Life

Enter, the Roach

 

In my home, I am the killer of bugs.

To be accurate though, I should say I am the killer of roaches.  Other bugs and insects often have a second chance in our home, but roaches no.

I have been roused from deep slumber to eradicate an insect that had all my family members screaming and literally standing on furniture.  Yes, it happens in real life.

I admit that I do not relish my title at times.  I have been known to recoil with a yelp when taken by surprise by a shifty bug, as in the other night when I felt something on my thigh and reacted with a sharp intake of breath and a swipe sending the creature sailing across the room.

But for the most part I do my duty with stoic efficiency.

The other day my partner and son were out, she teaching and he attending intellectual day camp, so I was sitting on the sofa reading.  Out the corner of my eye, I saw a flicker of movement.

I turned to look and there was one of the largest roaches I had ever seen in my life crawling sideways across our barrister case.  This was no water bug or palmetto bug, no this was a full grown, beauty of a cockroach.

Now, when one sees a roach of this magnitude, it does give one pause.

First came the thought, “Wow, that really is a big roach.”   The second thought was I was glad my family was not here for this one.

My intellect told me that I was disproportionally larger than the insect.  I knew that it would not come at me with dripping fangs and a hypnotizing stare.  I knew that it had been driven inside by the intense heat of the day and was just looking for relief.  I also knew that it had to die.

I shuddered to think if this giant prehistoric scavenger escaped to roam free and was discovered by any other member of my family.

I am not tremendously afraid of insects. I have a healthy respect for most and can find some quite interesting.

Arachnids on the other hand, I do not tolerate in my general vicinity, at all.  A result of being bitten on the face by, and I quote, “an aggressive house spider’, that sent me to the emergency room and ultimately left two divots in my cheek.  If they hang around outside fine; that’s their domain – just stay off my grill and thresholds and we can live in peace, but come into my house or vehicle; the kid gloves are off.

But once again, I digress.  Back to the enormous roach in my house.

I had to devise a plan of action because as we all know roaches are tricky things.  They flatten themselves out and scoot through the tiniest of cracks.  Once false move and that sucker was going to be inside the barrister case taunting me from behind glass.

The problem was it was on the glass by this point.  My first weapon of choice would not be available for use, although I’m pretty sure I could get away with breaking the glass with my shoe once I revealed the impressive size of the intruder.

No, I had to come with an alternate weapon of destruction.

Did I mention that the living room was in a state of disarray (more so than usual, my smarty pants friends)?  Our a/c was on the fritz having leaked onto the carpet so all of our furniture was pushed into the center of the room making it a bit difficult to navigate.

This was not going to be an easy target.

It was a lose-lose situation. If I moved too fast it was behind the glass dancing and wiggling it’s antennae at me; if I moved too slowly it would meander into the tightly packed heap of articles out of striking distance where it would later pop out and scare several years off my partner and son.

I had to develop some sort of action plan quickly.

My eyes finally spotted a piece of copy paper that could be reached somewhat easily.  Not the best weapon since its not very flexible and has the potential for letting the roach flatten out and escaping, but it was the best I could find in the moment of hunt.

I snuck up on the creature with hand hovering low.  I then did the quick cover and squish move, however as many of you other bug killers know, roaches don’t always squish on the first try.

Headless and one wing cocked at an odd angle, the roach fought back.

Periplaneta americana Linnaeus turned around and came at me.

I confess that I did the ‘ew, ick, gross, watch out’ dance for just a second, hopping from foot to foot.  But then my inner hunter came out and said, “Bring it on!”.   La Cucaracha didn’t stand a chance.

I steeled myself for the final showdown.  My breath quickened and my muscles drew taut.  Determination overtook my being.  I would not be defeated by this germ carrier.

Down came the paper with a mighty thrust and the feisty little creature was literally putty in my hands.  Good had triumphed once again.

My family would never know the danger from which they had been saved.

But, that’s the life of the bug killer.

Drive In

We went to see Disney’s Cars 2 (overly long) this weekend and that got me thinking about my own early driving history.

I found a letter from my father not too long ago, which I will share in a couple of weeks on his birthday, but one line in it reminded me of how young I was when I started driving.

“In 1981 dollars the 50 ft drive would cost about $225,000 per mile”.

As you can well imagine, my first driving experience wasn’t a great success.

It was in Memphis, Tennessee, 1963 and our family had grown to four kids. My parents were out looking at houses to fit their extended brood. My younger brother and I had been placed in the front seat of the car while my parents finished speaking with the real estate agent.

In those days there were no requisite car seats. An enterprising youngster could stand on the broad bench seat, play with the radio and pretend to drive.

While my parents talked, I tried my hand at driving. So what did I do?  I mimicked what I had seen.  Put the imaginary key in, grab the wheel give it few turns back and forth with some zoom, zoom sound effects and then…shift.

One other note about cars back then, gears didn’t necessarily lock on automatic transmissions when the car was stopped and the key removed.

Now a geography lesson, parts of Memphis are quite hilly.  Many houses are built with good sloping driveways.  We happened to be parked on one.  When I shifted the gear lever, it went from park to neutral quite smoothly and my nine month old brother and I were off on our very first solo drive together.

I cannot imagine our parent’s horror as they watched their car starting down that hill and  carrying their two youngest children across a four lane street with oncoming traffic. I have visions of them doing the slow motion outreach, “Nooooooo….!”.

It was okay though, there was a house across that street to stop us.

The car crashed into the front of the house just under a large picture window.

We were fine. My brother didn’t even roll off the front seat.

Surprisingly, my dad says the car wasn’t damaged.  They sure don’t make ‘em like that anymore.

The our joy ride blockade didn’t fare as well, hence the inflationary comment above.  Would loved to have seen that insurance report write up.

I have three memories from the event.  Seeing Mom & Dad outside of the car, being pulled out of the car and the physical sensation that equates to “Wheeeeee!”.

My driving career was somewhat curtailed until legal driving age after that.  But I’ll be danged I didn’t develop quite a love for roller coasters.   

 

 

 

Gay? Marriage

An old acquaintance approached me at the Pride parade today.  She was proudly wearing her I ♥ New York t-shirt.

She had come to the parade to show her support of her cousin still living in NYC and possibly her son, but we didn’t go there.

When we worked together we never discussed politics or sexual orientation.  I was semi-closeted at the time because it was a government job and knew the opinions of my superiors at the time.  I know, I know., but let’s get real – I needed the job.

Tiger, as she was called must have known something was up because she made the comment to me once, “I really like watching Queer as Folk”.  I replied, “That’s nice, don’t watch it myself, but okay.”  My partner will tell you, I’m not the quickest to catch on to things.

It was a quiet outreach, a sort of underground communique that let me know that I had an ally and I did appreciate it despite my inelegant response.

But today at our home town parade, Tiger came up to me and reintroduced herself and we were able to speak openly and with matter of fact about how proud she was of New York of passing the legalization of gay marriage bill. Time and age had given us both confidence.

Another friend posted a great photograph of a statement that also hit home with the theme of this weekend.  It reminded me that Pride is not only about having the confidence about being oneself and the camaraderie of having all those people of like around you, but to me its also about showing to the rest of the world that we are no different just because of who we love.

I go to work everyday to support my family.  We pay taxes and worry about our children’s education and future.  We have pets and have memberships to the YMCA.  We have cranky days and days full of wonderment. We teach, we learn, we are good citizens and bad ones, too.  The full gamut of the rainbow of humanity.

We are just people.

 It’s not gay marriage; it’s just marriage, as simple and as complicated as everyone else’s.

It’s taken 42 years since Stonewall to get six states to agree.  I hope that my blog name will not be fullcnote before the rest of the country follows suite.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pride

On June 27, 1969, the winds of fate gathered and the patrons of Greenwich Village’s Stonewall Inn fought back.  The seeds of Pride were planted.

And on this Saturday, 42 years after the riots on Christopher Street, the second annual Pride Parade and Festival will be held in our fair city.

There will be other parades and festivals more elaborate and attended by thousands around the world. I’ve been to the great parade and festival in Atlanta many times before.  I’ve even been in that parade, but there is nothing to compare to the emotion and inspiration of having this celebration in my own town.

My family and I had been absent from the Pride celebrations for several years until last year.

We would ordinarily choose not to go to the parade because number one it’s hot as blazes in Georgia in June, especially standing in a crowd of thousands and two, as parents we acknowledge that the Atlanta parade can be for more mature audiences, much as Mardi Gras is.

The festival, however had always been wonderful for any age group and we’d always had a great time there.  Except possibly the time our daughter kept fainting, but that was due to the heat and hypoglycemia, not the atmosphere.

The change came when our son was not quite 5 years old.  He was floating on cloud nine because he had gotten so many compliments on his Spiderman costume he chose to wear all day. It had been a good day at the festival despite the usual afternoon showers and fierce southern humidity.

We were tiredly trooping back to our car for the long ride home and it was then that some lovely, Southern gentleman decided that he needed to vent his hostility over our family unit.  This frightened our son, who couldn’t possibly understand that someone would hate his family. He clamored into my arms, buried his face into my shoulder and wouldn’t come out until we were well out of earshot.

If you want to demonstrate your narrow mind to adults that’s one thing, but to take it out on small children – shame on you.

Try to explain to a 4 year old, who has known only love and acceptance, that there are some people in the world who hate him because he has two moms.  Even his spidey powers couldn’t protect him that day in Atlanta.  It broke our hearts.

This combined with the heat (my partner says, yeah – give the gays the hottest damn month of the year to celebrate) gave us the excuse to stay home when Pride came around.

Then our very conventional, conservative town allowed something magical to happen. It granted a permit for a Pride parade.

We decided to go still wary about attending another arena where our son could be subjected to the vitriol of others, but he has in the past four years demonstrated a strength of character that we thought would sustain him if we were confronted again.

Boy, were we surprised, so brilliantly surprised.

The parade was filled with families and friends.  Our son saw his school mates with their straight parents and caught candy thrown by beautiful, well heeled drag queens.The festival was full of music, balloons and games designed for the kids to play.

Smiles abounded. Words of encouragement and love were spoken by supporters.  Tears of joy and wonder were spilled. Many exclaimed with choked voices that they didn’t think they would ever see the day our town celebrated its GLBT citizens with such kindness.

Oh, there were the odd protesters (and some were really odd), but all were welcomed and given and gave respect even when they were holding placards damning us to eternal fire.

In the gay/lesbian community, we often refer to each other as ‘family’.  That Saturday in June of last year was about family. We are looking forward to another Saturday spent with family this year.

I am so proud of my city and the fantastic people who made this happen.  My family thanks you.

*http://socialistalternative.org/literature/stonewall.html  (good site to visit for information on Stonewall.)

The beauty of a rainbow after a storm.

Just keep singing

I attended a funeral today.  A friend lost her valiant, last battle against breast cancer.

Jewish funerals are usually pretty cut and dry. The rabbi may say a few words, but for the most part, they follow a certain rhythm of traditional prayers and solemnity.  Family members rarely speak.

Today was different.

Her son sang a psalm to honor his mother that I shall not soon forget.

Alberta was a woman with a voice.  The kind of voice that brings to mind Ethel Merman. It was unmistakable.

Alex recalled his mother’s love of singing with that voice.  But unlike her grandfather, a professional opera singer, Alberta was not bestowed with so much melodic talent.  Nor was she the best at remembering the words to what she sang, be it prayers in service or popular music to her children.

She sang for the joy it brought to her soul. If she could not recall the words, she filled in with la-la’s.  She just kept singing.

Alex said he tried to find the perfect song that would summarize his mother.  And like with many things, inspiration and revelation come from unexpected sources.  Alex found his mother’s song playing in his car by random shuffle.

From Wicked – Defying Gravity:

So if you care to find me

Look to the western sky!

As someone told me lately:

“Ev’ryone deserves the chance to fly!”

And if I’m flying solo

At least I’m flying free

To those who’d ground me

Take a message back from me

Tell them how I am

Defying gravity

I’m flying high

Defying gravity

And soon I’ll match them in renown

And nobody in all of Oz

No Wizard that there is or was

Is ever gonna bring me down!

For all the struggles Alberta faced in her life, this truly was her anthem.  She was a woman who loved her family, community, friends and life. And she kept on singing.

It would do us all good if we just kept singing.

Keep belting them out Alberta. Nothing can bring you down now. Fly free.

Mom’s Face

My Mom has had the same face her entire life.

You know how you can look at someone’s baby pictures and never know they were the same person?  Not my mom.

If you were to take a series of infant images and their corresponding adult images, how many do you think you could match up – infant face to adult face?  I most likely couldn’t match my own or my daughter’s if I wasn’t familiar with them (my son is a different story, but he’s not far enough away from babyhood just yet).

I am grateful that my great grandmother, Mar – she added the ‘r’ so that people would be sure to pronounce her name as Mah, why she thought Ma wouldn’t be sufficient, I don’t know – anyway, I’m grateful that she had a love for and instilled that love of photography in her children.  We have a treasure trove of encapsulated history because of it and that’s how we know that Mom’s face has always been the same.

We have portrait of Mom as a very little girl taken in the 1930’s, where the photographer carefully arranged her seated on a bench holding a wooden toy. Its colourized, Mom’s eyes are not blue and I don’t think her cheeks were ever that pink, but it is definitely her face.

The underlying structure stays the same whether she is plump toddler, skinny girl in a tap dance recital costume, a free spirit on the beach or the grandmother of eight.  Deep set grey-green eyes, with a longish nose and a mouth that shows off her high cheek bones when she smiles. She has one crooked tooth, the right one next to the front teeth, whatever that’s called.  I think it adds to the genuine quality of her smile.

Her adolescent photos often remind me of Anne Frank, but I’m guessing that’s the time frame just as so many kids always seem to look alike.  Her face was surrounded by jet black hair in her youth, now its a beautiful, soft white.

Sometimes the face is stern, sometimes on purpose – ask my younger brother about the time he ran home and hid all the spatulas and wooden spoons – and sometimes not, she’s just deep in thought. Mostly it shows a twinkle that pokes fun at the world. But with any expression, Mom always looks out recognizable to the world.

Either of my brothers, my sister or I would do anything for that face.  Each of us in turn has told her that she should come live with us if anything (turn around three times and spit) should happen to our father. She always replies with, “Don’t worry about it, I’m okay with going in a home.  Just be sure to check on me, a lot.” As if.

Today I celebrate that face, that wonderfully consistent face. Happy Birthday, Mom!

“We turn not older with years, but newer every day.” – Emily Dickinson.

Bravery

I think with age comes a certain amount of bravery.  Not necessarily the kind that will carry one through battle or make one suddenly go bungee jumping, but a kind that allows for a certain new approach to life.  My Mom always said once you reach a certain age, you just don’t give a damn about some things anymore.  I believe I’m reaching that age.

My sister can’t fathom that I am on Facebook.  I am notoriously private and shy.  But I’ve decided in my approaching advanced age, that if I can’t take a few chances then I’m not really in the world.

So, in light of that declaration these last few days before I have to return to work I’ve been doing some writing and daring to publish it on my tiny little blog.

I can’t figure out how to get more than one at at time published on one page, so I’ll leave one up and then change it out in a couple of days.  I’ll also publish friends and family if they will give permission.  So, I bravely ask that you check out the Writings page.

And also check out the photos page, there’s a great image done there!

Wise 3/3

I found lots and lots of stuff on the internet and in my own library about wit, wisdom, knowledge & inspiration. But when it came down to it, I found myself drawn to just two of my favorite quotes about wisdom and the philosophy of life.

“Whatever you are be a good one.”  ~Abraham Lincoln

“Never kick a fresh turd on a hot day.” ~ Harry S Truman

What more do you need?

Awesome.

Health, Wealthy & Wise – 3 part rambles

1) Healthy

The plantar fascia is a broad ligament just dorsal to the foot’s subcutaneous fatty tissue. Microtearing, and the body’s attempted repair of it, results in chronic inflammation.  Heel pain with the first few steps in the morning and after a period of rest is the classic symptom of plantar fasciitis. The pain improves with activity but recurs after prolonged weight bearing, often at the end of the day. Usually, the pain is felt in the front and bottom of the heel, but as the definition of “plantar fasciitis” indicates, it can be felt in any portion of the bottom of the foot where the fascia is located. Often, patients report that the pain is predominantly in the heel but radiates to the arch. (The Journal of Musculoskeletal Medicine. Vol. 26 No. 3 April 1, 2009)

When plantar fasciitis symptoms occur in menopausal women, it’s believed to be…compounded by a decrease in the body’s healing capacity. (vibrantnation.com)

Had my one month check up on the foot yesterday.  Doc says looking good this time except for the stiffness of the scar tissue underneath the incision site.  Its preventing me from getting into my shoe just yet.  Put a piece of duct tape tightly across the bottom of your foot just where the ball starts to bend.  Now walk – that’s pretty much what it’s like, but tender, too. I keep thinking I’ve stepped on something that’s stuck to my foot.

This is the best and simplest diagram I could find to give an idea of what went on.  Doc has some great photos of my actual surgery, but I’m a bit chicken to ask if I can have a copy.

The 1st surgery was just a slice across and the ligament grew back together through the scar tissue.

The 2nd surgery entailed taking out a small square of the ligament, which then attached higher up.

The 3rd surgery was a bit experimental, higher on the foot and taking a larger, postage stamp chunk of the ligament out.   This was to try and avoid having to ‘strip’ the ligament where a zigzag incision is made down the length of the foot and the ligament is cut across in various places down the foot..  Not the option I hope we have to resort to.

I also had a cortisone injection in the other foot. Not fun.  He freezes with a spray of ethel chloride, which in itself stings like the devil as the skin temp drops.  I have no fear of needles, but when he hits the internal the spot where my foot is hurting – oh yeah, its bullet biting time.  Of course it didn’t help that my 7 year old kept asking me, “Does it hurt?”.  My inner childishness was thinking just wait until he has his next round of inoculations.

I can only describe the feeling afterward as if I’m walking on something stuffed inside my shoe.  Its definitely different from the novocaine shots the dentist uses to have you drool, not that this caused me to drool – just wince and wish I could let loose with a sailor’s curse.

So, now I look like I’m walking on hot coals trying to baby both feet at the same time. I feel a bit like those old ladies one sees hobbling around WalMart.  Or for those of you who may remember, Festus from Gunsmoke. “I’ll be right over Mr. Dillion.”

I’ve been on disability for this round.  First time I’ve had to deal with the insurance company in this manner. Its a joy.

We have saved the latest message from them on the answering machine.  Think extremely heavy New York accent – “I need to have the paperwork faxed back by the 10th ‘cawse, I’d really don’t want to have to deny this.”  Are the insurance companies now hiring goodfellas?  I’d made sure that the Doc’s office was up on the paperwork!

I get good parking right now, although I’d rather just park next to the cart return.  What good is it to park in handicapped but have to walk all the way back and forth to return your cart?  Parking lot planners did not think well in that area.

I also get to ride in those little motorized scooters in the store.  I’ve finally gotten the hang of driving them.  I can make hairpin turns now.  In the beginning it was a bit like the golf cart scene from Austin Powers.  My partner will walk with me without fear and that’s saying a lot.

That’s about it for this rambling, especially since I have an impatient 7 year old staring me down.  He wants to go to the store with me so that he can drive the scooter.  Whatever it takes, eh?

Next segment will ramble on about the second of Mr. Franklin’s suggestions: Wealthy.  That should be a hoot.

Randomness at 50

Simpler times

This is the year I turn 50.  My golden anniversary.

To celebrate, I want to do new things.  Joining the cyber nation of people publishing their unsolicited thoughts & opinions is one thing and here I am for better or worse.

For the most part I want this year to be about having fun. You know that feeling of happiness and fulfillment that lurks somewhere beneath all the stress of family, job & other categories of adulthood?

My partner read recently that the best watermelons get their sweetness from the manure they are fed.  My life is often overcome with the overwhelming stench of manure that piles up around different areas of my life.  This year, I want to find the sweetness underneath the manure, so I want to have fun with this blog and share all the silliness and trivia that can also be life.

Now listen, Pollyanna, I’m not – ask anyone who really knows me, but I do have a good sense of humor and its high time I use it again.

So post one is complete.  Its bare, but complete.  Let the good times roll.