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Archive for August, 2024

Count the “I”s, not the “Lies,” Bill Clinton said.

One of so many moments that made me proud to be a Democrat, no, to be an American, last week watching the Democratic National Convention in Chicago. Everyone I spoke to felt the exact same way; like we were turning a corner on hate and division, like we were righteously taking back the flag, standing up for working men and women, for unions, for civil rights. For once, I felt the urgency of a woman who knew exactly what was at stake in the coming months. Kamala Harris said,

“(Trump) plans to create a national anti-abortion coordinator and force states to report on women’s miscarriages and abortions. Simply put, they are out of their minds.

Unlike the Republicans, the DNC delivered a hopeful message for our future, and now we have to act because November is right around the corner. But what can we do exactly? In order to win, we Dems need a three point margin because of the electoral college, but we need to win BIGLY, by maybe five points! I’m no longer knocking on doors, and I hate making phone calls, but I can pick up a pen! WRITE! The Bride and Groom have already had a ‘write and sign letters to swing states party.’ You can sign up to write and send postcards here: https://turnoutpac.org/postcards/

You could also buy merch, and be your own personal billboard. I’ve got a VOTE tee shirt with the letters made out of books and rainbows and even a uterus – but that’s not good enough. I need one of those hats with the comma followed by a “La.” Or maybe even a camo cap? We do need to take back the symbols of freedom and democracy that the GOP co-opted, I want to hang an American flag by my front door and put up a Harris-Walz sign on the lawn! You know, next to the “Hate has no place in our neighborhood” sign.

Did you know that the Second Gentleman’s daughter, Ella Emhoff, has been ridiculed by Mr T’s followers? What those cult followers didn’t know is that Ella is an artist and a model, and if I’m reading her correctly, she could care less what they think.

Ms. Emhoff, a textile artist and knitwear designer, has become known for her style since she first grabbed national attention during the inauguration of President Biden in 2021 sporting an embellished plaid Miu Miu coat on the steps of the Capitol…. On the first night of the convention, Ms. Emhoff wore cream trousers and a drapey top from Helmut Lang topped with a camouflage hat with “Harris Walz” emblazoned on it in neon orange letters. The sold-out hat has become a popular piece of campaign merchandise in recent weeks. (She also posted photos from that evening, including a shot of Tim Walz’s children putting up bunny ear fingers behind their unknowing dad’s head during an interview with NBC’s Jacob Soboroff.)” https://www.nytimes.com/2024/08/22/style/ella-emhoff-dnc-harris.html

My first reaction was hooray, they’re not bashing Kamala Harris’ pantsuits. And my second reaction was how dare they go after Ella after Ann Coulter’s malicious remarks about Walz’ son Gus. I thought a candidate’s child was off-limits. I remember how Chelsea Clinton was maligned for her curly hair and braces, so when Ella talked about her step-mom coming into her life when she was 14, I could relate. I was a young teen when the Flapper married my stepfather, a Judge in our town. I was going from an only-child home into a birth family with five siblings and two step-siblings. Talk about culture shock.

The Bug celebrated her 12th birthday this past weekend. She’s entering the wonder years of adolescence and my mission as her Nana is to be a safe place to fall. We can always bake muffins and string jewelry over here.The Rocker and Aunt Kiki gave her Taylor Swift tickets, she had a spa day with all her friends at her house with all the skin products, and yesterday she scored the winning points in her school’s volleyball game! 7th Grade is looking pretty darn good so far.

And so is this election – last week was a game changer. Here are my Virgo Bimbies (kiddos in Italian)!

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I remember when Great Grandma Ada broke my ribs.

We were in Target and she was newly arrived in Nashville; she was rolling along nicely on a motorized red shopping cart, heading towards shorts for Hudson. Suddenly, instead of going backwards, she plowed right into me. I found myself on the floor covered in clothes with red shirted people gathering and gawking. My chest hurt and a foot was aching too, but I managed to walk out of there and straight into an urgent care.

After looking at my chest Xray, the doctor apologized for not being able to prescribe more narcotics! The law had just changed in TN, and the government was trying to control the opioid epidemic by limiting the number of pills a physician could give his/her patient. It wasn’t the first time a doctor had apologized to me for some aspect of care gone wrong – a spinal tap done on my newborn, the path lab mess after an amniocentesis, the West Nile conjunctivitis diagnosis. You can see why I am a skeptical healthcare consumer.

I’ve been thinking about this since I read that two doctors were charged in Matthew Perry’s ketamine overdose death. DO NO HARM takes on new meaning when it pertains to drug addicts. Addiction has touched just about every family I know, including my own. For years we didn’t know where Bob’s middle brother was living, and by the time we intervened and got him into rehab it was too late. He left a couple of days later and died of an overdose just a month before the Rocker’s Bar Mitzvah. He was the sweetest of three brothers, but he was caught in the trap of our medical community with its rules and regs around methadone and a secret underbelly of drug dealers.

And btw, read Barbara Kingsolver’s book “Demon Copperhead” if you’d like to understand Appalachia and the scourge of drug addiction. JD Vance’s book doesn’t hold a candle to Demon.

The Bride told me that ketamine, on its own, would not usually result in death, that Perry’s death was most likely caused by being in a hot tub while also taking a cocktail of drugs including ketamine. Emergency physicians may use ketamine while doing surgical procedures. It supposedly produces a dissociative experience, or as my daughter demonstrated with a whirl of her arms, “The mind separates from the body.” Psychiatrists have started using the drug in treating depression. But why someone would think it was a good idea to abuse ketamine is beyond me, then again, I don’t have an addictive personality… unless you count shoe shopping.

In a combined public and private effort, we have made a dent in the numbers of drug overdoses in our country. By taking drug manufacturers to court, smarter foreign policy measures, enforcing policy at home by stressing treatment, and limiting a doctor’s ability to prescribe narcotics, and of course the availability of over-the-counter Narcan we may be turning a corner. We have life-saving Narcan nasal spray in our house, do you? Oh, and legalizing marijuana nationally would probably help as well.

The new data show overdose deaths involving opioids decreased from an estimated 84,181 in 2022 to 81,083 in 2023. While overdose deaths from synthetic opioids (primarily fentanyl) decreased in 2023 compared to 2022, cocaine and psychostimulants (like methamphetamine) increased.https://www.cdc.gov/nchs/pressroom/nchs_press_releases/2024/20240515.htm

But this all came too late for my brother-in-law.

I spent an hour this past week getting an infusion of Reclast, a bone strengthening drug in the hospital. I sat in a plushy recliner and contemplated the beautiful, verdant landscape outside the picture windows. Except for the occasional bleep from the machine, it was blessedly quiet. Bob sat beside me reading his book on his phone, occasionally the nurse would come in to check on me. Medicare paid for this treatment…

Still, most insurers will not pay for treating the disease of addiction. We are a puritanical country and we expect people to “pull themselves up by their own boot straps.” But this would be like telling me to build my own bones, or telling a diabetic patient to watch what they eat. I read this morning that Matthew Perry paid $55,000 for 20 vials of ketamine. All of his enablers should be held accountable.

And maybe we should all learn to live with a little pain. Yesterday I went to the first Bug’s volleyball game of the season and got hit in the face with a ball during warm-up. My glasses went flying off and I found myself surrounded by kids asking me if I was alright. The Pumpkin and his friends sat in front of me for the rest of the game, my guardians against incoming fouls. Of course, I didn’t cry, until last night’s opening salvo for the DNC.

Also my pearl stringing for Kamala is coming along. Night Night DT

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Don’t get me wrong, I’m in love with the Harris-Walz ticket. We are overdue for a female president, and her VP pick reminds me of my own foster father, Daddy Jim. He’s the guy who went to work every day and came home with a tiny surprise for me. He drove me to the swimming pond and the ice cream store after Sunday Mass. He built me a doll house out of popsicle sticks! Jim and Nell literally saved my life after our family’s Year of Living Dangerously.

And some of my earliest memories involve leaving our tiny home in Victory Gardens only to realize that other people are weird: I had lunch with a friend and her mother swept the entire kitchen floor after we finished – Jim cleaned the kitchen floor every Saturday. I slept over at a cousin’s house and the grandfather clock kept me awake all night – there was no clock, no bells chiming the hour and half hour in our house at night. And when my foster parents would take me to Scranton to visit the Flapper, well everything was different! I didn’t have to clean my plate for instance, the Flapper said,

“All the more for us!”

She also used to say, “Everybody has a story,” which is probably why I became a journalist. I wanted to capture all the details, to connect all the dots, maybe because my life felt so disconnected – one family in NJ and another in PA. I have a vivid memory of swinging on a dutch door that was in the Flapper’s kitchen, and when I close my eyes I can see a curly-headed blond girl in saddle shoes hanging on the bottom half of a blue door.

This morning I was surprised to read that 1-4% of the population cannot construct an image in their brain. Could you close your eyes and imagine an apple? Well, if you can’t don’t worry, it’s not a disorder, but it does have a name, aphantasia. I was intrigued. I asked Bob, so he closed his eyes and told me yes, he can see an apple. But I pressed on; really, can you actually see one in your mind’s eye? Well, he said he’s not seeing numbers… And the funny thing is, I couldn’t.

Closing your eyes and remembering something is different from conjuring up an object out of thin air. I started thinking in words about my favorite apple from Jefferson’s orchard, Pink Lady, which made me think about the Bride’s wedding on Carters Mountain. I could certainly picture that day, the chuppah blowing in the wind of my mind… but the apple, a simple red (or pink) apple was eluding me. Maybe it’s just ADHD in my head? Maybe I really am weird!

“That would make it really hard to draw anything,” the Pumpkin told me in the pool.

“But really, everybody’s weird, Nanay says. We all sit on the spectrum between hyperphantasia and aphantasia. It’s not only possible but likely that you have a totally different internal experience from someone you walk by on the street. ‘The world—as we see it, smell it, hear it, think about it—is reconstructed,’ Shomstein says. Even a single shared experience, a thought, a memory, or a simple image of an apple can look and feel shockingly different on the mind’s stage.” https://www.theatlantic.com/science/archive/2024/08/aphantasia-visual-imagination/679427/?gift=MZkyOCULmn5OA_9_ikIP-3k9e9svpxXbPFSNPM4epew&utm_source=copy-link&utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=share

Now this would seem self-evident, that everybody has their own unique perception of the world. But you’ve got to admit, that Mr T is becoming more and more delusional. I mean come on, to say that Joe Biden will take back the nomination and that the crowd size for a Harris-Walz rally was a conspiracy generated by AI??? Yesterday he insisted on his media platform that the Michigan airplane hangar crowd “DIDN”T EXIST!” I mean I’m almost starting to feel sorry for the guy. He wants his followers to think the picture is fake, just like a good cult leader.

I bet what the ex-president sees when he closes his eyes is a prison cell. We all dream, and some of us daydream, to create our own reality. And sometimes we design perfect, pearl eternity necklaces – pretty weird stuff!

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The Groom is out of the garage apartment! He tested positive for Covid after returning from their beach vacation with his family, so the Bride banished him. But today he is free to walk across the yard and return to work after a negative test. He was reminiscing about the first time he contracted Covid in the MICU, right about the same time, midsummer, in 2020. How different it was then; patients were dying, there was no vaccine, no Paxlovid.

My side-yard neighbor also tested positive last week. Les has become a good friend since we moved here. She’s a bit younger, with two sons in their twenties; one is away in college and the other at his first real job. A new empty nester, married to a pediatrician, I love her spirit. Les can get things done. She told me how we’d divide the monstera plant threatening to take over my dining room, and the next thing you know we’re outside with three pots! We exchange porch surprises of baked goods from time to time and she texts me every morning –

“Good Morning! The gate is open.”

This is my invite to her salt water pool for pool physical therapy! I throw on my bathing suit, grab a towel and walk across the street for my morning meditation/ aqua therapy. I do all my exercises plus deep water pool-noodle-yoga moves and feel like a ballerina again. The water temperature is 84, pure bliss. A little chipmunk races around her shrubs while a rabbit cleans its face, and if I’m lucky it’s blessedly quiet. No hammering construction noises, no lawn machinery, no cicadas. On Wednesdays, the midmorning garbage truck will punctuate my pointe tendus.

When I hang up my old/lady/one/piece bathing suit and step into the shower, I can hear the John Williams’ Olympic theme. Ah, to be 15 again! We’ve been watching synchronized swimming this week, aka Artistic Swimming. Now this is a sport I can handle, after all I used to be a synchronized swimmer at Camp St Joseph for Girls. We’d twirl and tap the lake water in our flowered bathing caps while lesser mortals tried canoeing. But this year’s Artistic Swimming is not this Nana’s Artistic Swimming; this is Cirque du Soleil next level magic:

 “…it demands endurance, power, leonine grace, hair gelatin, dance lessons, mastery of the eggbeater, flamingo, scull and rocket split, daily seven-hour practices, the limberness of fresh linguine, abs of granite, exceptional breath control, pink nose plugs, frequent bruises, occasional concussions…” https://www.washingtonpost.com/wellness/interactive/2024/olympic-artistic-swimming-synchronized-strength-risks-paris/

Granted I can sometimes feel like a seahorse while riding a pool noodle, but I can not fathom doing those tricks underwater!

While making myself another cup of coffee, and wondering why more girls don’t faint in the pool from oxygen deprivation, I decided it was time to tackle the abundance of zucchini Farmer Bob has harvested. I returned from California to three very large zucchini on our kitchen island. I delivered one to the Bride and one to Les – what to do with the third? The Rocker turned me onto the NYTCooking app and lo and behold I found a new and different recipe for zucchini bread! It’s a tad healthier, made with olive oil and just a little brown sugar. I had to add chocolate chips of course.

Yesterday, the Love Bug and I went back-to-school shopping. Here in the South, school starts mid-August which is sacrilegious to a Jersey native. Just like her Mother, the Bug knew exactly what she wanted and was very particular. About to turn 12, the Bug is somewhere between a very large child size and very small adult size… what we’d call a junior size. And who knew a pair of jean shorts could come in so many varieties? Back in the 60s, we would just cut-off our old jeans and call it a day. Now they come pre-cut, already holey and ripped and fringed on the bottom… oh God, I am starting to sound like my age.

Time to wrap this up and jump in the pool. I hope your midsummer day dreams are coming true!

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