Spelling Makes Everything Better

You will not believe me when I say that sometimes I censor what I write in this spot. I know! The person who has written about pantyhose and her eyebrows so many times they show up in Google searches leaves something unpublished?

Yes. Once in a great while I look at what I've just written and say to myself, "Hey, how about you hold off for just a second and think about this? Is that really the tone of voice you want to use, Missy?"

Yesterday was such a day. I wrote a page-long rant about elections, which actually was a page-long rant about the people who are making me CRAZY calling me about elections. I mean, normally I am a good citizen and want to do the good citizen-y thing by participating in all things election related. But this year? We are getting four to six calls EVERY NIGHT asking whether we plan to vote, and for whom we will be voting, and would you please listen to the following statement and say whether you strongly agree, somewhat agree, neither agree nor disagree, somewhat disagree, or strongly disagree? I know the pollsters have a job to do and are way underpaid to do it, but we do not continue to pay for a land line in the House on the Corner just so I can mess up the poll results because I get confused between 7 (somewhat strongly agree) and 2 (would never in a million years wear stretch pants).

I even had a picture of cranky Uncle Sam queued up and pointing directly at you, the voting reader, to indicate my displeasure with the hundreds of calls from pollsters and the mega-hundreds of robocalls from elected officials who are endorsing candidates, which in my opinion is a pretty poor way to solicit my vote since I think every current office-holder should be thrown out and we should re-start government with a clean slate. I mean, didn't they seem to do this better back when Washington was president?

Anyway, I'm not going to write about that. Instead I'm going to say that this morning I was pronouncer at the city spelling bee, and I pretty much love that job to an incoherent degree except that I spent two hours staring at the backsides of the winners' trophies while I pronounced words and I now want one desperately.

Are those not the cutest things you've ever seen in your life? They are Spelling Queen Bees!

Queen bees who spell, and who are either holding torches or making a rude gesture toward the i-before-e-except-after-c rule. I seriously thought about slipping one into my purse then looking around with big innocent eyes when the fourth-place winner wondered where his trophy had gone.

If I had one of these trophies I could not be irritated, not even when the eighth call from UNKNOWN NUMBER shows up as we're finishing dinner. No, I would stay calm and answer it, and say "Friend, we have a land line because the stucco walls of the House on the Corner make cell phone reception sketchy and I'm pretty sure someone I love is going to call, but you are not that someone. So unless you are calling to offer me a Spelling Queen Been trophy, good-bye."

G-O-O-D-B-Y-E.

How to Fix Flying

Well, hey, everyone! I'm back!

I thought of you often in the past week, as I was struck by the eccentricities and foibles of the traveling public and wished I had you buckled in right beside me so we could discuss those eccentricities and foibles. Six flights, only one of them delayed, meant I had an unusually fortuitous trip to Minneapolis (where everyone talks like they're right out of my favorite television series), but airline travel is not without it's whaaaaa...? moments, including the following:

1. Has everyone lost their senses in the boarding of the airplane process? What is up with the boarding first of everyone with seats in the FRONT OF THE PLANE? I know, I know, they're all members of the Super Duper Platinum Zirconium club, but that doesn't mean they know how to put a carry-on into the overhead bin wheels first, and that does mean all of us who are in seat 26F (oh, yes, I was) are stacked up in the jetway like dominoes waiting to fall and hoping we land in our seats. This is not pleasant, American Airlines.

2. Of course, wrestling carry-on luggage appears to be optional these days. Each of my flights was full so "courtesy checked luggage" was offered, nay, was URGED on us. I didn't take advantage of this on the way to my fancy meeting, where I would have been embarrassed to meet people wearing yesterday's underwear and no make-up had the airline misplaced my bag. On the way home, though, when the gate agent pleaded for us to let them stow our luggage for free, I was all heck-yeah. Later I congratulated myself endlessly for not having to wrestle that bag in the airport during a six-hour wait after that delayed first leg meant I missed my connection.

3. Is there anything better than wireless access in an airport? I will answer that question. No. There is nothing better than wireless access in an airport. After I had been rebooked into the final flight of the day out of the hub city, instead of fretting about the hour at which I would be arriving and how much sleep I would not be getting before trustees arrived at Small College the next day, I pulled out my iPad and spent those six hours watching Inspector Barnaby solve Midsomer Murders whilst I knit an entire sock. It's a combination that's better than Prozac. Also, an overdose of Inspector Barnaby makes me use words such as "whilst."

4. Finally, you may be wondering why I illustrate this post with a can of Bloody Mary Mix. That's because my sole flying superstition is that I drink Bloody Mary Mix on flights. Always. No vodka, just the spicy tomato juice that says "Hey! You're on an airplane! But you're not going to crash!" better than anything else. The very day I got home I ran across an internet article that explained why BMM is so delicious on planes. It had to do with increased cabin pressure and salt sensitivity and blah blah blah and now I cannot find it, in spite of Google's best efforts. But take my word for it--science.

So to summarize: If I were queen of the airlines, I would check everyone's bags, board travelers in a civilized and rational manner, and hand each person a can of Bloody Mary Mix right there on the jetway, where Midsomer Murders would be playing on a continuous loop.

Who says flying can't be fun?

Letters

Boy#1 had the first emailed reply after the update to him and his brothers Friday afternoon.


"Whooooooo! I haven't been this relieved about something I didn't know was a potential crisis in quite a while. Excellent news". 

I couldn't have said it better myself. 

And now I'm traveling and meeting with trustees and greeting alumni until I collapse in an exhausted heap Saturday night. Behave yourself until I see you again next week.

Friday Morning

 
These are the first initials of dear friends who are currently fighting breast cancer:

G., who will get her portacath Tuesday to begin chemo. G. is taking care of her aging mother who can no longer get out of her wheelchair unassisted.

S., whose early treatment plan of lumpectomy plus radiation has been altered to include mastectomy plus 12 weeks of chemo, the hair-loss variety of chemo. S. is the mother of three teenagers.

R., who had beaten her breast cancer several years ago but is back in treatment after a recurrence.  R. is funny and energetic and keeps the trains running on time.

And Mary Ann. I'm using Mary Ann's full name--I'm pretty sure she won't mind. Mary Ann was my roommate when I was in the Peace Corps, and she's one tough cookie. The kind of tough cookie who rides a horse over mountain roads in pouring rain to meet with her nutrition group when we were in Costa Rica. The kind of tough cookie who took over when our house was robbed, cleaned up the mess, sedated me (yeah, I thought it was an aspirin), and sat next to the broken window all night just waiting for the thieves to come back. For the record, I don't condone giving people sleeping pills so they'll calm down after their house is robbed even if those people are shrieking about their lost cassette deck, but hey, I kind of can't blame her.

I describe Mary Ann in full because she was the one who let me know a month ago that she's been diagnosed with breast cancer, Stage 4, and is halfway through chemo.

"I'm tough, and I'm going to beat this," she told me then, "but would you pray for me? And get a mammogram."

I got that mammogram. And I flunked.

The form letter from the hospital clearly was designed to not induce panic but to make it clear that its recipients needed to act immediately.  "Irregularities in your mammogram make it necessary for you to come back for more testing. Many of  these irregularities turn out to be benign."

To my surprise, my first reaction to the news was not panic but irritation. There is no history of breast cancer in my family. I have been compulsively punctual about getting my annual mammograms--until two years ago, when some government agency announced it was okay to go two years between testing, and the two years stretched into three. But still...my gynecologist had checked me every year (while chiding me that I should ignore the government and be tested every year).

I had always been fine so I wasn't panicked, I was irritated. I have too much going on to have breast cancer. In the next few weeks I had calendared a three-day trip to Minneapolis for a national denominational meeting, Small College's Homecoming, trustee meeting, the start-up of two different women's groups after summer hiatus, and being at the piano for a friend at her first gig as a lounge singer.

"Dang!" I thought as I read the lines. "I don't have time for this."

But then reality set in. I knew that no person is immune to breast cancer, no woman and no man. I had seen my boss and mentor, Susan, die of breast cancer at age 42. Strong women? She was a national age-group racketball champion. She was strong and awesome and she died.

So the next morning I called to schedule the recommended follow-up mammogram and diagnostic ultrasound. The earliest I could get in was 10 days later. Ten days. That's nothing in the eyes of eternity, but 10 days of wondering what the first mammogram had found. What was it? Was it a shadow, or a lump? Right breast or left? Was it bigger or smaller than the lump that had led to a biopsy after my very first mammogram 20 years ago that turned out to be the aftermath of breastfeeding four babies?

I didn't tell many people, not even tell the Boys, not at this stage. But Husband, of course. My two sisters. Another dear friend from Bible study who has had breast cancer and is officially deemed cured. My work buddy to whom I Skype prayer requests before I go into tough meetings. G. And Mary Ann.

I wanted people on my team who could pray for me, but pray in a way that harmonizes with my own prayers. A few weeks ago we worshiped in a different church and the pastor clarified this so perfectly that it had been ringing through my mind every day, every hour:

"We know that prayer works," he said. "We know it because we have experienced prayer working, and we know it works because the Bible tells us that 'the prayer of a righteous person availeth much.' But we also know that God is not a vending machine. You don't put in your dollar's-worth of prayer and out pops what YOU want to happen. No, prayer is a matter of aligning ourselves with the will of God, of reflecting His will back to Him."

The week was long and I was cranky. On Thursday I had no patience for anyone. "You think you have problems because your brochure isn't printed yet? I may have CANCER." It was like being newly pregnant, before you tell anyone. "You think your life is wonderful? I am PREGNANT!" Yes, just like that, except on Opposite Day.

Husband followed my lead in talking about What Was Happening. We didn't verbalize what ifs. We didn't jump ahead of the following step into the unknown. But on Friday before I left for the hospital he let slip that he had researched the subject on WebMD. I had told him that the sonogram would only be done if something untoward was found on the next mammogram. "No, I think a sonogram is standard in this case," he told me. To my own amazement, I had not Googled "abnormal mammogram." This is unlike me; I am normally into the tenth screen deep before I make a follow-up appointment.

Husband and sisters and friends offered to stay with me during the mammogram, but I told them no. I didn't want to be responsible for anyone's emotions but my own, and from long experience as a middle child I knew I would worry about how each of them was holding up.

As I sat in the waiting room, I pecked out lines into my iPad's Notes program.

"I have so many people praying for me. I feel it. I laughed as I walked out of the door to come here. They're praying for God's will to be done.And what is God's will? That I do not fear. That I am kind to those I encounter. That I seek him. That I glorify him. All of these I know are indisputably His will because He repeated those things over and over in the Bible. That I have perfect, perky boobs? If the past 60 years is any indication, not so much."

Since this post is already book-length and I'm sure any of the men in my life are squicked out by all this talk of my breasts, I'll fast-forward over the ensuing hour.

I called Husband from the ultrasound room, my shirt halfway back over my head. I broke the no-cell-phones rule because I couldn't wait a moment longer to hear his voice.

"I'm fine. They didn't find anything wrong. They said to come back in a year for a well woman check." His sigh was so deep it sounded like a sob. "Are you breathing?" he asked me with a laugh, "because I just started again."

Then I left the hospital grinning so widely that my cheeks hurt. I stepped into the street in a daze before noticed a car was coming half a block away, and this made me laugh out loud. Wouldn't that be ironic? If I were hit by a car just as I felt so invincible?

I texted my other prayer warriors, and the joy and relief spilled out of the iPhone screen. Much Older Sister, when she heard that the abnormality on the first mammogram may have been a digitally-captured wrinkle, reminded me of our Great Aunt Gladys, who claimed that in her later years her once-sexy bras were just "a handy way to roll 'em up and tuck 'em in." (Great Aunt Gladys was a character.)

This morning I woke up early, something that never happens on the rare unscheduled Saturday. I couldn't get back to sleep, thinking about the days between when Mary Ann urged me to get a mammogram and yesterday.  I'll get up and go about my day without having to temper my joy about the Royals play-offs (woo-hoooooo!) with the knowledge that "I might have CANCER."

G., S., and R. do not have that luxury. Nor does Mary Ann. They are all strong women and tough cookies, and they plan to be with us for many, many more years. Please, in their honor, make sure your mammograms are current. I will be praying for God's will in their lives, His good and perfect will that is peace and kindness and grace during suffering.

Because my initials are not among them, but until Friday morning they could have been.

Zap You! and You! and You!

Source

Back in much less sensitive days when these things still could be joked about, I had a colleague who told me about a previous workplace where they had played the One Shot game. This game was played on days when everyone was supremely irritating and demanding, so supremely irritating and demanding that it was became unclear who would be the recipient if you had a gun but only one bullet.

Today, of course, that seems horrible to even discuss. I mean, shootings aren't something to be taken lightly. They happen.

But today, if I had an imaginary Taser and only enough zapping power to incapacitate one person, it would be a close race as to who would be left twitching on the ground.

I am a complete Mrs. Crankypants, and several colleagues have had perfectly normal and reasonable requests which at the moment struck me as so abnormal and unreasonable that my blood pressure spiked precipitously. Then I realized that I was being a crankypants and calmed down, but in that one moment, hoo-eeeee.

I mentioned this to one of the Boys in a chat, and he cautioned me against doing anything untoward.

"You know, don't you, that if you're willing to spend your one tase on several different people you're probably treating them in a way that they're more than willing to spend their one bullet on you?"

He was, of course, right on target (so to speak) so don't be surprised if you come upon me later in the afternoon, my bullet-riddled body slumped beside the open door of a 1932 Packard a la Bonnie Parker.

I probably deserved it.

Not That Hot

Celebrity in Sunglasses

I read a fashion blog that claims that everyone looks hotter in sunglasses. Although I realize you're probably saying "Hold on, MomQueenBee, did you just say you read a fashion blog?" Yes, yes, yes, I do. But that's not what this post is about and looking hotter in sunglasses is not the reason I went to my optometrist to order shades yesterday.

No, that was for a way more practical reason: Said optometrist had told me over the years that eyes get sunburned, too, and that I should put on sunglasses every time I put on sunblock. Also, due to the happy fluke of being mostly well during the past year, Husband and I had not spent our medical savings account down to zero and there are only seven days left in the use-it-or-lose-it fiscal year.

So, yay! "Free" sunglasses to replace the ones I had lost at the football game four years ago sent me to my optometrist's office in a good mood.

I picked out a modest-priced set of frames, then sat happily waiting for the optician to tell me how much I would have left over to spend on vitamins and Band-Aids in order to wipe out that flexible spending account.

This led to an instant message conversation with Boy#2 this morning.

Do you know how much sunglasses cost in Small Town?

$18?

Try again.

$225?

Try again.

$1, Mom!


Because we were not actually playing Price Is Right, I was able to tell him that sunglasses in Small Town cost $613. 

Six. 

Hundred.

Thirteen

Dollars.

Not only did I not get money back for vitamins and Band-Aids, I had to write a check for $213 in order to get both lenses. 

Now, let's just do a little comparison. For $613, I could have bought a new iPad. I could have extended my Scribd subscription for six years. I could have bought as many shoes as I will need  for the next decade (based on current wearing out rate of my shoes). I could have paid for a cleaning lady to come twice a month until next Easter. 

I could have done so, so, so many things I'd rather do than cover my eyeballs. But I gulped, wrote the check, and crept home to stare into the mirror and tell my retinas they'd better be worth it. 

Because everyone looks hotter in sunglasses, but I'm pretty sure I won't look that hot.

Trash Majal

Over the years the Boys have often occasionally never asked my advice on choosing a life partner. I have, however, made a list of things that I would have told them if they had asked, just in case my not-yet-in-existence grandchildren someday ask how I managed to live with Grampsy so long, what with his tendency to appear halfway through a television show and ask me explain the plot line even though I am in the middle of WATCHING the show.

The answer is this: He's a guy who does things right.

And I will offer as evidence the structure pictured in today's post. Not the garage, which was built in 1927 at the same time as the House on the Corner and frankly, will not be included in the itinerary when the HoC is part of the celebrity home bus tour. No, the structure I reference is the trash can holder.

Several weeks ago it suddenly dawned on us (in the sense that this particular sun has been rising for 27 years) that more of our visitors use the back door than the front door. All of these visitors have walked past our trash cans, which had been conveniently located right outside that back door since we moved into the house almost three decades ago. We're come-right-in-into-the-kitchen type of folks and I guess we thought ripening chicken bones gave a special olfactory welcome note. Besides the trash cans, the basement steps were full of old shoes (for lawn mowing purposes) and the whole foyer needed paint.

So we decided to spiffy up that entrance. I cleaned all the junk out of the down-to-the-basement stairs and got ready to paint. Then I ran out of steam and went back to knitting and Netflix.

Husband began to build the new home for the trash cans. And unlike his lazy wife, he did not run out of steam. For three solid weeks he has spent every spare minute either mentally drawing plans, visiting the lumberyard, or fretting over the squareness of the construction. He measured twice and cut once, countersunk the bolts, matched lattices with the precision of a quilter. Every so often he would call on me to hold the end of the chalk line while he snapped a guide rule or to support a board too long to fit on the work bench while it was being cut to length.

Saturday was the grand unveiling, and people, this thing is a masterpiece. Notice the front corner with the beveled insert that covers the raw joint between the side and the end boards? And the eight-inch top railing? This is the Rolls-Royce of trash can holders.

It is also, unfortunately, behind the garage, hidden by a tree, on the side of the house that is away from the public.

You know that old saying about how you can judge someone's character by how he treats people when no one is watching? That, my not-yet-in-existence grandchildren, is why Grampsy is a keeper: He built the Trash Majal behind the garage.