most cutest ever

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kWq60oyrHVQ

The very end is my favorite!

concrete angels

A few months ago, I found myself in rural seaside Maine. 2 hours from the airport rural! Free time was scarce, but me, my rental car, and my camera circled this sign.

It makes me cry.

Hospital said to arrive at 8:15. I'm an over-achiever who wanted to be freshly showered, Bibled, etc. so my Responsible Adult picked me up at 6am...to drive a mile down the road. 4892 autographs later, I was sitting in pre-op trying and failing to hold it all together. There's the serious eye phobia (I carefully avoid candy aisles during Halloween lest I catch a glimpse of anatomical gummies). Fatal anesthesia errors are sorta kinda some of what I do. Oh, and while the pain of a needle doesn't bother me at all, but feeling of something in my vein is close to unbearable.

I'm an ideal patient for eye surgery, is what I'm trying to say.

I kept it cool and professional the majority of the time. I stood up and shook the hand of every single nurse, tech, and surgeon until world's sweetest nurse asked me to please stay in bed lest I trip and cause more work for her require more surgery. I alternatively cracked "immaculate conception" and "I can start my own religion if I'm with child" jokes to the countless inquiries into my non-existent sex life. Even I grew tired of repeating the same pirate, parrot, and bottle o'rum lines. It was just me, confined to bed, machines clocking every breath, pulse, and heartbeat, and my big scary thoughts.

A lovely nurse pumped my IV full of Valium. Nothing. She turned the volume on my heart monitor way down because all that anxious heart-pounding was setting off alarms that "were disturbing the other patients." A senior nurse soon barked "why hasn't anyone given her Valium?" to which someone called out "um, she was given High Dose 30 minutes ago." Four nurses stopped and stared at me, swimming in a johnny, eyes too alert but hands calmly folded. That heart monitor gave me away.

More drugs. I kept explaining to all these lovely people that, really, I get paid to be a compentent mature adult.

A (very handsome) anesthesia nurse arrived and announced "I'll be your bartender for the day." My Responsible Adult asked for a hit o' that...for herself, which she deserved. Handsome nurse invited me to lie back and relax. I opted to sit up, ramrod straight, thinking "they can't operate on me if I'm awake." Mr. Handsome asked for a bit more Valium and then started The Good Stuff. I think the first shot took a detour, judging by the confused concerned Looks that bounced from my bushy tail to the IV to the bright eyes to the anesthesiologist. Another hit followed, and all I remember was turning to Responsible Adult and giggling "I'm not really a blonde."

I've never been a blonde in my life. I have no idea where that came from.

I woke up at some point and, due to the mass quantities of assorted drugs coursing through my veins, could not safely walk. A nice orderly poured me into the car, Responsible Adult carried me out, and I slept for the next 18 hours.

The pattern of my life has been wake, pain meds, work until my good eye needs a nap, pain meds, sleep, and so on. And with all of this, I marvel at God's hand. How the only thing I know about grandmother turned out to be very important detail. How every appointment was booked next-day due to some last-minute cancellations. How the world's best eye hospital is blocks from my door. How the world's two best occular oncologists fawned over me. How it was less than two weeks from when I discovered a bit of suspicious pigmentation to having it removed by the world's best eye surgeon. And, how even if it was malignant, the entire area was removed. Benign or malignant, I'm looking at thrice a year check-ups. No big deal. And I daresay that the world's best eye surgeon has a handsome single associate who I wouldn't mind seeing thrice a year. That's marvelous.

The recovery is going well. Turns out that living with one eye patched up and one open is not easy. Driving is absolutely out of the question for at least two weeks. I went out in public for the first time tonight, and navigating empty drugstore aisles took an unexpected amount of concentration. There is no dog-walking, stair-climbing, or Merlot-with-dinner-drinking for a while. But otherwise good!

Usefulness of the day: Want fluffy scrambled eggs and omelets? Shake a little baking powder (the canned stuff, not the boxed) and whisk as usual.

Going into surgery tomorrow. Please pray it goes well :)

the eyes have it, bedside manners, and please pray

Last Saturday I went in for my routine annual eye exam. "Doc," I said, "I've had this odd vein-thing for a while." He looked. And looked again. "How long has it been there?" he asked. Panic started to kick in. I gave a rough estimate of more than 3 months but less than 6, explained that I reasoned it was just a burst blood vessel from lifting weights, and commenced the internal kicking of one's rear and smacking of one's forehead. Seriously Allison? He explained that it was not a blood vessel but pigmentation, and ought to be checked out sooner rather than later. I kicked and smacked myself again. Seriously? I am a walking talking skin cancer risk. Very fair skin, very dark hair, blue eyes = cancer, cancer, cancer.

Me and my still-numb eyes walked out to the car and, in the middle of the crosswalk, recalled something about my grandmother. She died a few months before I was born, and I know little about her. Frugal, made my mother re-use her brown paper lunch bag. Strict, took "wash your mouth out with soap" literally, and passed this on to my mother who stocked a small half-bath off the kitchen with liquid hand soap and a toothbrush. And had a glass eye.

I phoned my mother and asked the cause of my grandmother's death. A rare intraoccular melanoma. I lost it. Those yellow numbing drops, by the way, do come out of shirt sleeves with a hearty swipe of Fels-Naptha.

Then got it back. Decided that I could live with one eye. Decided to cut off my hair if I needed chemo. Made a mental note to get medical wishes, power-of-attorney, and will in order. And so on.

I knew exactly the two specialists I needed to see, and I wanted everything done Right Now. A flurry of phone calls to my retired eye surgeon uncle, physician aquaintances, and my friend's friend who once dated a resident at this particular hospital ensued. Nothing. In the midst of all those calls, I prayed for a quick appointment. (Not so) curiously, I phoned for an appointment on Monday. A last-minute cancellation meant I could get in to see Dr. R. on Tuesday...or else after Christmas. Tuesday, done, sold. (Not so) interesting that a dozen well-connected folks could not cause a last-minute cancellation! And then, tomorrow, an 8-hour appointment with Dr. S. Wowsa.

My (physician) father gave me a calming, supportive lecture.
"Allison, you must see a very good surgeon."
"Yes, I agree."
"Really, it is absolutely crucial that you see someone good."
"On the same page, Dad-o."
"Allison, you want someone who is a highly skilled surgeon."
"I am not arguing with you. Agreed. You are making me anxious."
"Well, I'm just saying that you need to see a highly trained, highly skilled, highly experienced surgeon."
"Actually, I was just going to see my mechanic. He's got some drills and such in the back and would do a phenominal biopsy."
"What is wrong with your car?"

Seriously, Dad? F for bedside manner.

A patient, tolerant, lovely, tolerant friend insisted on accompanying me to Dr. R. Eye appointments largely consist of waiting: waiting for eyes to numb, dilate, etc. Numb, see Dr. 1. Numb, see Dr. 2. And so on. After wrestling away my Blackberry - on which I was conducting some frantic research - she tried to keep me distracted. In gratitude, I said nice things like "I don't care about Wikileaks" and "I don't care about North Korea, I care about my eyes" and "I'm only criticizing the way you hung up my jacket because yelling at you makes me feel in control of something."

Well. A for self-awareness, at least.

When the 5-hour appointment was finally over, Friend pleasantly asked if there was a way for me to feel in control without snapping at her for not hitting the elevator button quickly enough, I lost it. Again. Right there by the elevator. "Kiddo, loving you is like tackling a porcupine! Why?!" she said...a little louder than necessary. "I'm a very scared litle porcupine right now!" I wailed. To all the lovely folks on the ninth floor around 2pm last Tuesday, I do apologize. I'm actually a generous, considerate, lovely person. Though I completely understand why you might have confused me with the occular oncology version of Bridezilla.

And, just for the record, I am amazing at handle anyone else's crises. Really. Really. People pay me to put out fires! And I volunteer with people who are dying in hospice care! I'm good at it! So says the foot-high stack of heartfelt thank-you letters in my office!

Dr. R. said go see Dr. S. Again, landed a quick appointment for tomorrow morning. Dr. S. is, interestingly, the same surgeon who treated my grandmother. And Dr. S. is no joke. All of this week was spent getting pre-op clearance in the event Dr. S. orders an immediate biopsy/surgery. Whew. Blood work, cardiac checks, physical exams are a full-time job!

In all likelihood, I am looking at a benign bit of pigmentation. If it is malignant, it can probably be excised. If that doesn't work, there are chemo eye drops. But there very likley will be a biopsy involved. And, in addition to being a horrific patient, I have horrific issues with eyes. I deal with blood, guts, gore, pain, suffering for work, and I'm perfectly - if strangely - at ease. But eyes? I get nauseus at the sight of eye models in waiting rooms. So, yes indeed, tomorrow should be tremendous fun :(.

The good news? I secured both appointments with unheard-of speed. People come from around the world to be treated at this hospital (including my late grandmother) and it is right down the street from me. And work has been perfect...much like my pre-op blood work! Please pray that all this pigmentation-melanoma-cancer foolishness goes far, far away.

oh nom nom nom

Amen, amen, amen.

Listen, I'm hardly some liberal crunchy granola-eatin' Obama-smoochin' hippie. Though I am fond of my Birenstock clogs and Grateful Dead, I've never heard of this film until today. When did food, water, and air become so very political? Baffling. And oy. Oy, oy, oy. I very much doubt that Eve was tempted by a Froot Roll Up...but I'm only half-kidding when I predict that certain American so-called conservatives will take aim at *that* next. "See what happens when you eat an apple? You FALL."

been traveling. more traveling. if you have a moment, please pray for safe travels.

i hate plane travel more than anything else. amtrak? LOVE. planes? no. no thank you.

been to some interesting places lately. pics to come soon. hint: mostly cows. and this upcoming trip? ocean, bears, moose...and not much else. the nearest airport is a 2+ hour drive. holy moly. will i even get cell reception?

in other news:

1. i am shopping for furniture. dante missed a level of hell.

2. jack does not have cancer, nor is his foot broken. he will, however, fake both when he feels neglected. unfortunately, the vet bills are not fake.

3. i'm in that weird spot where i look at certain things and think "hmm, i like x. wait, i think x keeping me from getting closer to the Lord."

4. oh my: ethnic grocery stores. i do not care for most asian-style foods, let alone the seafood, pork, and interesting meats that predominate. pig uterus? nope. however, $.79/lb for organic baby bok choy? $.99/lb for spaghetti squash? yes, please.

5. my new addiction: chunks of fresh homemade mozzarella and a sliver of tomato, wrapped up in basil.

orchid

God writes the gospel not in the Bible alone, but on trees and flowers and clouds and stars. Martin Luther


$12 flea market orchid.

I think a pure snow-white spray is needed in the bedroom and the living area needs a slim shower of sunshine-yellow.

Yes, indeed.

guard dog

After some recent and alarming incidents in the immediate vicinity of my office, I asked Big Boss Man if I could bring Big Guard Dog with me on nights and weekends.

Dear Big Boss Man:

I understand the answer is very likely no, but would it be ok if I brought in my Lab if I work evenings or weekends? He is nearly 11 years old, very friendly, had never had a accident, is short-haired and shaved so he will not shed, and he will never leave my ofice.

His answer: Your dog is welcome anytime.

Now, all that I wrote is true. But not totally truthful. This Addendum should have followed...

Dear Big Boss Man:

In the interests of full disclosure, I must provide you with this Addendum to yesterday's correspondence in which I described my dog as an older, quiet, mannerly old fella.

1. Jack is crazy.

2. Jack is immune to prescription and over-the-counter canine sedatives as well as Benadryl.
3. Jack has a paper fetish.

4. And a bit too fond of ladies' unmentionables...which I guess isn't really relevant here.
4. At nearly 11 years, he is regularly mistaken for an 11 month pup.

5. And so on.

6. And so on.

7. Ad infinitum.

8. However, you will be pleased to know that Jack shares an interest in the law. From appellate briefs
to basic research
to "Products Liability and the Search for Justice." Jack joined me on a "test" Saturday last week. And he did phenominally well. He nearly knocked over an accountant, but in a loving sort of way. After cursory sniffs around the place and deep Labby eyes longing to properly sniff out every single blessed office and every single blessed cubicle, he promptly passed out.

"Mamma, enough with the flashes!"

Eventually, he realized that the law ain't nearly as exciting as Hollywood would have one believe.

"Seriously?"

"This is what you do all day?"

"Yawn."

cows and corn

It has been an insane past 2 work weeks, and there is 1 more to go. I think. Possibly 2.

I have dubbed this my "Cows Across America" tour.

Leg 1: I drove through 2 hours of steep winding 2-lane roads of cornfields, knuckles white, and trying to forget that I had ever read Children of the Corn. The few miles right before the destination ought to require tokens to travel as they rival some of the more stomach-dropping roller coasters - I actually did keep an eye out for sick attorneys on the side of the road. I may or may not have snapped a cell phone pic of a lonely field and sent it to my paralegal with the caption "I think Deliverance was filmed here." I arrived at my destination very early, needed to powder my nose, and told the nice lady residing in my GPS to please find me a bathroom. Burger King: 16 miles away...driving approximately 10mph.

Lesson: Never, ever pass up an opportunity to use an Interstate restroom. And "well, I've read Stephen King, so I know what goes on in corn fields" will never be an appropriate response to a hotel clerk's "what do you think of our area?"

Leg 2: More cows, more corn. I may or may not have snapped a cell phone pic of a cow standing smack in the middle of the road and sent it to entirely too many people with the caption "mooooove over."

Lesson: I think I'm funny.

Leg 3: Begins tomorrow. This time I'll be bringing the camera along. Lucky you.

wish

Sometimes I wish there was someone who I could call.


I learned that my brother threatened suicide three weekends ago and was promptly committed for 5 days. He admitted that the threat was an attempt to woo a lady friend, and not a legitimate attempt. (Snarky side note: is a suicide threat attractive to women? Whew, I'm a terrible person. Moving on.) Most people, upon finding that one's brother is locked away in a psychiatric ward, would not breathe a huge sigh of relief and drop to one's knees in thanks. I did. Not the dropping, as I was behind the wheel, but plenty of thanks. I have been enouraging my parents to force him into treatment for years. Unfortunately, the law says that involuntary commitment is warranted only for immediate threats of harm to self or others.



Basically, he wasn't killing himself fast enough for the law.

He has been sleeping all day, every day, for nearly 5 years. Refuses to get a job, refuses to move out of my parent's house, refuses to do anything but be extremely unpleasant for the few hours he is awake. Me? I did an armchair diagnosis of anxiety plus depression with psychotic features.


The problem is, I think, that the people around him on a regular basis - my parents and sister - are so used to his behavior that they didn't realize how abnormal it is. Totally in vain in December, I suggested to my mother that when one responds to a sister he hasn't seen for nearly a year with a "fuck you" upon being greeted, wished a Merry Christmas, and offered breakfast, well...something ain't right. In fact, something is very, very wrong. And there are professionals and medications out there that will help.

So he did his 5 days and was released on a Friday. My mother told me that he admitted that the threat was not real...but that he didn't feel safe alone. For someone who - literally - responds to "good morning" with "fuck you," this was especially alarming to me. The fact that he is forced to take an anti-depressant - which can prompt suicidal behaviors in the early dosage period - compounded my alarm.

So my parents did the rational, reasonable thing. They left him alone while they went to their weekend house.

I phoned my mother daily to check in. Tonight my father told me that he is not doing well. Whatever that means. My family isn't exactly into disclosure.

So...my wish is for someone to whom I could vent all the details of this ridiculousness without anyone (1) blaming my parents (only I can do that) or (2) privately wondering if mental illness runs in the family.

I have no clue what will become of my brother. None. Really, none. All I know is that I am the only one who appears to be taking my brother's health seriously, and yet I am the one who he is least likely to listen to and least likely to make any kind of an impact. Briefly, my brother has long concentrated all his anger against The World in me. Convenient, as I lived 350 miles away for 10 years. But inconvenient, too, as I appear to be the only one who thinks that sleeping 20 hrs/day and anger that is, frankly, frightening, are not normal.

Lord, help him.

things that make me go hmmm

My floors got redone this weekend and, in the interests of not getting high-as-a-kite off the sanding and sealant fumes, the dogs and I are living with a friend for a few days. (They actually are decent houseguests.)

This friend lives in the woods. That's woods to me, not necessarily woods to most of you. And when I say "woods," well, I really mean "formerly dense forest razed to make room for yet another tract of architecturally bland McMansions inhabited by a lot of inconspicuous consumers who pour gallons of poison over their perfetly manicured lawns before retreating to snack on organic corn chips and organic lemonade sweetened with organic cane sugar."


Personally, I think the perfectly manicured lawn-fountain-statues look is lovely...if one means it ironically. Give me the wild - or at least individualistic - look any day! Does anyone honestly think that a reproduction of a Greco-Roman statue next to the garage automatically vests one with class?


Answer: Evidently, and Italian-Americans are disproportionately afflicted.


The problem with plunking down a home with Palette 2 countertops/cabinets/flooring in the kitchen and Palette 5 vanity/tiles/hardware in the master bath in said forest is that forests tend to be inhabited by all manner of forest-y denizens.

Who knew?


I was trying to relax in the tub yesterday afternoon when I heard Coco going crazy at the back door. No matter. Could be an errant leaf. Then Jack started going crazy. Not his 'big boy' bark, which is enough to produce a puddle between your feet, but enough of a "you should see this, mamma!" bark that, with a great sigh, made me leave my nice cool bath. A feral, small, sleek, perfectly black kittycat was making her way around the yard. No sooner had I sighed and sunk back into my bath than I heard more commotion. This time, a deer. A young male, judging by his antlers. Clearly up to no good what with his snacking on birdseed and such.

My point?

Cats and deer? Cause for major alarm. Fireworks? Not a peep.

I don't get it either.

hunger and yearning

I've been sort of trudging along this whole capital-S Spiritual journey partially out of a sense of obligation, partially out of a sense of "it's good for me!"(like broccoli, you know), and partially out of a desire to not go to Hell.

I knew - know - precisely what is missing: that pure yearning after God. I yearned to have that yearning. That has been my prayer for so long: please, make me yearn for You. Turn my heart to you. Make me want You, make me want to know You, make me hunger for You. I am so very envious of those who have that hunger...yes, envy is a sin, but I kinda suspect it ain't that bad of a sin :)

For years, I didn't understand why some prayers were answered immediately. Indeed, some so fast I had to giggle. "Please let there be a parking space." Done. "Please tell that driver to let me cut in front of him." Done. "Please help me find my car keys." Done...and done, and done, and done. And yet others - others that, in sum, begged God to teach me to glorify Him, to recognize sin, to turn away from it, and to, above all, push me to that singular wanting? Not so immediate.

I'm beginning to suspect that maybe, just maybe, by proving that He could be faithful about the little things, He could be faithful about the Big Things.

A friend lent me a book - Jesus Calling - and, my goodness, is that title ever accurate. I will write more later, but I am now totally floored by the way that so many of us write off or condense down the entire Bible as "love your neighbor as yourself." It's in there - don't get me wrong - but how many souls have been deceived by this falsehood that loving one's neighbor is all there is?

My oh my.

Just some random, mid-week, haven't-slept-for-more-than-4-hours thoughts.

just a list on a Sunday evening

1. Well, I can't believe I've been with this new job for more than one month. Time flies.

2. It is hot, hot, HOT here. I and my snow-white ancestors were not meant for this climate. I wilt. I melt into a sticky puddle. As much as I adore my windowed office, it gets full sun. I down so much ice water that I have to rotate which floor's bathrooms I use so no one comments on my excessive use of the facilities...unfortunately, drug use is hardly uncommon among the lawyerly folks.

3. I have to fly this week. On an airplane, incidentally. I hate flying. If you feel so inclined, pray for safe travels on Tuesday and Wednesday.

4. I took on a roommate for a few months. She neglected to mention she is terrified of large dogs. Jack has been taking full advantage of that, sidling up very close to her, giving a short, startling bark...and grinning as she flies to the dog treat jar to thwart an imminent attack.

5. I discovered that the large berry tree in my yard is actually a mulberry tree. The birds gorge themselves on the fallen berries, ocassionally getting tipsy from the fermented berries and flying into my window. I caught Coco doing the same. Gorging, not flying.

6. I decided that, in the interests of sanity, I need to take one full day off: no work, and no work talk. Curiously, God knew when He was talking about when He said something about a day of no work.