniture and thought Al was the seat next door.
Had he done it a third time, though, I was winding up to clock him -- because I was getting ticked off, if you'll excuse the pun.

Pushin' It

2009-03-30T22:01:00.005-06:00

Jake and Burt, as I'm fond of calling my daughters, decided a few weeks ago to enter the Cesar Chavez poster contest in the Salt Lake School District. While they plotted their designs, I was roped in to get them poster paper, which had to be a specific size, and round up magazines I'm done with so they can cut them up. It took me a few days to get the message to my brain at a time when I could accomplish it, but I did get it done.
They both worked hard for one evening, then Jake got bored with the process, announced there was no way she could win such a highly competitive process, and stopped trying. Burt, as usual, tinkered a bit more, then started procrastinating but announced she was going to finish. When she says that, she does it. Much of her effort consisted of staring at a photo of Chavez she found on the Web. After looking at him for about 20 hours, she freehanded her version of him. Then she set it aside until a couple of days before it was due.
When she tackled the project hard, her primary task seemed to be cutting out pieces of the magazines that were ether black or blue. I couldn't figure out what she was doing, but it clearly involved a lot of little bits of paper and a ton or so of glue.
I was off the day the project was due (remember the painting fiasco?). Friday's a short day, so Burt was home early to tackle her project. And she did. I went about my business, occasionally reminding her she was running out of time.
It was due at 5 p.m. in the downtown district office. At 4:35, she declared it finished. I couldn't believe it when I looked at it. It really was an amazing effort -- hair and shirt were collage, face pastel chalks, background some of the paint from my wall. Mixed mediums indeed.
Still, we had to get it there and that would prove daunting. We had to route ourselves around a car accident and slowdown. Then, a half mile from our destination, I got stuck behind a horse-drawn carriage. Normally I love those, but not that day. We were on a mission and it felt like the meteor was about to hit planet earth.
I veered down a side street and found -- ah, hell -- a series of no-left turn signs. I swear the digital clock was ticking loudly. The ride had taken a decidedly desperate turn. We were not going to make it.
I started coaching them on the emergency plan: When I get to the district office, you girls get out and run inside. Maybe you can get in before they lock the outside door. Then well try to talk them into taking it.
In fact, we pulled up at 5 p.m., straight up. They rushed inside and I went in search of a parking spot. All I could do was hope... When I got there, they'd found the right room and made the deadline with no time to spare.
Today, the school announced that Burt's effort took second place in the district. Whoohoo.
Here's her take on Cesar Chavez....

My "Modrian" masterpiece

2009-03-28T13:54:00.002-06:00

By popular demand, here's my wall painting masterpiece (see Skippin', below). Now that you can see the painted wall, you can kind of picture the painted carpet.:)

Skippin'

2009-03-18T20:19:00.005-06:00

Took a week off because I had too much vacation time and, as always, a ton to do. The first couple of days, I mostly hung out with Beaux. But today I decided I'd better hit it. I didn't mean it literally.
I'm in the process of painting one wall of the living room with these cool glazed overlapping rectangles that I saw in a book. Simple task, a single wall. But it's the one that's open at the top, dividing the kitchen and living room. That's where the lanterns normally hang out.
I pulled them off and pulled myself up to the 8-foot-above the ground ledge, where I happily painted for a half hour before a little voice below me said "where are you?"
Beaux's next question was a good one. "How you getting down?"
Woops. Monkey me can climb, but you can't exactly dangle from a freshly painted ledge.
While he got the ladder I should have used to begin with, I carefully put the lid back on the can of paint. No reason to risk spilling a drop ----
--- when you can trip on a chair leg and -- holy crap -- heave the whole thing at the wall you're not painting and the entire expanse of carpet that lies between.
Besides wall and carpet, I also thoroughly soaked with robins-egg blue paint a bench that contains coat hooks and a compartment where the girls (I now know) hid a bunch of (seriously soaked) notebooks. I'd scooped up a boat load of paint (who knew a quart can hold a gallon; spilling must expand it) and positioned plastic underneath to catch what came pouring out the bottom.
Then I spent a couple of hours shampooing carpet (that was going to be Friday's big play date)
Okay, disaster resolved.
Next up, I went to move the bench a little. AnD THE DAMNED THING COLLAPSED.
Now, by this point, I didn't even flinch. Just walked in the kitchen, washed my hands and sat down with a cup of coffee to play Sudoku.
I still have two days off.

P.S. At 11 p.m., I remembered I was supposed to go to a friend's daughter's wedding reception. Ah, hell. Back to sudoku for me.

I tried the darkness and prefer the light

2009-03-09T21:43:00.003-06:00

A year ago, I went to Sweden in December to cover the Nobel Prize, which one of our locals won. That's where I first walked toward the light. Seriously.
It was darker than damned hell there in December, the sun coming up around 8 a.m. or a bit later. By mid-afternoon, the Littles were traipsing home from grade school in the dark, which is oddly discombobulating. And I found myself disoriented by the greyness of life. I'd go to an assignment at noon and come out to black skies. At 4 p.m. Say what? Left to my own devices and with no deadlines back home, I'd probably have just curled up and slept.
All this is a long way to say, Welcome, Daylight Savings Time. I love you. I wish you were mine year-round (although that extra hour of sleep in the fall feels slightly decadent and delicious. Must be my age.).
I dance in you, play in you, spend quiet time weeding in the garden. You extend my day past work time long enough for a quiet stroll through the neighborhood, a bike ride with the girls along the river trail.
Yes, sunlight, I could find you in the early morning — if I were one of those odd early bird types. I'm not. So I meet you in the evening and we enjoy each other's company.
When others say bad things about you, just ignore them. I love you big time.

Strange competition

2009-02-27T23:49:00.002-07:00

Tonight, as Beaux was heading off to bed, he bent over and absent-mindedly kissed me on the top of my head. "Night," he said. "Don't forget to take Holly up."
Holly is our soft-bellied, wild-haired, unfortunately named boy guinea pig. He got the moniker back when we thought he was a strapping farm girl of a guinea pig. Wrongo, but I digress.
As carried the critter upstairs, I was thinking, hmm, where'd the romance go? But as I passed the bedroom door, Beaux flung it open and leaned in close. "Night little sweetheart. I sure love you."
That's more like it. Except, wait. He was talking to Holly.

:)

A gathering of strangers...

2009-02-25T22:16:00.006-07:00

I think the moment that defined my middle age was when I was walking through the airport and walked right past my sister, there to see someone else, without recognizing her. I wasn't expecting her to be there.
She was out of context.
I am convinced that we don't choose how our brain files material away. In my case, I am convinced that half the time it doesn't. I am very bright in some ways -- particularly when it comes to remembering useless trivia like how much a shark tongue weighs, on average. Or numbers. Here's something you don't want to contemplate: If I ever knew your social security number, I still do. I can't help it. But I promise not to hurt you.
Tell me a name and I can tell you a life story. Show me a face though and I'm clueless. Which, incidentally, is not a sought-after trait for a reporter.
I had a fresh reminder of the odd and feeble signalling my brain does tonight, when I was looking at photos someone took at my 30th high school reunion. I didn't go -- didn't know anything about it. But this friend had posted 51 photos on Facebook and I was looking through, ready for a trip down memory lane.
I apparently need a GPS to find Memory Lane. I did not recognize any of the people in those photos, except one woman named Audrey whose last name totally eludes me. And Audrey is the only thing I could recall about her. Go figure.
But wait. Some of them are wearing name tags.
WHICH I COULD NOT READ, even when I took off my glasses and put my nose on the computer screen.
See? You don't have to actually go to a reunion to feel old.

Jen makes her grand entrance...

2009-02-22T11:50:00.007-07:00

When I was in my 20s, I had cancer and doctors told me I would be unable to have children. At the time, I didn't care that much, so I made my peace with it and moved on. I was happy to be alive.
Fifteen years later, I fell madly in love with Beaux, and it suddenly mattered a lot. But I was in my late 30s anyway, so we made our peace with it. We got married -- and 10 minutes later we were pregnant. No kidding. Jen was born about 9 months and a handful of days after the ceremony.
The pregnancy was easy, the delivery not so much. I won't bore you with the details, but what started out gentle at 6 p.m. on a Friday night ended with an emergency C-section Saturday night. She was in trouble and the doctor mentioned a couple of days later that I could have died. If I'd known things were going to go south so badly, I'd probably have skipped the part of the trip to the hospital where I made my frantic husband wait, suitcase in hand, while I cooked myself a couple of eggs because "they may not feed me right away." Duh.
We argued over names the whole pregnancy. He wanted to spell her name with One N, which I thought was a sure sign we were too stupid to spell. I called her Beula Lulu in protest. In the end, though, he won that one. I called her One N for a couple of years in a passive-aggressive way. After all, spelling is important to a reporter.
Jen has been a source of delight and very little sorrow, although she is an eye roller. Hm, wonder where she got that sarcastic wit.
The hardest thing I've done in my life is hand her to an anesthesiologist when she was 11 months old so she could have a valve problem in her heart repaired. I literally ran away, crying.
Beaux was so in love with her that the first time she spit up on him, he wore it like a badge for the rest of the day. And we both sobbed when she got her first shots. Good grief.
Beaux's favorite story about Jen was the day she was sitting in her high chair, waving her arms and yelling "What the F*CK."
"What?" I demanded. Her response was to say it even louder.
I glared at Beaux. He looked panicked, but said he absolutely had never said that in front of her.
While we were having our mean-look war, she got impatient. "Wheh the F*CK," she wailed. "Not the spoon, not the knife, F*CK!"
We didn't take her to a restaurant after that for quite some time.
She's mostly kind, except with her little sister. She's got a sense of humor that is breath-taking in its wit and wisdom. She's beautiful and clever and proof to me that God exists, because how else would the two of us produce something so magical.
Happy 12th birthday, Jinx!

Ah, timing....

2009-02-19T07:50:00.003-07:00

I have this seriously happy knack for inappropriateness. A real skill set.
I was fuming at something a boss did a few years ago and told him, "I would not tell you if your hair was on fire." As the words left my mouth, bouncing off his shiny, bald pate, it occurred to me I could probably have picked a better body part than the one he didn't have.
Woops.
Yesterday, I had lunch with one of my dearest friends and we dissected a personal problem that had been bothering her. In the elevator, heading back to our respective floors, I told her I wouldn't worry about it, if I were her. I'd -- and here I kissed my hand and blew it to her -- send that worry on its way.
Then, because I am thoroughly anal, I blew a second kiss to emphasize the point. Just as the elevator door opened for me to step out, nearly into the arms of a coworker not always admired for discretion or a slow imagination. He appeared fairly slack-jawed as he caught what must have appeared to be a private moment, blowing my female colleague a kiss goodbye.
Ever the devil, she smiled and mouthed "bye, lover."
Yup. Time to start a new rumor.
And I must be getting old. Because I had absolutely no urge to get upset or try to set the record straight. I just walked away, chuckling.

Perspective's something you can only get by aging.

Getting it off my chest

2009-02-08T20:59:00.001-07:00

Get Gephardt, one of our local consumer-friendly TV news segments where the reporter tries to right consumer wrongs, infuriates me. Seriously. I see red. And it's not that he's not very good at what he does.
The thing that genuinely ticks me off is that the average consumer can't fax over a cancelled check to prove she paid a bill or was charged twice or whatever. Fixing the most seemingly-simple problem requires involving the power of the media. And that's just flat-out nasty.
It means that unless I the consumer can threaten credibly that I will tell the entire viewing audience you're a jerk as a business, you'll just go on being one because -- well, because you can?
If that's the case, it ought to be called Cuss-tomer service.
Recently I changed beats at work, moving from covering medicine to covering the economy. (It's so recent, in fact, that I'm just beginning to figure out what I'm doing.) As part of that education process, I've been talking to lots and lots of consumers. And here are two things that may surprise some people.
I cannot count how many people have told me this month they'd like to see every single member of Congress tossed. One woman I really love and respect told me she thinks we'd do just as well with a drawing that includes all adults who would qualify to run for office. They could serve two years, she said, doing their best to help this country. And then they'd be done. Not a career, but a service to their country.
It's radical, but I do see the point. Too many have too much self-service invested. Too many axes to grind.
The other thing I found is that people were okay with their own struggles as long as they thought those doing better than they are were just smarter or had figured out something they hadn't. They're less sanguine if they figure that they've been hoodwinked or cheated And there are a lot of people feeling that way about the financial meltdown right now.
Don't even get them started on the fact that our new president, in whom we all have placed some genuine hope, doesn't seem to know many taxpayers. Or should I say, those he knows don't all seem to pay taxes.
It makes it seem a little like two Americas. And that's a troubling thought.

Thirty-second delight

2009-01-29T22:47:00.005-07:00

Last year, Utah was absolutely plagued with cryptosporidium. That's the poop-in-the-pool (I know, eeeew!) intestinal illness that takes on a life of its own. It got so bad that health officials banned little kiddles from swimming and considered banning public swimming for everyone temporarily.
They launched education campaigns. They begged. They blitzed reporters like me with news releases and pleas to publicize how to avoid it. (Here's a clue. Wash your hands. Go to the bathroom IN the bathroom. Don't change diapers on the edge of the pool).
And then someone had a stroke of genius. They created a 30-second, funny PSA that is completely irresistible. If you haven't seen it, I promise you'll laugh.

Health officials were geared up for the "year after an outbreak," expected to be bad. In fact, cases dropped below baseline levels for a typical year. I have this theory that a lot of people stayed home for fear they'd see this guy poolside.
I love him. Seriously. But I hope with all my heart that he already had a wife and Utah's requisite 2.5 kids. Cuz I think this might have a chilling effect on viewing him as an object of desire.
What a hoot.

Happy B-day, Beaux

2009-01-24T20:49:00.005-07:00

It's the big 48 for Beaux, who took time to celebrate with his family and good friends, Ted and Janice, Saturday. He even very sportingly let the stranger at the restaurant slap a cake hat on his head and call the crew to sing to him. Thanks for that, Janice.
If you've missed it, Beaux's waiting for an organ transplant. But as we wage a life-and-death battle here at Chez Kyle, we take time to laugh and tease and live, too.
Happy birthday, darling. Here's to 40 more.

When I knew being a mama was weird

2009-01-18T22:37:00.002-07:00

A friend was asking me about this recently. I originally wrote about it for the Deseret News, when it happened, just days after the Twin Towers were knocked down. Here it is, mildly edited.

My belief that 3-year-old Alyson is, indeed, an unusual child was confirmed by a physician in the emergency room at Primary Children's Medical Center.

The evening had been uneventful, until my 4-year-old, Jenifer, in true drama queen fashion, ran sobbing into the room, hugging herself and practically keening as she announced tearfully that "You don't eat coins. And Aly did. Now we must bid her goodbye."

It took a while to untangle the story, but near as I could tell, Aly had swallowed coins. The exact quantity was unclear, but she cheerfully informed me it was "many."

We poured out the piggy bank and I asked her to show me what she'd swallowed. She picked up two dimes and a nickel and held them out, then hesitated over another dime.

She seemed cheerful and happy. I wasn't sure if she'd actually swallowed any. And I'd heard lots of children swallow a penny and it passes right through.

But in true motherly fashion, I started worrying. A nickel's bigger. And what if it was actually a quarter? She's not exactly adept at identifying money. Would eating multiple coins cause problems? After an unsatisfactory call to the hospital, where a lawsuit-shy nurse said she couldn't offer advice, I decided to take Aly to the hospital.

It was a ridiculous ride. Because she sits behind me in the car seat and it was too dark to see her in the rearview mirror, not to mention past bedtime, I worried that she would choke or pass out and I wouldn't know it.

I made her sing to me the entire trek across town, while I lectured her sternly on how dangerous it is to put things in your mouth and you should never, ever swallow coins.

(You should also never, ever, leave coins where a toddler can swallow them. But, hey, nobody was there to lecture me.)

It would have made a crazy sound track.

The doctor laughed out loud as she ran the metal detector over Aly's torso. It sounded like an air raid siren, beep, beep, beeping its way across her tummy. "She swallowed something, all right," she said.

The X-ray was kind of cute. Fortunately, the coins had passed safely down her throat and not into her lungs, which could be very serious. They sat in her stomach like a little hoard, out of sight. What a savings plan.

They called her the little piggy bank and gave her a pinwheel for being such a good girl when the X-ray was taken. I was delighted that the doctors are so good at putting children at ease and worried that she'd have such a good time she'd do it again just to experience once more the enchantment.

Then I asked the question I should have kept to myself.

"You've seen other kids swallow multiple coins, right?"

"Not really," the doctor said. "In 12 years here, I've seen two kids who swallowed two coins. Never this many. "Most children swallow one and it doesn't taste good and there's no reason to swallow any more, so they stop."

Oh.

The story didn't end there, either. I had to get a note from Aly's pediatrician in case my special child set off the metal detectors at the airport when we went on vacation last week. And I took along the screen shot showing the coins.

The suggestion came from the woman at America West Airlines, whom I called to see if coins in your stomach could set off the security buzzer.

"Get a note from the doctor," she counseled, giggling. "I'd hate to have some zealous guard crack her open to see what she's carrying. And thanks for calling. With everything going on, I needed a good laugh."

We'd been told to keep track of what she "passed," to avoid complications. So there we were at Disneyland when she raced out of the bathroom, exclaiming joyously, "Daddy, daddy, I pooped a dime!"
That got the attention of the guy waiting nearby. "My kids never give anything back," he said wryly.

The move from hell

2009-01-15T21:56:00.005-07:00

Since our newspaper office was built 12 years ago, I have sat in the same desk. It's been part serendipity -- I haven't changed beats in that time -- and part design. I've surrounded myself with "stuff" quite deliberately because I LOATHE moving. And every time they rearranged the room, the bosses looked at my desk, shuddered and left me alone.

Until Now.

I am changing beats -- there's too much medical in my personal life right now as Beaux waits for a transplant. I don't need to live it at home and at work. And for reasons not clear to me, it requires a move across the room.

I've seen house moves that were easier. But I gritted my teeth and dove in, getting ready. But when I marched my first stack of files across to my new digs (which I don't dig, incidentally), I had a nasty surprise. The last two tenants had just left their stuff when they moved on or out. When one started covering a new beat and moved, she left her old files -- as if someone wants to wade through unfamiliar reams of paper to find something that might be valuable. Another just walked away. So I got to spend four hours cleaning out that area, too.

I'm getting a lot of digs because of the sheer volume of crap I've accumulated. But I assure you, I'm not the staff slob. I will clean up after myself. Which may actually make me some somewhat unique.

Today, I noted how rude I thought it was to just leave the mess behind. "Everyone does that," my editor shrugged.

"Perhaps I should, too," I suggested sweetly.

Wish I'd had a camera to capture the look of sheer horror.

Gimme a B

2009-01-11T23:36:00.000-07:00

A blogger who makes me laugh, Lorrie Veasey from Our Name Is Blog, turned me on to the Alphabet Super Game. You list Ten Favorite Things that start with a certain letter - assigned to you by the blog owner. Because Lorrie likes my husband, Beaux, and assumes (correctly) that I do as well, she gave me B. Also, I begged her not to give me Q or X. Her blog cracks me up and she's sent me a couple of treasures, so I wish her name started with a B so I could list her. But no.... So here are 10 things that do.

1. Beaux. He's funny and bossy and mystical. Who wouldn't love a guy who made an intricate treasure hunt to help the girls pass one summer? And a guy who put together the most incredibly detailed and actually gorgeous scrapbook I've ever seen, then gave it to me? He's definitely No. 1.
2. Books. And more books. Among my top 10 of any letter. I'm waiting for Bx (see NO. 1) to finish my favorite book. It's about...
3. Bees. I think they rock, although I have to carry an Epipen to be around them. Without them, I would be hungry and thus very sad. So when I garden, I always include flowers I think they will love.
4. Baths. I love them -- especially if I have time to read a Book or can get Bx to scrub my back. And the hotter (the water!) the better.
5. Blogs. They're becoming kind of a weird guilty pleasure. Who knew that everyone was a writer?
6. Bouquets. Love them. Until Bx got sick, he sent me flowers every two weeks, even when I irritated him. And I kept all the cards. The other day, I was going through them, remembering.
7. Brothers. I have two and love them both. Dave and Ken are two of my favorite people, although we have surprisingly little in common as we get older. They have different hobbies and interests and we don't even like the same music. But we amuse the hell out of each other.
8. Brothels. Not really. But I am struggling to find Bs. And the truth is, half a lifetime ago, as I was traveling through Nevada by myself on a car trip (Literally half a life ago, since I was almost 25), I took a long detour to see the Mustang Ranch, because I was fond of horses. Imagine my surprise...
9. Birds. Not sure why they make me so happy, but I keep them in mind when I'm gardening, too. And I have a ton of bird houses and a couple of bird baths and keep them pretty well stocked.
10. Bed. Especially with the nice little heated mattress cover that makes it all snuggly and warm on a cold winter night. As does Beaux.

If there were a weird kid contest

2009-01-09T20:23:00.000-07:00

Today, the beastlies and I were driving along, reminiscing about how weird they are. And the subject of the birthday party Jeni didn't throw for herself came immediately to mind.
She was turning 8 (gosh, it has been nearly four years!) and we were having a Saturday afternoon birthday party for family at a skating rink about 20 miles away, splitting the difference in miles with our guests.
The night before, she mentioned casually that her friend Renee wanted her to have a birthday party and invite classmates.
That's nice, I told her. We'll do that sometime.
Oh, she said. We already did. We handed out invitations today.
Mind you, it was bedtime and she's telling me she and her little third-grade friend have invited people to a party we're not having at a time when we won't be home.
I think my voice pitch may have been a little squeaky.
It took a while to sort it out. She and Renee hand-wrote about 10 invitations and handed them out to girls on the school ground. She couldn't remember exactly who she handed them to.
I had a million questions floating through my mind. Like, how did she think there's be cake, or decorations, if I didn't know about it. Like, had she forgotten the real party we WERE giving her 20 miles away? Like, did she forget she had parents she should ask? And who the HELL did she think would let their kid go to a party when the invite was scribbled on lined paper, with no RSVP number?
I settled for "YOU WHAT?"
In the end, I made her quickly call the couple of little girls she remembered inviting, to tell them we weren't really having a party. On "party day," I typed a note in both English and Spanish to put on the door, explaining there'd been a family emergency and I was terribly sorry, but the party was canceled. And we left, chicken style.
And yes, someone tried to attend. There was a little gift on the step when we got home.
The best gift I gave Jen that day? The sure knowledge that if she ever pulled a stunt like that again....

Don't touch my TV

2009-01-08T19:57:00.001-07:00

A few years ago, at work, they were giving away a television set as part of a community-charity drive. It was the come-on to give everyone incentive to donate. A nice one, I might add.
They set the TV up on display where everyone heading to the lunchroom or restroom would pass it. And every time I went by it and saw someone looking at it, I said, "Please don't touch my TV." Or something equally obnoxious, always laying claim to the thing as if I'd already captured the prize.
I could do that because I did not for a single second believe I would win the TV. And because I genuinely believed that my lame efforts were funny.
The drawing was to be held the last day before a four-day holiday weekend. And I was getting ready to leave as I passed the fellow in charge of the campaign. On impulse, I told him I"d appreciate it very much if he's come out to the main room and draw my name so that I could get help loading it before I headed out.
He shrugged and said he might as well get it over with, so we walked out together and as I walked past the TV, I patted it and said something stupid like "see you in a minute."
The staff gathered around for the big moment and as he looked at the name he'd drawn, I got this awful, sick feeling. I knew that I had won. And I wished that he'd either called someone else's name or I'd been WAAAAY less obnoxious.
I took home something more valuable than that TV that day, though. I've been much better behaved in the decade or so since. I'm genuinely a nicer person and less of a smart alec.
I suspect, given that I am much easier to be around these days, no one begrudges me that particular "win."

My Beaux

2009-01-02T21:28:00.000-07:00

For more than a decade, medicine was my beat as a journalist. And I've talked to probably thousands of people in all kinds of distress, from the family that was grappling with Huntington's disease to the pregnant woman who lost a perfect healthy baby to vasa previa.
I've always been struck by the grace these people seem to show and, indeed, be cushioned in.
I'm seeing that with Beaux, right now. Without a liver transplant, my husband will die. Probably within about a year. And along the way to transplant, whether it happens or not, he will become sicker and more tired and -- if the past year is any indication -- sweeter and more patient and more present.
In the nine months that we've known he will die without transplant, I've been charmed and amused and fallen head over heels in love with him. It's easy to think it's because the fear of losing someone sparks feelings. Maybe. But in our case, it's like he found himself and there's now so much more of him to lose.
He's taken up photography and made more time to laugh and takes himself a lot less seriously. He used to want things his way just because that's the way he wanted them. Now he doesn't worry so much about whose way. He just enjoys things.
In the middle of the fear and uncertainty, I see a man who is grateful for the blessings he has. It makes him easy to be around.
Mostly, he's both amusing and amused. He gets the global punchline these days.
I would do anything to make this go away. I hate it, for his sake and ours. I do not like that which I cannot predict or influence. But I would never trade this lovely man for the paler version who came before. He has brought much laughter and light and love into this house in the last year and nothing will ever take that away.
This year, he says, will make or break us. It's true that the crisis is likely to come and pass -- one way or another in 2009. But this year can not make or break us. We are made. And unbreakable.

Merry Christmas from our house to yours!

2008-12-23T22:15:00.001-07:00

I'm feeling sappy and sentimental this Christmas, perhaps because things are in such turmoil for us right now. And because life comes with no guarantees, it feels incredibly precious. I'm hoping that when the fog clears and Beaux has his new liver, we're all left with this feeling of fragility and extreme value. It's wearying and marvelous at the same time.
In the meantime, thanks for caring, for being friends and guides and generally good guys. May you be blessed this holiday and well beyond.

Get real santa

2008-12-10T19:27:00.000-07:00

By the oddest of circumstances, Jeni saw the same Santa Claus until she was 5, so it was pretty easy to convince her that he was real. Santa's name was actually Jerry and we ran into him once at Walmart then, happy day, he turned out to be a friend of our neighbor's and he did the Santa honors at that neighbor's Christmas party.
He was such a good jolly old elf, in fact, that we saw him the next year at the governor's Christmas party and at the mall. The pattern continued for a couple more years.
We've taken Santa pretty seriously at Chez Collins and Kyle. For several years, Beaux also had one of his coworkers stop by as Santa. Roger'd fling open the door and kind of explode into the house, with a ho ho ho and a gift we'd given him to give the girls.
But the funnest Santa Christmas was the year that one of my coworkers told me he'd just done a story on the Gateway Santa, who said to tell me hi. It was Ed, my dad's old driver. And though I'd only bumped into him once since Daddy died in 1994, I knew Ed would be just the thing to bolster Aly's faith, which was sagging just a tad.
I didn't call ahead. We just showed up. I had told the kids we were going to see a special Santa, one who knew Grandpa (who died before they were born). They were perhaps a little skeptical, but curious.
Ed rocked. As we walked in, he sprang up and called my name. He was happy, as a Santa should be when he recognizes one of the Good Little Girls. I made sure I called my girls by name as we drew near -- Jen, don't forget to tell Santa....
And he launched into great stories of their Grandpa Frank and Grandma Mary. I watched in joy as their faces filled with wonder. The best part was, the fictional Santa made real a grandpa and grandma who had, to that point, been like a mist to the girls.
A couple of years ago, when Truth arrived, Jeni had two questions: How did that guy know grandma and grandpa, because he obviously did. And who the heck "is that guy who kept flinging himself through the front door every year?"
Did we damage them by "lying?" Nope. We gave them joy. And something to laugh about their whole lives.
Merry Christmas.

The world in a 60-second review

2008-12-05T23:17:00.000-07:00

If you ever wonder what kind of weird world we live in, feel free to check in on my 10-year-old's prayers at night. They go something like this:
God, please bless the little boy that got hit by the firework and it almost ripped off his leg. And watch over Eliza (who is dying of a genetic disease that has basically paralyzed her entirely at age 3).
Keep my sister and me safe as we go to school and let the cars slow down as they come around that corner so no one runs over us. And help my daddy get a liver transplant so he won't die. And bless our soldiers while they're on war and don't let them get blown up. Bring them home safe.
And God, help the children of the police officer who died in the car chase. And give Destiny Norton a giant hug.
Thank you for our life and all our blessings. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

not my best week

2008-12-01T21:35:00.000-07:00

Years ago, when I'd heard my 90-millionth Lois Lane joke from someone who thought he was the first and only one clever enough to crack one, I asked my dad what the hell he was thinking when he named me Lois.
I was thinking you'd be an electrician, he told me mildly, the corner of his lips twitching with a suppressed smile.
I wish.
This has not been my favorite week as a journalist. In fact, it's a field that's getting darned near as depressing as being an American automaker.
Today, one of my colleagues from the editorial department showed up to give me a heads up on a letter to the editor that's going to run about me tomorrow. The writers complain about our aging series -- of which I am actually quite proud because Elaine and I have worked like dogs on it.
Bless their hearts, they're protective of their mom and disappointed that she was mentioned, rather than profiled in last week's story on nursing homes and assisted living facilities. I get that because I love my mom, God rest her soul, too. But I'm a little aggravated because all along I explained to her that we're talking to lots of people (about 200 last count) on the topic of aging and using bits and pieces. She said great.
What bothers me -- and I'm trying to suck it up but not doing a very good job -- is that they didn't like the photo and said the caption was wrong. I'm not the photographer and I didn't write the caption. But I'm the person on whom the error is blamed, by name. My co-author and the photographer got a pass on this one, although I couldn't have "fouled it up" without them.
Mostly, I feel bad because I really liked the woman these children clearly love, as well. Liked her so much, in fact, that I managed to squeak her in at every opportunity. She made brief appearances in three or four stories and is profiled online. Cumulatively, there's quite a bit about her. I'm sad that she was disappointed. And irritated that anyone can say anything they want in a published letter and we don't point out relevant things like the reporter didn't take the picture.
This follows, mind you, on a typo in a story last week where I added an s to an email address, rendering it worthless. The point of publishing the address in the first place was to tell readers where to get a free radon test kit. I hate having to run corrections, but at least that one was my bad. My embarrassing, stupid bad.
I'll own it.
Mostly, I'm thinking I'm just depressed. The economy is making us all cry. My husband has a potentially deadly disease and I happen to adore him.
Add in the wretched state of newspapers right now and I'm feeling a little bit lost. There's something disheartening about hearing someone who owns a string of newspapers -- and should know better than most how important they are -- say that he believes everything I have done proudly for 30 years can be outsourced quite nicely to India. It seems reporters don't need to show up to events and public hearings. All you need are press releases or someone holding up a cell phone to capture video. No context, no social conscience, no sources or institutional memory or sense of a community. And no one these days wants to hear both sides of a story. Most of us, it seems, only want to hear from people who think as we do.
Did I mention that Al was trying to help me and dropped my blessing jar in the driveway, shattering it? Figures.

Earthbound monkeys

2008-11-16T21:05:00.000-07:00

Years ago, in Idaho Falls, I owned a big beautiful birch tree, bequeathed to me by a very nice attorney who used to let me climb it whenever I wanted. He'd often sit on the ground below the tree and chat. He was a neighbor and a friend and he made me, as a 10-year-old, believe that I had thoughts that counted and were worth sharing. Today, an older man paying that much attention to a little girl would be discouraged. It was an innocent and nurturing relationship. He got me interested in debate, was probably why I went to nationals in extemporaneous speaking the only time I ever tried it (I was an impromptu speaker but that wasn't a category). When he died, he left stern written instructions that I would never need permission to climb the huge birch in his yard on 11th Street, not far from where I grew up.
That was the start of my love affair with tree climbing, and when I came to Salt Lake to school, I regularly climbed the trees in Memory Grove, shinnying up them to sit quietly and read the texts I'd lugged in my knapsack, while life went on below me.
Today, I had this urge to climb a tree again. The girls were struggling to get up a tree near the little Presbyterian Church in Malad, Idaho, where we'd driven because it was lovely outside and our souls these days are restless. After church, we dragged Beaux out, although he's feeling lousy more and more, and hit the road.
He stayed in the car, but the lure of the tree was simply too strong for me.
There must be earthbound monkeys somewhere, because we're definitely simian, but we are now awkward tree climbers. It took Jenifer and Alyson a half hour and the most amazing propping each other and pushing and poking to finally get there.
I made only one attempt and it was a really good one. I almost made it. Until I wedged my big toe, which has a massive and miserable bunion, into a crease in the tree and was suddenly paralyzed, terrified I'd twist it and break off my big toe. I mean, it was seriously wedged. So with great care and more than a little assistance, I returned to planet earth sure of one great truth.
What once went up today came down. And will stay there. We are, seriously, the crappiest tree climbers ever, although we are without question goofy little monkeys.

Spooky memories

2008-10-31T21:42:00.001-06:00

My mom was totally blind, so it seems kind of weird that she loved Halloween passionately. She always wanted to be the one to answer the door and hand out treats, asking kids as they placed their bags under her hand, "what are you?"
She had a little counter and kept careful track of each bag she filled, then she'd call Kath or me and tell us with glee what a fine and busy Halloween she'd had. Some years, she's have more than 100 and I'd have only five or six at my apartment.
She's gone now and I've become her. I LOVE opening the door to the little ghouls and dollies. And I count. Then I pester my siblings with the magic number, like it's a personal accomplishment. Dave, I tell my brother, it's not quite 7 o'clock and I've had 54. Woops, gotta go. Tell Kath.
I'm in the right place for this pursuit. Our house is sort of by itself between neighborhood clusters. You'd think we wouldn't get much monster action, but it's the opposite. We're the house that all clusters cross. Tonight, we scored big, more than 300 little beasties weaving their way past the decorations Beaux put up. It's a blatantly Halloween-friendly house and the kids and their parents flock to get our candy.
Mom would have loved it. And perhaps that's why I love it so much. More than any other day, this is the one where I honor my mom, Mary Collins.

Making lemonade from a major lemon

2008-10-28T21:53:00.000-06:00

I used to think there was no upside to needing a liver. I'd be lying if I said the prospect of Beaux having a transplant doesn't scare me to death, although I can't wait for it to happen so that he'll feel better.
The pessimist part of me worries about the details and how we'll pay for the medications and all that good stuff. I'm absolutely convinced God will provide, but I wish He'd show me His plans. The drugs are going to be astronomical, and Beaux's now getting sick enough that I don't suppose it will be too long before he can't work until he's on the other side of this organ transaction. And I make a pretty decent salary, but not enough to pay everything on my own. It's not like he's worked so hard all these years to buy pretty clothes for all of us.
Add to that the fact that I am A) a world-class worrier and B) a journalist -- and reading an actual newspaper doesn't seem to be America's favorite hobby right now -- and you kind of get the idea that my freak-out may not be so far-fetched.
What I know, absolutely, is that I will work three jobs if that's what it takes to give Beaux a new shot. I've learned a lot more about him during the seven months since we were told he's dying than I did in the last 12 years of marriage. Who knew that he was so damned funny? Or that he'd adopt some off-the-wall hobbies for entertainment and amuse the heck out of the entire household.
Anyway, the good news just keeps on coming. His psoriasis, which has long bothered him a lot, has gotten to the point where it may be dangerous. It sometimes even bleeds and he's already prone to infections because of the liver disease.
Today, we went to see the dermatologist -- who's actually one of the world leaders in terms of psoriasis. Beaux's definitely been planted in the right garden, here in Salt Lake. And here's where we make lemonade.
We'd like to get the psoriasis cleared before a transplant so that he's more comfortable and we reduce the risk that an infection will knock him off the list temporarily. So we talked today about all these options, most very expensive and all uncomfortable. Although it wouldn't be the first time I gave Beaux weekly shots. We've done that once before.
The the doc dropped the bomb and I can't seem to stop smiling.
A transplant, it turns out, is a real good cure for psoriasis. The most popular anti-rejection drug is almost magical in its ability to kick the pegs out from under the hyperactive skin disease.
Cool.
Anybody want a lemonade?

Family feud

2008-10-21T20:53:00.000-06:00

When you're part of a big, boisterous family, it's pretty easy to overlook the petty jealousies that may smoulder beneath the surface. And it's tempting to think that we're all pretty much the same, when clearly we aren't.
Holly and Lucy had a minor spat tonight. Holly was cuddled on my lap, munching a carrot, when Lucy tried to nudge him out of the way. When it didn't work, Lucy got huffy and grabbed Holly's carrot, then sauntered off with it.
Holly looked like he didn't know whether to cry or ignore it.
I'm trying, though, to teach the kids to play nice. So I'm afraid I spoke a little sharply to Lucy. I happen to know she doesn't even like vegetables.
Looking guilty, she forced herself to eat it. Then sulked for another 20 minutes.
I hate it when the labrador and the guinea pig can't get along.

My mother's other life

2008-10-19T22:24:00.001-06:00

I've been working on a writing project with a dear friend for a while and my professional world has been peopled with folks in their 90s and even 100s. I'm quite charmed by all of them, but walk away from each encounter feeling like my mom was ripped off. Born blind, a remarkable woman in all ways, and forced to wind down without her sense of self. I can only hope she was in a happier place than my siblings and I were as we watched her go through Alzheimer's.
Looking back, nearly four years after her death at age 80, I have been thinking not of the tragedy of the disease, but of some of the joyous moments that come if you just go with it and stop fighting it.
One day, as we sat in the small anteroom in the Alzheimer's unit in Ogden, the sound of restless spirits wailing and grunting and shouting in various rooms around us, she told me it was the dullest convention she'd ever attended, "but I'm no quitter. Maybe it will get better." She didn't have anything in common with the other conventioneers and the speakers were just unbelievably uninspiring, she said.
The day they finally got a piano, she tinkered and even played. I'd always suspected that playing piano, which she started doing as a prodigy of age 5, would be the last thing to go. She didn't disappoint. But after a few pieces, she told me she was sorry sometimes she'd made it so big in music. "These tours are grueling." No doubt.
The Keeper Moment of my life came the day this lovely, beloved woman I'd come to view as Fake Mom, since she no longer even knew who I was, said unexpectedly, "You know who you'd like? My baby, Loie. She's a keeper." You can't buy that kind of testimonial.
And the day she told me that she'd been talking to her brother, Don, who died in 1976, I believed her without question. And was glad. I didn't even want to know what they talked about. I was just glad he'd finally gotten in touch.

Mama the warthog -- or things I didn't know about me.

2008-09-29T21:20:00.000-06:00

Two days ago, I was putting some towels away and passed my daughter Alyson's closed bedroom. As I was heading back down the stair, she called me into her room. "Mama, come," she said.
"How'd you know it was me?"
"I waited for your happy grunt."
Huh? I have a happy grunt?
She said that when I finish a task successfully -- in this case, putting away towels -- I make this distinctive little grunt. She listens for it if she wants something, because my happy grunt means I'm not busy for a minute and I'm in an okay mood.
Huh?
The next day, I was telling the story to Beaux. Did you know I have a happy grunt?
Jeni, in the back seat, started smiling. "Oh yeah. The happy grunt. I listen for it."
So I started listening, too, and guess what? I have a happy grunt. It's a tiny, understated little thing that sounds like I'm clicking my tongue and clearing my throat at the same time.
It appears, though, that it's not a solo act. This morning Jen told me she likes my happy grunt, but not my growly grunt.
Huh? I've got a growly grunt?
That, she and Aly agreed, is the noise I make when I'm vexed. It's part growl, part throat clear, and it's the preamble to "knock it off, you two."
I found it today when I paid attention, as well.
The girls were delighted they knew something about me that I didn't know, so on our way to the grocery tonight, they introduced me to two more grunts. I have a sad, I'm-disappointed-in-you grunt and a long-suffering (but still short) frustrated grunt.
Huh? Those, too? Yikes.
So I started listening and, blast it, I found them. They're real. I'm a veritable mood ring of sound.
Wonder what other secrets I'm keeping from myself.

The bestest animal ever

2008-09-26T22:53:00.000-06:00

Today, gluttony won and sweet Blossom passed away. She was the dwarf hamster who could stuff food in the pouches of her mouth all the way back to her hip bone. Seriously. You'd touch her cheek and feel hard kibble just below the surface. She liked to roam, but she never sneaked out of her cage empty-handed and we'd find her by looking for the food she piled in for a single trip.
There was, of course, a veritable tsunami of grief, but at least it kept the girls from noticing that her mouth was packed with food. Ugh.
A corner of our yard has now become a pet cemetery that would be the envy of a small community. Three weeks ago, the neighbor girl's dwarf, Princess, died. In true friend fashion, we offered to let her bury it in our yard -- they live in a condo -- and Beaux even did the digging. Within an hour, other neighbor girls were knocking on the door and bringing flowers. The kids have some weird communication network that makes a calling tree look prehistoric.
It was not until I went out to dig a hole for Blossom that I realized how amazing the graveyard really has become. Princess' grave was encircled with garden edging and adorned with a veritable garden of flowers, some silk, some felt, some plastic, some real. There are marbles and gewgaws and a little brocade purse.
After we passed Blossom's little corpse around -- cradled in the arms of a small teddy bear, no less -- and said a few words (I dug deep and came up with something more profound than "Bye, Blossom" but it wasn't easy. I didn't know her well), then sprinkled the dirt over the popcorn box she's riding into eternity, I went back inside so they could grieve as a family of hamster lovers. (I'm more a cat person, actually.) Three little girls wailing so loud I thought someone might call the police.
When I went out to drag them in eventually, the plot had thickened -- literally. In addition to the flowers and gew gaws, it's now covered with colorful rocks and a fuzzy teddy bear. By the end of the week, I expect it to look like the makeshift memorial in front of The Dakota after John Lennon was shot.
No one loves as passionately as a preteen who's lost a palm-sized pet.

Another drive-by day

2008-09-19T13:29:00.001-06:00

I'm sitting at my desk, tired and hungry and it occurs to me. Ah, crud. I did another drive by.
A drive by is how I measure my sanity in an increasingly insane world. And it goes like this. I pull up to Burger King or someone where and place my order, humming happily because I'm gonna be fed soon (childish tune in background).
Pull to window, pay. Get change. Drive back to office.
Realize -- sometimes an hour or so later, when my stomach's growling again -- that I didn't wait for my order. When clerks give me change, that signals the end of the transaction to me. If they do that before they give me my food, I drive away.

My friend Elaine and her family love these stories. They're especially fond of the day I went to Mickey D's and pushed the intercom button, then zoned out. Hi, can I help you, the disembodied voice asked. Must have reminded me of a phone, because I introduced myself. "HI, I'l Lois Collins from the Deseret News." A few minutes later, when he called me by name, I wondered briefly how he knew. Duh again.
I gotta get more sleep.

The horse that loved Beaux

2008-09-16T23:34:00.001-06:00

Sunday we went to the flag display in Sandy, in remembrance of the horror of Sept. 11. I'm stunned by the moments that bring pure joy -- and the unlikely venues where you can feel it.
We wandered through the flags, a bittersweet display, then meandered further south to the unexpected little nature area behind the ugly Target store back. A little treasure in the midst of a commercial development. To the west, there was a rustic barn and Beaux, who's avid about photography, wanted to snap off some photos.
The girls stood by the fence and admired this knobby-kneed horse in the distance. The horse, in turn, acknowledged them with a little nod, but it kept right on eating. Until she saw Beaux.
The horse made a funky dash across the field and it was clear the dear thing is no longer young. But she (I'm assuming here -- not having been in the mood to really look) set her sights on Beaux and kept on coming, never taking her eyes off him.
He watched her, snapping photos as she came. And when she arrived, all huffing and sweet, she put her nose right against his and just stared into his eyes. I've never seen anything like it. She stared and stared and stared and it was enchanting, but as my friend Elaine said later, "Whisper louder, horse!" I'm not sure what she was trying to tell him.
I like to think she was offering him peace. He's restless and vaguely worried, because eventually he'll fall apart without a new liver and that's decidedly disconcerting. Whatever the gray gal was saying, they just loved each other for a bit. And I learned how it is that a horse hugs, since it doesn't have the kind of arms that enfold you.
A horse hugs by putting her head over your shoulder, drawing you as close and warm as she can and squeezing gently.
I've never had one. But after witnessing this one, I can tell you I wanted a horse hug. Enchanting really is the only word.

This liver thing

2008-08-30T14:47:00.000-06:00

So, Beaux's finally on the list for a liver transplant and I made the mistake of looking at the UNOS site to see what that actually means. Some of those folks have been on the transplant list for three to five years. Not good. Dr. Hutson said the average time that someone lives after a major bleed out like Beaux had is about 18 months unless they have a liver transplant. We've got six months under our belts since this began.
But as fast as I want things to move, I want them to slow down. If he can't work and we're down to my income, we're toast. Seriously. We'll lose the house. I'm trying to get creative and figure out how to make this work, get bills all paids, etc., but I'm not seeing things very clearly yes. So I pray a lot. At the end of the day, we're doing it all by guess and by God. Thank God the latter is a real option.