Life

Premiere Reminder Day

Sunday was Bashert’s birthday.  Birthdays are a big thing for her, since many of the other popular holidays throughout the year were not celebrated by her family.  Birthdays were fun, but not earth shattering events for my family.  As I’ve noted before, I can be kind of dense about some things, so its taken me a few years to realize the importance of the day.

I have a hard time being super creative in a celebratory way.  Most of that talent lies with Bashert.  She once had me invite all the people and then decorate my parent’s home for my own surprise birthday party.

I’ve only been able to surprise her a couple of times during our 15 years.

When she turned 40, I gave her a gift a day forty days out from her birthday.  Each gift was accompanied by a short poem to hint at what the gift was to be.  I gave her all manner of stuffs – from a secret message painted on the ceiling (glow in the dark paint) to lip balm to a surprise visit from her sister (who came bearing chocolate cake!).  That was challenging, but fun.

This year, she received her most of her birthday a little early. The first part was a little bit selfish on my part.  She was so totally frustrated with her iPad I dropping her from the internet and I was so totally frustrated hearing the sighs, that I packed up Yoda and part of our tax return and went straight to the Apple store.  We came home with a laptop.  Surprise! No more sighs from either of us.

I had not planned anything specific for her actual birthday.  We were to be out of town Friday and Saturday for Passover at her sister’s place.  And then it happened.  I was in the back room working on my term paper (which I should be doing now) Friday night and I could hear them discussing dogs.

I had internet connection and ding! went my email.  Seems Bashert’s sister, Miriam had found a couple of dachshund puppies offered on Craigslist in our area. I snuck a look and said for those faces, I could try again.  The next day started an email exchange that ended up with a meeting to take place on Sunday.

Once we saw the little thing, there was no doubt he would be coming home with us.  If the other people who had driven all the way from North Carolina had decided against his sister, I believe we would have taken her too.

So, enter Moses, a nine week old, long haired, mini dachshund.  He is a beautiful black and tan and full of personality.  He won’t be much over 10 lbs once fully grown and he has stolen our hearts.  Well, most of our hearts.  The cats aren’t too happy with the new addition, yet.

The older ones haven’t gotten over adding in Ruthie the 3-legged kitten and Ruthie is a little put out about not being the baby anymore.  The pain of the lost dogs still haunts us, but as with all blended families, it just takes time.

We’ll get there.

 

Happy Birthday, Bashert!

The Doggie in the Window

Feeling the empty nest left by Shit Dog and Elisheva, we have been searching the rescue centers to see if we can give another dog, as the shelter people put it, a forever home.  Looking at them on-line is not the same as touching and seeing how they interact, so this weekend we visited a couple of the weekly adoption fairs.

Bashert had a previous engagement today, so Yoda and I went to the tractor supply store to take a look around.  We were looking specifically for a small, adult dog, an apartment dog; one that wouldn’t swallow up the space in our little townhouse and one that would get along with the feline and human residents.  Not too tough of a list.

The selection for adult dogs was slim.  There were six puppies two of which were pretty aggressive.  They got into a nasty tiff right front of us that kind of stunned Yoda. Good thing we weren’t searching for a puppy.

Only two adult dogs fit close to the bill.  Sheila, a Jack Russell mix and Maxwell, a terrier mix. We have a few friends with Jack Russell dogs and they tend to be a bit too excitable (the dogs, not necessarily the parents).  I knew Bashert would not approve, so we moved to look at Maxwell.

Maxwell has a face that deserves a Disney career.  Beautiful light brown eyes, mottled brown and white, scruffy coat.  He was rescued from a high kill shelter one day before the execution date.  Ms. G, who operates the adoptions knows Bashert and knows we would give a good home to any animal (just don’t ask about the wild bird fiasco) loves Max very much, but like all who run such things, she just doesn’t have anymore room.

He was very calm, something necessary in the face of Yoda’s vibrating self.  He was larger than we wanted, but his personality and somewhat non-shedding coat were pluses.  He was nonplussed with the puppies and children milling around, so I caved.

Ms. G. had us signed up and we were walking out the door with Maxwell before I knew it.

I think I realized my mistake as soon as we entered the door at home.

When we got Elisheva, she claimed us right away.  She lived in the vet’s office and had been seen by several people before we came.  When she came around the corner, she peed on the floor and went nuts to see us.  The vet staff was embarrassed and said she had never acted like that before.  We belonged together.

Shit Dog fell in love with Elisheva first, us second, but was automatically part of the family as well.  We all fit together.

The magic isn’t there with Max.  Maybe it’s because he’s too big, maybe it’s because he’s too normal (we tend to attract the odd and neurotic), maybe it’s just too soon.  When pulling up a photo of him to show someone, I ran across one of Shit Dog and began to cry.

Max will spend the night with us, but tomorrow we will take him back to Ms. G.

Maxwell will make a wonderful companion for someone, just not us.  He is a sweet boy who deserves a big yard and a kid who will wrestle with him.  He deserves the magical fit and so do we.

Emergency Waiting

“Hurry up and wait.”  Or better yet, “Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here”.  Pick one.  Either will be more than sufficient for the hospital emergency room entrance.

Monday night, our friend and neighbor, Desdemona was having chest pains and difficulty breathing, so asked that Bashert take her to the hospital emergency room.  She has a couple of life-threatening conditions and didn’t want to take any chances.

Bashert, who doesn’t do hospitals if she can help it, but who is a devoted friend, of course put Yoda in the car, picked up Desdemona, her son Jehan and carted them all down to the ER, which is less than five minutes away by personal vehicle and more than thirty by ambulance.

This is where I come in.

Bashert called me at work in that voice that prompts the question, “What’s wrong?”.  She explained the situation and asked that I come pick up the boys so they wouldn’t have to spend the night in the ER.

Now, having known Bashert for some time, I immediately translated the question into, “Please come here and stay with Desdemona because I am going to freak out if I don’t get out of this hospital very soon.”  So, I spoke with my partners and made arrangements to leave work early.

The patient parking lot was overflowing when I arrived, but there was only one car in the physician’s reserved spots. Not a good sign.

The waiting area bore the truth of the parking lot.  Without exaggeration, there had to be about 50 people in various states of jammies and distress.  And even though Bashert and Desdemona had been there for over an hour already, Des still had not registered.

After the change of guard with Bashert, I realized that in my haste to get in the hospital, I had left my study materials and phone charger in the car – parked in the secondary lot away from the building.  I couldn’t leave Desdemona alone, so there I was left to entertain myself with the comings and goings of the inhabitants of the night emergency room.  Well, that and the wholly inappropriate choice of the Travel Channel showing repetitive episodes of Andrew Zimmern’s Bizarre Foods.

I heard conversations about some people’s innards that I really didn’t want to hear.  I saw a gentleman come in with a four inch gash across the side of his brow.  I saw one very experienced ER patient come in with a book, crossword puzzle book, phone, and bag of various snacks.  I couldn’t believe she was eating, I was trying not to breathe the air.  We all sat and waited.

I drank a large cup of coffee at work and it was pressing to come out, but I was determined not to use the bathroom facilities.  People were throwing up in there for goodness sake.

Many people simply gave up after several hours of emergency waiting.  As each person left, there was a small and collective sigh from those who remained; one step closer.  The same was done, but with exasperation when an ambulance was seen to pull up.  Ambulance patients trumped the walk-ins; one step back.

Desdemona started to get more anxious when an elderly couple said they had been waiting for five hours.  I don’t think she realized at that point we had already been there almost as long.

Did you know that they eat raw camel meat in Ethiopia? And that when you are eating an oyster, you are eating its digestive and reproductive systems at the same time? And that in Korea you can eat live octopus?

It was into hour five that we were finally called to the back.  In the exam room, I learned that I could lose weight by eating all I want and get a new body in just six weeks.  Bizarre Foods had been replaced by infommercials, curiously all about weight loss and physical fitness without effort.  I missed the magic bullet.

In hour six, Desdemona was finally examined by not one, but three different nurses and a respiratory therapist.  Each asked the same things, no one wrote anything down.  The little vampire came by and took blood, but left the vials on a tray next to the bed.  I could see that the wheels of efficiency were slick with grease in this operation.

Perky, the student resident ordered a CT scan for Desdemona.  She still hadn’t seen a full doctor.

While we waited for the results we had full view of the ER staff.  Apparently, they have time to make decorating decisions – they were pushing a couch back and forth between rooms – and update their phone apps.  They had time to do pretty much anything but reassure their patients.

Dr. No Chin showed up to cover the results of the CT.  After he sufficiently scared the both of us with talk about blood clots and such, he prescribed an inhaler for Desdemona and left.

After over seven hours of waiting then being busily ignored, Dr. No Chin discharged Desdemona into the cold of the morning, with a diagnosis of unexplained shortness of breath and chest pain. Basically, what she came in with.

Seven hours held hostage to the medical system and sent home with a pat on the head.  I sure hope the guy who came in with the severed finger faired better.

Day Tripping

The Bedlam family went traveling yesterday.  We hit the ATL; Hotlanta.  Well, we sort of went to Atlanta.  We actually landed in Decatur. It’s a small suburb south of the great city.  It is a city reborn, full of great little boutiques and wonderful eateries.  Our daughter Nené attended their premier women’s college, Agnes Scott for a year.  It’s the county seat of where we lived a while when I adopted Yoda as his legal second parent. It’s a beautiful little city to visit.

 

 

We had two missions, the first was an appointment Bashert made to see one of the downtown shop owners.  Bashert is an artist, too and a good bit more enterprising than I.  Since college, she has actually made money.

 

 

 

 

 

The shop, Wild Oats & Billy Goats, is a funky little place chock full of fabulous folk-art.  We were both in seventh heaven to be immersed in good art again.  A refreshing breath of air.  I believe we would have stayed much longer if we didn’t have Bashert’s second mission to accomplish.  We usually stick around and take all the photo ops we can, but time was pressing, this was a day trip and the weather reports for later were rather ominous for driving.

After a quick lunch at a local pita establishment, we were off to find Dick Blick’s Art Supply.

 

Here is where it gets a little tricky.  You see, I had a couple of very long days/nights this past week.  My archaeology professor guilted me into digging the site for several hours this week on top of having to be at work until 5:30 – 6:00am (yes – AM) and attending classes.  Exhausted doesn’t cover it.  I was asleep when Bashert printed out the routes and all the way up to Decatur.  I didn’t check  the maps.

Turned out that what Bashert thought was just Roswell road, was actually Roswell, the city, just north of Atlanta.

 

 

Unless we have an absolute, written in stone map, traveling with Bashert can be a bit dicey.  She can locate her childhood home with the barest of landmarks, but give her a map?  So when we discovered that the route involved a toll highway, we were put a little on edge.

The day was saved by my new(ish) toy, the iPhone.  We were able to pull up a decent enough map (I refuse to activate the GPS) to guide us around the toll and to the right destination.

Much to our delight, by not taking the highway, we also got to experience downtown Roswell, a place neither of us had been, despite the fact we are both from Georgia; Bashert being born in Atlanta!

Roswell is a historic city, built on the labors of slaves and mill workers.  This month the town hosts the largest Black History celebration in Georgia.  If we had known our travels were going to take us through there, we would have made arrangements for time to stop.

After the shopping excursion in Dick Blick’s (another slice of heaven for us, even though we were just there for supplies for Yoda’s school), we headed back to visit with Nené for a minute or two.  She was at work so it wasn’t a long visit, but Yoda was overjoyed to see his big sister even for a short time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The torrents of rain held off until we got home – not that I would know, I was fast asleep again once the car got moving. Bashert must have known how tired I was because normally I’m not allowed to doze in the car.  I’m navigator and wingman to keep the driver alert.  Bless her little heart.

All in all it a good day trip.

Passion Doesn’t Pay the Bills

What do I want to be when I grow up?

Unless you are five years old or were born to just know your destiny, this can be quite an enormous question.  And since I am no longer five and long ago gave up my dream of being Tarzan, I find myself asking this question almost daily.

The trade I ply presently came by way of accident, really.  It was an opportunity that presented itself when needed.  A steady income, with insurance benefits for my entire “alternative” family, not something easy to find.  The job came with great bonuses, an energetic atmosphere and interesting people to work with.  OWL used to say it was like going to work at that place with the cheery mouse.

Work really was fun. But the tide has turned with the economy. What was once joy has turned to stress inducing drudgery. I find myself mired the muck of corporate offal, my feet stuck by the very things that once offered succor.

The clouds were on the horizon three years ago, so I decided to go back to school.  Actually, I spoke about going back for so long, Bashert told me I need to shit or get off the pot.

I have a degree already; a Bachelor of Fine Arts.  My About page kids around a bit, but the part about being an artist is true.  I didn’t take a whole lot of advanced sciences and maths the first go around.

My idea was to go back, shore up my maths and sciences and then apply to the Medical University, get into a PhD program and into research, preferably in the neurosciences.  I would leave the corporate world behind and submerge myself in the world of discovery.

My plan isn’t going so well.  What started as a couple of biology and math classes blossomed into, “I might as well go ahead and get the second bachelor’s degree since I’ve already done all the core work.”  So I declared as a Biology major.

Turns out though, I’m not that crazy about Biology and Math still hates me.  I take part of that back – I’m not crazy about my lab classes or some of the Biology professors or the fact that our Biology department concentrates primarily on environmental studies.  I’m not big on reptiles or plant reproduction.  The other part about Math remains.

My next thought was to look into data mining or Biostatistics.  Either would still be research, but not in the lab.  Turns out that you need a boat load of mathematics to do either.  Advanced math, such as the likes of Linear Algebra and Calculus.  You recall I mentioned Math hates me?

So, I’m back to square one.

I could slip quietly back into this good night, return to the day shift and make myself more visible to the powers that be and claw my way up the next ring of the spiderweb.

I could turn to a more stodgy major such as business (sorry Dad) and use it to advance toward the next life- sucking level of management.  Doesn’t the joy of that idea just ooze out?

All the classes I’m taking are getting farther and farther from what I originally intended.  I mean,  come on: Creative Writing?  I’m thinking someone’s trying to tell me something, but what I’m not quite sure.

Guess I have more pondering to do.  It will keep me occupied while I’m digging my next hole for archaeology.

Adieu, Shit Dog.

Our Doobie, My Shit Dog

Here I sit a quivering mess and the day is not going to get any better.  Today is the day we say goodbye to Shit Dog.  The bladder cancer has finally gotten the better of him.  He was supposed to be gone before August, but in grand Shit Dog fashion he held on just to prove a point.

He’s gotten a bit chubby over the last couple of months or so because we have been saying what the heck let him eat it – he won’t be around much longer.  Leftover pancakes, roast trimmings, rice, french fries, pizza crust, chocolate cookies – about the only thing he turned his nose up to was veggies.  He would eat them with resentment when Elisheva was alive, but then that was a competition.

We knew something was up last week.  He refused a piece of biscuit.  He also hasn’t touched the bag of dog food that’s been sitting out in the open for four days.  Bashert had to hold her hand in front of his nose on Sunday for him to know she had some chocolate.  And if Shit Dog is anything, he’s a pureblooded chocoholic.

Our cat Winnie came over to lie with him this weekend.  She doesn’t do that.  He hates having his space invaded, particularly by one of the cats and they know it.  Bashert thinks Winnie was saying goodbye.  She did that just before Elisheva died, too.

We have a checkered past, Shit Dog and I.  I alluded to some of it in an entry back in July.  So it’s kind of ironic that he and I should be spending the day alone together.

He’s lying in his corner, atop his mass of appropriated blankets and pillows – he started out with one assigned blanket and dog pillow, now he has three of our bed blankets and two of our sofa pillows added – snoring away, past caring that he’s leaking urine all over himself.

I sit staring at him futilely trying to remain stoic, watching his occasional labored breath and seeing that he can no longer curl up into his tight little ball because of discomfort.  I let him out a moment ago and he peed on my foot not being able to control himself (at least I’m going to believe that – one last challenge there, eh boy?).

I know that what we are doing is right for him, but it is tremendously difficult.

Damn you, Shit Dog.  Doobie…you’re breaking my heart.

When You Wish Upon A Star

Image courtesy of NASA via The Huffington Post

A good portion of my drive home from work is done in darkness; lit only by my headlights and the night sky.  Most of my time is spent on the look out for drunk drivers and random wildlife playing Russian Roulette with two ton vehicles.  But when the skies are like they were last week, I tend to sneak peeks upward.

Wednesday I looked up and saw it; a shooting star.  It happened in a blink of my eye.  Zip and it was gone. When I told Yoda about it, he asked if I had made a wish.  I told him it took me so much by surprise that I forgot.  He said that was okay just seeing the star could be my wish. He can be pretty smart, that Yoda.

Turns out I was seeing the meteors of the Quadrantids and if I had pulled over, I probably would have seen quite a fireworks show.

Seeing that star (or meteor dust, as it was explained to be by Yoda) put me in a thoughtful mood.  I remember sitting out in the cold night long ago watching one of the annual meteor showers overhead.

Going through a rather difficult stage in my life, I sought solace in the quiet and beauty of the night. Alone out there, I felt out of time, released from the stresses of the situation. Each little piece of dust that left its streak across the sky had me ooing and ahhing as if it was the 4th of July.  I went inside only when the sun began to lighten the backdrop.

I’d like to say that the time I spent under the shooting stars gave me some profound outlook and I became a wiser human being at one with the universe and all that jazz, but it was not to be.

I awoke the next day tired and with a stiff neck from looking up from my lawn chair for so many hours. The pressures had not lifted and life would remain quite difficult for some time to come.

But what those tiny bits of frying meteor dust did give me eighteen years ago, was a memory.  A memory of space without measured time; a glimpse into the vast expanse beyond my little wretched world.  They gave me a smile.

There’s supposed to be another major meteor shower coming in late April this year, the Lyrids.  The peak is supposed to be the 21st, a Saturday. It’s marked on my calendar.  Come out and join me; create a memory.

And don’t forget to make a wish.

Oh, please say to me you’ll let me hold your hand

Yeah you, got that something

I think you’ll understand

When I say that something

I wanna hold your hand

Lennon/McCartney

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Palm cupping palm or just fingertips held gently, the simple gesture of holding hands speaks volumes.  Comfort, familiarity, solidarity, friendship, love, safety; it’s all in a simple touch.

Nurses lightly touch hands when ministering to the ill, clergy does the same. We hold our children’s hands to guide them through the first mazes of life. We shake hands in greeting and in agreement, a variation on holding hands.  A personal thing without being intrusive.

I smile when I see my parents, now married almost sixty years, holding hands.  A small jolt of joy runs up my arm each time Yoda reaches out and takes my hand.  Bashert and I will often just lightly touch fingers to pass quiet communication; I’m still here. I care.

My friend’s husband is dying by infinitesimal moments.  Holding his hand is what remains. She sits vigil while man’s inhumanity drains the life out of both of them.  But as the hours and minutes go by, she holds his hand; comforting, familiar and loving to help ease both of them into their next worlds.

Perhaps its not such a simple thing after all.

Finals Week – Waiting will have to wait

It’s time to put the fall semester to bed, but first I have to tuck in the edges with an Anthropology final and delivery of my final portfolio for Creative Writing.  Translation: Weekly Photo Challenge will be late coming.

So pardon me for a little while longer, as I go gas up on another cup of coffee and a quick dance around the dining room, so that I can wake up enough to finish review of three more chapters.  And I thought I took the night off to be rested for tomorrow.  Silly me.

Oxymoron & the Holiday Concert

By definition an oxymoron is a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction.

 

Secular: denoting attitudes, activities, or other things that have no religious or spiritual basis.

Christmas: the annual Christian festival celebrating Christ’s birth, held on December 25. (italics mine)

 

Thus I give you: Secular Christmas

 

There is no such thing as a secular Christmas.  I should think one wouldn’t be wanted if what is being celebrated is the very foundation of the religion.  “Reason for the Season” and all that.

Santa Claus represents Christmas.  No matter how commercialized the figure has become, his entire basis of being is Christmas, the religious holiday.  Jolly Ol’ Saint Nick appears at no other time of the year other than Christmas Eve, which apparently starts the day after Thanksgiving these days.

A Santa hat represents Christmas, not winter.  Ask any kid.  And any adult who says otherwise is attempting to skirt the issue or possibly from The Netherlands.

Now, before anyone gets their knickers in a knot, let me say this; I was born into a family that celebrated Christmas, they still do.  My daughter Nenè celebrates Christmas.  There are many Christmas songs/hymns that I truly love.

I am not antiChristmas.  I repeat, I am not antiChristmas.

What I am is Jewish and a supporter of equal representation in public institutions that are supposed to be separated from religion in the first place, at least here in the States.

I will also add that Bashert and I love our son’s school.  It is a public school that prescribes to the International Baccalaureate system of world inclusion; global thinking.  It’s one of the few remaining public elementary schools in our area that has a fine arts program and full time foreign language program. The principal is a fantastic woman, educator and administrator who stands up fiercely for her teachers, students and school.  The teachers are wonderful and creative (many of them have won teacher of the year several times over).

So why bring this up, this secular Christmas?  I’ll tell you why since you asked.

This was the description given to Bashert by Yoda’s new music teacher in regards to this year’s school holiday concert.

Don’t worry about your Jewish child being excluded because we are only singing secular Christmas songs.  Not secularly themed songs about winter time, but secular Christmas songs.

And by the way, Yoda will need to bring a Santa hat for costuming.

Excuse me?

That’s pretty much tantamount to me telling your Christian child that he needs to bring a kippah to school so that he can participate in our High Holiday concert, but its okay because we are only going to be singing prayers that the Jewish religion is based on.

The crux of the matter lies in the blatant disregard for our son’s significance and the simple minded arrogance that assumes that it just okay to have everyone conform to the same belief system.  Really, what harm is wearing a Santa hat, while singing Christmas songs, right?

In real life I work for a multinational corporation and yet every Monday and Friday now until Christmas, I am being forced to listen to Christmas holiday music via the satellite feed.  Every year I have to write an official letter reminding the powers that be, that as a multinational corporation we need to be mindful that not all cultures celebrate or appreciate the holiday of Christmas (the same music plays when someone is placed on hold).  And every year I get the same response that it was agreed upon that the music would play during the prescribed times only.  Big whoop.  I’m just the Jew in the ointment spoiling everyone’s holiday cheer.

I guess what it all boils down to; arrogance, assumptions and significance.

Every kid matters.  Every kid deserves to be seen as significant.  Every kid deserves respect.

Perhaps if we started really practicing this at Yoda’s level, I wouldn’t have to write a letter every year.  But until that happens, Yoda won’t be wearing a Santa hat during any song at the holiday joy night concert and I will keep writing my letters each year.

Perhaps someday, in his lifetime Yoda will see the true spirit of this season.

And maybe all of us won’t have to suffer the effects of Christmas music burn out two days after Thanksgiving.