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He's Going the Distance

I am at my parents' house. Today is one of two days this week that I'm caring for my brother.

He can't be alone at all now. He needs assistance getting up as his leg muscles have rebelled against him; he also needs help walking although thank God he still can, with his walker. One must stand by him at all times for extra support. Stairs are a terrifying pursuit - for those who care for him. My brother doesn't really think so. He gets a little confused. At 9:30 this AM, he was asking me what I was still doing here - "It's like, 4:30 - don't you have to get your kid?" He thinks he can get around just like always, until he tries.

Hospice comes once a day, for about an hour in the morning. Mom and Dad say mornings are particularly tough as there is the bed to be changed, my brother's shower and change of clothes and grooming. Laundry is literally non-stop and my mother's lifelong habit of keeping a spotless house has had to fall by the wayside. The extra assistance is a Godsend.

I promised my brother that today after the nurse left, I'd take him to Dunkin' Donuts. She left and I got his sweatshirt for him to put on. I moved his walker near the recliner where he spends a lot of his day. I helped him on with his sweatshirt. I moved to put my hand under his arm and he insisted I didn't need to do that. He tried to get up on his own but it was not going to happen. Finally he gave in and let me help pull him into a standing position. This took about 15 minutes. Once he was steady, we started the trek toward the front door. "Use the back porch door," my dad had said this morning. "The front steps are really treacherous." My brother didn't want to use the back door however, and when he's got his mind made up it's impossible to steer him elsewhere. Front porch it was, then. After a bit of clever manuevering over an area rug, a threshold, around a plastic chair, we made it to the steps. I had to get him to hold the railing and my hand instead of the walker while I put the walker on the ground below the stairs. The stairs were, indeed, treacherous. But he made it to the car and once inside, we high-fived.

We took the long way to Dunkin' Donuts in Dover. We drove by where I used to live and where he was once my roommate for a few months. It was such a beautiful day. We had Cake on the iPod, vanilla bean Coolattas and the windows wide open. We sang along together: "He's going the distance! He's going for speeeeeed! She's all alone, alone, all alone in her time of neeeed!" I didn't want it to end.

When we got back to the house, it was the same scenario only this time getting up the stairs, not going down. As he tenuously made it to his chair, we sang together, again, with our own lyrics: "He's going the distance, NOT going for speeeeed, to his recliner, in the corner, the corner, without any weeeeed!" and burst into giggles.

I settled him in his chair with his leftover Coolatta and some peanut M&Ms. We made a bet as he dumped the candy into the Coolatta that he couldn't eat this concoction without a spoon. "Are you going to suck them (the M&Ms) up with the straw?" I asked him. "Yes," he said. "Watch me." As the cup emptied and he realized he wasn't after all going to suck the candy up with a straw he sheepishly asked for a spoon. "Dammit. You win," he said. "Har, har," said I. Twenty minutes later, he looked at his empty Coolatta cup, then at me, and said triumphantly, "Hey, you owe me five bucks!" I noticed the spoon had fallen to the floor, out of his view. I said, "Aw, you did it!" and handed him the fiver. Ah, well.

It is a big deal just to go out with my brother now. I have to make sure his bag is near, with supplies inside in case something happens. I have to be prepared for his forgetfulness and careful of his tender nerve endings. If we go somewhere where he'll be getting out of the car, the wheelchair has to come along. I don't care. I don't know how long we'll be able to even go out tooling around with Coolattas and Cake. I consider caring for him an opportunity I don't want to miss. As long as he's willing and able to crack jokes with me and sing along to "He's Going the Distance," I'll go the distance, too.

Posted by Bullyland at 01:26 PM | Comments (4)

Who Made Jesus Cry?

I hate to portray myself as a cantankerous grouch with a negative side that could eclipse the moon, but some things just plain get under my skin. I have a new take on it - That Made Jesus Cry (TMJC). It's paraphrased from a t-shirt I saw that kept me giggling for about a half an hour afterward:

I tried it on my mom when she expressed guilt at forgetting to go to church last Sunday: "Mom, You Made Jesus Cry." It got a buffalo laugh out of my brother but only a slanty glare from mom. Oh well. I was only teasing. (Jesus probably made her forget church that Sunday out of pity to get at least one thing off her overloaded plate!)

Anyway, for weeks after now I've been thinking to myself "That Made Jesus Cry" everytime I saw something profoundly retarded, hideously injust or just plain God-awfully annoying.

Here are the latest things That Made Jesus Cry.

Audrey Hepburn is officially rolling over in her grave. Have you seen the GAP ad? My all time favorite cheesy Audrey Hepburn movie, "Funny Face", and the cheesiest scene of all whereupon she bursts into beatnik dance has been overlapped with AC/DC's song "Back in Black" to sell pants. Poor Audrey!! She's DEAD, people. That doesn't give you permission to A) put her in a commercial and B) make her dance to classic rock. Madison Avenue, quit raping dead people! TMJC!!

Maine game wardens seized a Chinese restaurant owner's pet Koi fish. Seems like the little buggers, if let loose in the wild, pose a serious threat to natural wildlife. Cuong Ly, who escaped from Vietnam 25 years ago, opened his restaurant along with the fish tank 15 years ago. He's had these fish 15 years. What are the chances he's going to release them into the wild? Seems he can apply for a permit to keep the fish, but since he missed the cut off, they refuse to approve the permit. I saw the warden on the news last night. He looked like Satan compared to the poor li'l Vietnamese guy whose heart he broke & whose family he tore apart (according to Ly, the Koi are members of his family). Maine Game Wardens, spend your time in the woods catching poachers, not persecuting innocent pet owners! TMJC!!

Reader's Digest, that cornerstone info-rag of doctor's office waiting rooms and nursing homes everywhere, has officially Made Jesus Cry. Knowing that about 99.3% of their reading audience is over 50, and about 99.2% of those are either routinely waiting in a doctor's office or living in a nursing home, they've peppered their pages with an un-Godly amount of perscription/over-the-counter medication advertisements. I myself was waiting in a hospital room the other day when I picked up the Reader's Digest. I was totally annoyed at all the ads, then realized that - I'm NOT exaggerating - nearly all of the ads were for some medical pill or product. I was bored, so I took out a pencil and wrote them all down. In one issue, here's what they had (keep in mind that nearly all prescription ads take up at least 3 or 4 pages, and the important info is in print so tiny even my 38 year old eyes cannot read it):
Lunesta
Caltrate
Commit
Coreg
Astelin
Relpax
NovaVision
Similason
Crestor
Lyrica
Prilosec
Depends
Cymbalta
Rozerem
VideoEye
Celebrex
Oasis
Majicear
VPI (pet insurance)
Tums
Avandia
Glaxo-Smith-Kline (yeah! Just advertise the whole freakin' pharmaceutical company - why waste extra pages on details?)
Poise
and of course,
Wal-Mart Pharmacy
Reader's Digest, I've never really been able to figure out whether you lean to the right, lean to the left, or stand in the middle but it's clear to me now that you're simply leaning. On old people. TMJC!!

Little Shop of Pets just had its 17th puppy stolen. You know, everyone who buys a puppy there has to be ignorant or impulsive, because they're not thinking ahead to when their pup inevitably develops skin disease, digestive troubles, hip displaysia or housebreaking issues. No one needs a puppy mill-bred future veterinary liability that's priced about 500% over a local reputable breeder's pups. Everyone I know who has a dog purchased there has extraordinary vet bills and ongoing health issues, if not a dead dog. How many puppies have to be stolen to shut this archaic business down? Little Shop of Pets, you peddle misery and disease. TMJC!!

Oh, and one final thing that Made Jesus Cry - the day this clown registered his car:

'nuff said.

Posted by Bullyland at 02:22 PM | Comments (7)

Love From My Lips

Life ain't been exactly easy for me lately (I know, boo hoo, call the waah-mbulance)... financially, emotionally, etc. Luckily it's fall and it's almost physiologically impossible for me to fall into the chasm of depression but believe me when I say it's definitely burrowing up through the earth toward the soles of my feet.

It's a simple miracle how music can turn your whole world around sometimes.

My friend Heather blessed me with three Patty Griffin CDs several months ago - like May or something, for the iPod I got for Mother's Day. Having worn the five Patty CDs I do have* down to nubbins, I felt like Charlie Bucket at the end of the story when she did. I got so caught up in the Love From My Lips set that I completely ignored Silver Bell. The Love From My Lips recordings are really bootlegs - so bootlegged you can hear people lighting cigarettes and shuffling their feet in the little bars they were recorded in. Nearly all the songs are new to me and all of them are heartbreakingly beautiful - mostly just Patty and her guitar...shiver.

I thought I'd take a spin around Portsmouth today since the weather was lovely and it might make me feel better. I decided out of the blue to listen to Silver Bell for the first time. One of the songs struck me almost dead it was so beautiful! Have you ever come across a song by accident, a song so beautiful and perfectly crafted your heart literally skipped a beat (or two!), song that was so sweet you had to stop everything you were doing just to listen (in my case, I had to pull over). That was this song. I pressed repeat on my iPod so I could be sure I wasn't just imagining the beauty of this song.

I felt my mood rebounding with an amazing speed. I looked up, the sky was blue and bright, I stuck my face out the window and felt the warm breeze and the promise of fall in the air. For once a beautiful song wasn't making me weepy but lifting my mood. I can be very emotional with music and usually the teary thing is the effect I get - it's rare that the opposite happens and I cherish it.

The song's music was so sweet. There was Patty of course, her voice and guitar weaving around my heart like summer vines, but also something plucking - a dobro or mandolin possibly - and a gentle steel guitar. The flowers on the vine - Emmylou Harris harmonizing in the background. The song plays in three chords but still sounds brand new. Mmmmmmm.

Unfortunately for me, while googling the lyrics to share with you I found that the Dixie Chicks have covered this song. I'm not sure if it's a hit for them as I don't listen to that genre or keep up with the country scene. I want everyone to hear this song, but only as Patty - the composer - has recorded it. However, as Silver Bell isn't available in stores - it was not released - you may not be able to hear the song otherwise. I fear that the Dixie Chicks' version will be hyper-produced, layered with track upon track of swelling lap guitars and the like. I fear their rendition will be sorely lacking Patty's trademark edgy frailty and clean sound innocent of too much meddling.

So you might decide for yourself to listen the the Chicks' version or instead to search around for the Silver Bell CD. I promise you if you choose the latter the effort will be worth it a million times over. Maybe you don't really care and are only bothering to reading this because you've nothing better to do. All I know is that it totally changed my day, and spread yet another layer of cement over the admiration I have for Patty Griffin.

Truth #2

patty griffin
********************************************************

* Living With Ghosts
1,000 Kisses
Flaming Red
A Kiss in Time
Impossible Dream

Posted by Bullyland at 02:31 PM | Comments (3)

Dogtown and Scooter Boy

My all time favorite documentary is "Dogtown and Z-Boys" which documents the (now) famous Zephyr team skateboarders of Venice, CA in the 70s. I just can't get enough of those Z-boys.

I love that documentary so much that I've had the library actually tell me no, I can NOT check it out one more round without bringing it back to give someone else a chance. I ought to just buy it. Anyway, my kid has been on a major skateboard park kick lately and I've been glad to tag along. We recently discovered two skate parks in the past couple of weeks, one in our home town and the other in Portsmouth.


My son was just learning to balance on a skateboard when he left it behind my car in the driveway. Unfortunately the rule is to not leave toys behind my car. If a toy is left behind the car and the toy gets smushed, owner of toy assumes full responsibility, and owner of car will not run out and replace it immediately or sooner depending on amount of tears and wailing. So, my boy must wait until his birthday or something to get another skateboard. He does however have a Razor scooter and a "stunt" bike (a $35 Walmart special that his dad bought and customized for him).


He isn't in love with the Dogtown documentary as I am but he does think its cool. He prefers the newer generation of skater boys you can find on independent movies. He loves going to the skate parks. He will spend hours there at a time (note to self, bring thick book). Of course he's too young to hang out there alone or really do any stunts but he loves to test the waters with tiny trips up the ramps and baby grinds. Sometimes he abandons all riding paraphernalia and simply runs up and down the ramps, catching some air on foot.

He spent so much time at our local skate park the other day that the big kids started calling him "Scooter Boy" for his somewhat disturbing new "trick" of making his scooter do a 360 degree turn - on its own! (in other words, throwing it up in the air and flipping it, to have it crash land on the pavement). We finally convinced him this was not a trick but a hazard to others and his scooter and he stuck with practicing his balance.


I love to watch his confidence grow, see him try to imitate the moves of the big kids and offer them "advice." ("You should try this ramp, dude.")


My dog loves going too and is becoming a sort of mascot with the kids. Of course, when the twenty-something gang shows up and start working the half pipes, eventually getting sweaty and removing their shirts...well...can anyone say "fringe benefit"? (sorry, no half nude photos of nubile young men on skateboards or bikes...didn't want to look like somebody's perverted mom). (snort!)



Of course I'd love to have my pumpkin turn out to be the next Tony Alva, or Dave Mirra, or perhaps the first professional Scooter boy. But even if he never gets more than halfway up the quarter pipe, we're all enjoying the ride.

Posted by Bullyland at 02:04 PM | Comments (3)

The Company I Keep

When I was 20 something, the crowd I was with tended toward excesses, dodging all personal responsibility and ethics, and making sure no one put a butt out in an active beer can. Although I enjoyed their company and kept up a perfect pace with their antics, I never thought I'd see the day when I was truly proud of myself or the company I kept. I had a blast tearing up the town with my rebellious buddies. We garnered a lot of attention back then, though much of it was negative.

If you read my blog at all you know I'm terribly proud of my family and friends. I have bragged about my successful and lovely girlfriends, my loyal and loving family, and my bright kids. I've mentioned my military workmates but mostly in passing. This one goes out to all of them.

They are a breed that most civilians do not understand. Most civilians are born and bred into the 9 to 5 life. Military members do not have a job, per say. They have a duty, and that duty entails a certain task that they perform in support of their duty. To the outsider it is a foreign concept and really not comprehensible unless you have lived it, or lived with it as a loved one. The military community truly is one big family. Not a McDonald's Crew family, not a corporate family...nowhere in this country can you find a workforce where you are that connected to your coworker. He or she is not, in fact, simply your coworker. He or she could be your lifeline one day and thus is an extension of yourself. Military members are connected 24/7. Much as a family may have members who disagree or rub each other the wrong way, so do we...but just like a family, we still support each other - there are ties that bind.

I am treated as one of the family. I don't have to jog at oh-dark-thirty three times during the workweek and meet a certain weight (though I am more than welcome to) (har har). I'm not required to be available for deployment, on-duty 24 hours or wear a spiffy uniform. But I've lived my entire life in the tightly knit military community, with my father and mother setting the ultimate example of military families' bearing and loyalty, and now I serve my country in the civilian service for the U.S. Air Force.

I understand how military members think because of my long-standing relationship with the military as a dependent and in civil service. I understand reverence of command and custom. I speak the secular language of acronyms, military banquets, ranks, United States Code. I know what core values are and respect service before self. I am not bound by their military contracts, but I still hold the core values dear. It's the way I was raised. You belong to the military, you are not expected to think outside the box per say, but rather bring something important to the table and do it with respect for the chain of command and your United States of America.

Although I don't think the average civilian citizen comprehends the life, work, and way of thinking of a miltary member, I do believe Joe (and Jane) Citizen truly appreciates them. We all go together to lunch quite frequently, and it is a rare outing when we don't have a person approach us and thank my coworkers for their service. Sometimes it is an older gent who did a stint in the military and thus feels a natural bond. These guys (and occasional gals) are unmistakable - there's just something about their demeanor and posture that we know they are one of us. Sometimes it's a child who wants to talk about which branch we're in (with battle-dress-uniform and not blues the current uniform of the day, it's sometimes hard to tell us from our sister services). Sometimes it's an anonymous admirer who pays for our lunch on his or her way out the door, and we never even know who it was.

Every time I'm with someone I work with and they are approached with benevolent gratitude, stories to share, or curiousity I get a feeling of pride to be a part of this family. These people that I see day in and out are dedicated to more than the bottom line. They know that they are serving millions of people, some of whom appreciate them, some of whom despise them, some of whom have little yellow magnets or ribbons dedicated to them, some of whom have little yellow journalist minds working against them. It doesn't matter. They see these millions of people as a whole entity worth dying for. They may not love George W. but they will do as he says as they hold the office of president with the utmost of their respect and obedience. My coworkers will die for their country based on an oath they made that takes approximately 30 seconds to say and one single signature made when they were about 19 years old. That oath is ingrained into their very fiber from the day they get on the bus to Montgomery, Alabama. Can you beat that?

Working for the military means I, too, must change my taskings according to the needs of the Air Force. What I may love doing one year may change to a menial chore that taunts me. This has challenged me - a LOT - throughout my 20 year civilian service career. However, to quit my alliance with the military would be unthinkable. To abandon the people who are so devoted they would travel without question to fight in a country they could care less about on the order of their Commander-in-Chief - the people who would die for me while fighting to protect my careless freedoms - would be treason in my eyes. As long as they'll have me, I'll be here.

I may not always like my job, but I love the company I keep.

Posted by Bullyland at 12:54 PM | Comments (1)

"That's Nature's Way"...Goodbye to Steve the Crocodile Hunter

Today my family mourns the passing of the Crocodile Hunter, a.k.a. Steve Irwin who died in a bizarre swimming incident wherein he was struck in the heart by a stingray.

My father, my older son and my brother are all Crocodile Hunter afficianados. They can quote every "Irwinism" that ever took hold. They watch his show in rapt attention, alternately gasping and hooting with laughter. My son has a Steve Irwin impression that could make you laugh so hard you'd pee your pants.

His Steve Irwin action figure has had a place of prominence for years on his dresser along with such pop culture greats as Jack Skellington, a Red Hot Chili Peppers bootleg video, the classic CD liner for his Jane's Addiction Nothing's Shocking album, a plastic army guy from a childhood collection, two signature baseballs and a miniature "Beast" action figure. Ironically, you press a button on his chest - right over where his heart would be - and he shouts, among other phrases, the illustrious "CRIKEY!" God!

I've had many laughs myself during Irwin's endearing episodes and I'm stunned that he's gone. At the skateboard park with my younger son yesterday, talk among the older teenagers and young adults was constant Crocodile Hunter banter. I think the common thread among the snatches of conversation I picked up (while pretending to read The Vampire Lestat) was that they felt he had finally hit the bad chamber in his game of Animal Roullette.

I disagree. According to all the reports I've read since it happened, he wasn't taking what could be called a big risk, just swimming alongside a ray while filming his daughter's TV show. Stingrays are not aggressive creatures. Thousands of nature shows have been shot featuring this ocean dweller without incident. Three people have been killed by stingrays in Australia in the past ONE HUNDRED YEARS (17 worldwide, ever). Death by stingray barb is not exactly something a scuba diver would even think about preparing for. The reports have all said he died almost instantaneously when the stingray's barb penetrated his chest and that is a blessing, I guess, if there is one to be found. He was also doing exactly what he loved to do, a life goal that many of us will never achieve. Still, he was only 44, in the best health, and suddenly left behind two small children and his wife and partner in nature, Terri.

Ironically, my friend Sharon was on a Qantas flight just yesterday heading in to the land down under to begin her year there with her company. She emailed us during the trip to share the almost unbelievable (for us) irony. I'm sure she'll be entering a country in mourning.

Steve, we'll miss your infectious enthusiasm and all theimpossibly catchy Irwinisms ..."Crikey!" "Atta Way, Mate!" "That's Nature's Way!" and "Ain't She a Beauty!" etc. Some may prefer the old barefoot bearded crocodile guy, but my family will always relate to the blonde guy in the shorts.

Posted by Bullyland at 09:28 AM | Comments (4)