In fairness, I must report my losses as well as my wins. I had a big loss yesterday. Missouri fell to UConn. You could tell from the body language, with 1 minute left and six points behind, that Missouri was going down and that they knew it.
Sad. I had them going all the way. I also had Villanova beating Pitt. That proved providential, but I didn't have Villanova winning it all, just making it to the Final Four. This is the madness of March. Mine appears to have ended a round early.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
The small things
I wrote in my morning pages today and had this insight: it’s the little things. I went for my mammogram and bone density scan yesterday. Mammo clear but I had more bone loss. It's clearly my fault. The tech could barely hide her disgust when she read the answers to the questionnaire about my bone care habits. They are dismal. I don't take calcium supplements. I do eat cheese, but rarely do I drink milk. I don't take Vitamin D. She even asked incredulously, no multi-vitamin? No. I said. I felt her disgust as I lay on the table and the scanning thing chunked, chunked over me. I don’t take calcium. It’s almost this willful thing. I was writing about that this morning and then scooted right along to the issue of my mother and my mental wrestle with that ever-present guilty, unresolved issue of where she should be. I haven’t talked to her really since Sunday. I just talked w/ her briefly Tuesday. It’s Friday. So, I’m writing and I realize that to build my bones I have to take 3 calcium tablets a day. Stay in the sun 20 minutes. Walk 30 minutes and jump on my pogo stick. That’s really it. Some small things. As for my mother, I probably don’t have to move to North Manchester. Quit my job. Or sell my house here and buy a larger one (although apparently now’s the time to at least buy if you have money) and move her out here and hire caregivers and a therapist for myself. I probably just need to call her every day and send a card once or twice a week. That’s what I need to do. The small steps not the grand gesture. And I thought that’s not my style, small steps. And how much I miss not having the discipline and persistence to do the small steps because accummulated, they do change things. They rebuild bones. They comfort a mother.
More madness
I don't mean to gloat. Really. I just have to do one of those annoying little cheers: Missouri beat Memphis, an upset. I had Missouri. And, even though I'm a Hoosier, I had also picked Connecticut over Purdue. Not an upset, but pulling against my roots. So kind of an upset.
I don't mean to gloat.
And I won't probably be gloating anymore as this unfolds. But for now. For this moment. Just a teeny tiny gloat.
I don't mean to gloat.
And I won't probably be gloating anymore as this unfolds. But for now. For this moment. Just a teeny tiny gloat.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Recommended Reading
My Sunday morning ritual is Frank Rich in the New York Times. It use to be Vows in the Sunday Times' Style section. But now, it's Rich. When he was on vacation after the election, I was bereft. I have never read the Opinion page of any newspaper. (Nor comics for that matter.) But I have found myself a devoted Rich reader and would gladly fork over the $5 for a Sunday Times and consider it money well spent if his was the only piece I read. That I also more often than not enjoy Maureen Dowd and Tom Friedman is icing.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
March Madness
So far, two days into this grandest of spring rituals, I am 25 out of 32 games on the NCAA bracket. If I was mathematically skilled I could tell you my batting average, but, as established earlier, I am not. So, I'll just say that I think this is one of the best first rounds I've had. But, as they say in sports, the game is yet young and I have many more games to lose.
I've thrown myself into March Madness for 27 years. I haven't once in those 27 years missed filling out a bracket. One year, I won. For the last three years I ran the Republic NCAA pool and named it after my father, The Mike McGaw Memorial NCAA Tournament Pool. My friend's husband did the stats. We thanked him in wine. The first year of that pool I told the winner that I had donated his winnings to my father's Elk's Lodge to restuff the heads that hung in the Isaac Walton lodge hall. For a moment he believed me. This year, someone in sports is managing the event. Lucas called the night before he and Melissa took off for London to check my picks. His friend Brian had made him promise to call him if my picks were wildly different than his, such is my reputation for serious bracket-selection.
For a couple of years, March Madness was one reliable form of distraction while one of us in the McGaw clan was healing. In 1999 it was me from a masectomy and reconstructive surgery. My mom, dad and Ken and I all had brackets and we watched while I sat hunched over a pillow trying not to cough, sneeze or laugh b/c I hurt so much. Another spring, I coaxed my dad into filling out a bracket while we kept track of the games long distance. He in Kokomo fresh from learning he had Stage 4 lung cancer and me fresh from hearing the diagnosis. My mom may have put an entry into tht one too. Always Lucas has entered. And one time we drove into Prescott to Murphy's Bar and Grill knwoing that we could catch some of the games at their grand, old-fashioned bar. It's there that we discovered they had great wings and where over a glass of wine and beer we watched one of the great rituals of spring.
(I had Siena over OSU. That was this year's upset. Although at the last minute I betrayed my state and put Utah over UofA, so disappointed have I been in those boys this year. I missed Wisconsin and Michigan and was wrong about VCU. I still think when I'm 90 I'll play this b/c it's such cheap fun for the price of getting into the nearest pool.
I've thrown myself into March Madness for 27 years. I haven't once in those 27 years missed filling out a bracket. One year, I won. For the last three years I ran the Republic NCAA pool and named it after my father, The Mike McGaw Memorial NCAA Tournament Pool. My friend's husband did the stats. We thanked him in wine. The first year of that pool I told the winner that I had donated his winnings to my father's Elk's Lodge to restuff the heads that hung in the Isaac Walton lodge hall. For a moment he believed me. This year, someone in sports is managing the event. Lucas called the night before he and Melissa took off for London to check my picks. His friend Brian had made him promise to call him if my picks were wildly different than his, such is my reputation for serious bracket-selection.
For a couple of years, March Madness was one reliable form of distraction while one of us in the McGaw clan was healing. In 1999 it was me from a masectomy and reconstructive surgery. My mom, dad and Ken and I all had brackets and we watched while I sat hunched over a pillow trying not to cough, sneeze or laugh b/c I hurt so much. Another spring, I coaxed my dad into filling out a bracket while we kept track of the games long distance. He in Kokomo fresh from learning he had Stage 4 lung cancer and me fresh from hearing the diagnosis. My mom may have put an entry into tht one too. Always Lucas has entered. And one time we drove into Prescott to Murphy's Bar and Grill knwoing that we could catch some of the games at their grand, old-fashioned bar. It's there that we discovered they had great wings and where over a glass of wine and beer we watched one of the great rituals of spring.
(I had Siena over OSU. That was this year's upset. Although at the last minute I betrayed my state and put Utah over UofA, so disappointed have I been in those boys this year. I missed Wisconsin and Michigan and was wrong about VCU. I still think when I'm 90 I'll play this b/c it's such cheap fun for the price of getting into the nearest pool.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Counting
My husband and our friend, Jon Shorr, conspired to contact some of my favorite authors to request that they write me birthday greetings on the event of my 60th birthday. The one who did, and who is my favorite author notwithstanding her reply to Jon's request, is Mary Doria Russell. She of Thread of Grace and Dreamers of the Day and Children of God. She wrote this witty, warm note noting that I was preceding her by a year into our 7th decade. Seventh decade, I thought. Seventh? She's 70 and she thinks I'm 71? I scrambled feeling a teeny tiny gnawing sense of dread that I'd blithely written six decades in one of my birthday musings. Math has never been a strong suit. A visual learner, I actually made a time line this morning and misnumbered even that before I finally grasped that by the time I was 20 I had lived a decade and on it goes. So Mary Doria Russell, my favorite author and now math instructor, is 59 and I'm 60, preceding her by a year into our 7th decade. Right?
Here's her note: (The subject line read: Happy Birthday you old bat)
Dear Ms. Felt,
Your friend Jon Schorr was rude enough to reveal that you are turning sixty on Monday, and hilarious enough to believe that you would enjoy being reminded of the event by an author whose work you enjoyed.
You are preceding me into our 7th decade by a year. Last week my husband and I replaced our ten-year-old car. Don realized that, barring accident, we'll be driving this new one when we turn 70, which is also the year of our 50th anniversary.
We have been walking around in a slight daze since that moment of existential shock.
Most of the time, I love being who I am now, and wouldn't turn the clock back even ten minutes. On the other hand, we're more attuned than ever to the dismaying aspects of old age. Don's mother is 94, and rather pleasantly demented. Recently, she picked up a piece of breakfast toast, gazed at it for countable seconds, and asked, "Now, what do you suppose this is?"
"Toast, Mom. You eat it," Don said.
And I thought, Shoot me. Please, shoot me.
Best wishes for happy returns that you remain sharp enough to appreciate
-- from a fellow boomer,
Mary Doria Russell
Here's her note: (The subject line read: Happy Birthday you old bat)
Dear Ms. Felt,
Your friend Jon Schorr was rude enough to reveal that you are turning sixty on Monday, and hilarious enough to believe that you would enjoy being reminded of the event by an author whose work you enjoyed.
You are preceding me into our 7th decade by a year. Last week my husband and I replaced our ten-year-old car. Don realized that, barring accident, we'll be driving this new one when we turn 70, which is also the year of our 50th anniversary.
We have been walking around in a slight daze since that moment of existential shock.
Most of the time, I love being who I am now, and wouldn't turn the clock back even ten minutes. On the other hand, we're more attuned than ever to the dismaying aspects of old age. Don's mother is 94, and rather pleasantly demented. Recently, she picked up a piece of breakfast toast, gazed at it for countable seconds, and asked, "Now, what do you suppose this is?"
"Toast, Mom. You eat it," Don said.
And I thought, Shoot me. Please, shoot me.
Best wishes for happy returns that you remain sharp enough to appreciate
-- from a fellow boomer,
Mary Doria Russell
Monday, March 16, 2009
My wall
There are all these people who've wished me Happy Birthday on my Facebook Wall. (There are several people surprised a woman of my age has a Facebook page, wall and all the Facebook accoutrement.) I barely know how to access my page, let along my wall. But there they were. It's rather like coming home and finding your living room full of friends you didn't know you'd invited with nothing to feed them. It's very disconcerting. I want to individually thank each one of them. But you can't do that b/c they're on your wall. And how do I find my wall? I picture myself searching for my wall, finding it and painting a big thank you on it.
But first I need to buy a cake to give everyone a slice.
But first I need to buy a cake to give everyone a slice.
Big Six Zero
It's here. I decided to take an accounting: my weight, assets, debts. Sort of a spread sheet on this my 60th birthday. But it seemed too disheartening once I stepped on the scale.
As I wrote in my morning pages I realized that the actual accounting was much more uplifting and really where I'd stored by treasures: my children, my friends, my husband, my family. My job and co-workers. Neighbors. Books.
This is beginning to sound like a bad Christmas letter.
So, here's the thing. Yesterday, I danced at the Jazz Cabaret with a man who said I followed well and I took that as a compliment because he was as good a dancer as Ken and although I was a little nervous dancing with someone other than my husband who I've been dancing with since I was 17, I just relaxed and listened to the beat. I think I'll try doing that more.
As I wrote in my morning pages I realized that the actual accounting was much more uplifting and really where I'd stored by treasures: my children, my friends, my husband, my family. My job and co-workers. Neighbors. Books.
This is beginning to sound like a bad Christmas letter.
So, here's the thing. Yesterday, I danced at the Jazz Cabaret with a man who said I followed well and I took that as a compliment because he was as good a dancer as Ken and although I was a little nervous dancing with someone other than my husband who I've been dancing with since I was 17, I just relaxed and listened to the beat. I think I'll try doing that more.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
About this past decade
A word about the past decade, fondly referred to as My 50s.
Here are just some of my observations as I sit here in my robe on a Sunday morning having begged off church because of a headache, a troubled stomach and now the horror of discovering I've been kicked off Kacey's Suggesting Reading List. (I must be more troubled by this than I would admit.)
This won't be a complete list, but for posterity, here are some highlights of this most eventful 10 years:
I do remember clearly that I celebrated my 50th birthday with one less breast that I had the previous year. I'd had a masectomy sometime in February, two months after Ken had had a tumor and two cysts removed from his spine. I was diagnosed with Stage 1 breast cancer; had opted for a masectomy and reconstructive surgery. It seemed a tummy tuck could be at least one of the bennies I got from this. My dearest friend Margot sent me a box with something like 30 little ;gifts wrapped that I was to open every day until my birthday. It was very unlike her. Not that she's not giving, but I think she registered the severity of this more than I did. On March 16, 1999, Ken had staged a surprise birthday party on the eve of my reconstructive surgery. It was a fun affair. My parents were there. They had come to nurse me through the harder surgery than the masectomy, which was almost like out-patient surgery. The next day, St. Patrick's Day, my parents drove me to the hospital. Ken came, but he wasin tremendous pain and they had to find a bed for him to rest in during the surgery. When I came out of surgery all these people trooped into my hospital room. I was a sorry sight and not up to receiving company, but their presence was sweet. Amanda was living at home. Lucas had come with his girlfriend, Beth, and was dissuaded from having her spend the weekend at our home given it was pretty crowded.
that birthday I remember.
I went from being senior editor of the Features Dept at the Arizona Republic to being West Valley editor of some sort. A fall my friend Ellen helped me negotiate and whose sound, clear advice I've passed on to countless people and followed myself in more than a work related scenario. Basically, take notes. It's very calming. She also taught me through this that when something crummy like this happens that's more a blow to your ego than anything else you don't have to fall into a cavern of self-loathing and navel-gazing. You can take notes and plan Plan b.
I'm taking too long on this retrospect.
Here are the others: More surgeries for Ken; Lucas graduating from college; Amanda graduating from college; Amanda getting a job at Thunderbird; Lucas getting an internship in Chicago and spending the summer with the Culps. Me navi9gating a zip line at Leadership West and proving that my body did work even after a masectomy.
Driving Lucas to Chicago and spending three nights in Gallup, N.M., proving that I could find the FedEx route and have the delivery schedule changed. Driving to Chicago with Amanda and proving that maybe I shouldn't drive across country with my children. We were rescued by a truck driver outside of Tulsa who wondered what two women were doing driving across country hauling a car and driving a UHaul truck.
Joining Weight Watchers w/ Ken and losing 15 pounds and understanding I couldn't eat anything I wanted. Ever.
Moving to Barbados Place and emptying out our home of 15 years.
Kaiau, or however, you spell it. We went there'
Selling the cabin.
Meeting Melissa and understanding she would be the woman Lucas would marry. Their wedding.
Meeting Michael and hoping he was patient enough with Amanda and himself to risk proposing. He was. They are. Their wedding and spending much of the reception in the ER with my mother who'd gotten ill when we walked into the Gleacher Center where the reception was held.
Learning my father had stage 4 lung cancer. Being with him when he died.
Being with my mother who had to learn to live alone. Moving her to Peabody.
And somewhere in the middle of this I learned that cruising is really a whole lot of fun. Ken and I repeated our wedding vows on one of those cruises officiated by Margot - the ceremony not the cruise.
That driving on the left side of the road in England is tricky.
Having my first novel published and being on Oprah (just kidding.)
Exercising daily. (Kidding there too.)
Here are just some of my observations as I sit here in my robe on a Sunday morning having begged off church because of a headache, a troubled stomach and now the horror of discovering I've been kicked off Kacey's Suggesting Reading List. (I must be more troubled by this than I would admit.)
This won't be a complete list, but for posterity, here are some highlights of this most eventful 10 years:
I do remember clearly that I celebrated my 50th birthday with one less breast that I had the previous year. I'd had a masectomy sometime in February, two months after Ken had had a tumor and two cysts removed from his spine. I was diagnosed with Stage 1 breast cancer; had opted for a masectomy and reconstructive surgery. It seemed a tummy tuck could be at least one of the bennies I got from this. My dearest friend Margot sent me a box with something like 30 little ;gifts wrapped that I was to open every day until my birthday. It was very unlike her. Not that she's not giving, but I think she registered the severity of this more than I did. On March 16, 1999, Ken had staged a surprise birthday party on the eve of my reconstructive surgery. It was a fun affair. My parents were there. They had come to nurse me through the harder surgery than the masectomy, which was almost like out-patient surgery. The next day, St. Patrick's Day, my parents drove me to the hospital. Ken came, but he wasin tremendous pain and they had to find a bed for him to rest in during the surgery. When I came out of surgery all these people trooped into my hospital room. I was a sorry sight and not up to receiving company, but their presence was sweet. Amanda was living at home. Lucas had come with his girlfriend, Beth, and was dissuaded from having her spend the weekend at our home given it was pretty crowded.
that birthday I remember.
I went from being senior editor of the Features Dept at the Arizona Republic to being West Valley editor of some sort. A fall my friend Ellen helped me negotiate and whose sound, clear advice I've passed on to countless people and followed myself in more than a work related scenario. Basically, take notes. It's very calming. She also taught me through this that when something crummy like this happens that's more a blow to your ego than anything else you don't have to fall into a cavern of self-loathing and navel-gazing. You can take notes and plan Plan b.
I'm taking too long on this retrospect.
Here are the others: More surgeries for Ken; Lucas graduating from college; Amanda graduating from college; Amanda getting a job at Thunderbird; Lucas getting an internship in Chicago and spending the summer with the Culps. Me navi9gating a zip line at Leadership West and proving that my body did work even after a masectomy.
Driving Lucas to Chicago and spending three nights in Gallup, N.M., proving that I could find the FedEx route and have the delivery schedule changed. Driving to Chicago with Amanda and proving that maybe I shouldn't drive across country with my children. We were rescued by a truck driver outside of Tulsa who wondered what two women were doing driving across country hauling a car and driving a UHaul truck.
Joining Weight Watchers w/ Ken and losing 15 pounds and understanding I couldn't eat anything I wanted. Ever.
Moving to Barbados Place and emptying out our home of 15 years.
Kaiau, or however, you spell it. We went there'
Selling the cabin.
Meeting Melissa and understanding she would be the woman Lucas would marry. Their wedding.
Meeting Michael and hoping he was patient enough with Amanda and himself to risk proposing. He was. They are. Their wedding and spending much of the reception in the ER with my mother who'd gotten ill when we walked into the Gleacher Center where the reception was held.
Learning my father had stage 4 lung cancer. Being with him when he died.
Being with my mother who had to learn to live alone. Moving her to Peabody.
And somewhere in the middle of this I learned that cruising is really a whole lot of fun. Ken and I repeated our wedding vows on one of those cruises officiated by Margot - the ceremony not the cruise.
That driving on the left side of the road in England is tricky.
Having my first novel published and being on Oprah (just kidding.)
Exercising daily. (Kidding there too.)
When last I posted
Not to overwhelm everyone (assuming someone is reading this), I will blog in short bloggettes, so as not to , well, overwhelm.
In my second blog, albeit my last one more than a year ago, I reported that Amanda had found an apartment in London, where she and her husband, Michael, are living. Since so much time has transpired, she indeed has found a second apartment. They moved from their Notting Hill third-floor (three story) apartment to a garden level (cheaper but lovely) in Bayswater, a 17 minute walk from their Notting Hill roost.
They are in their last year of a two-year stint in London.
If I had been blogging like a good blogger you would know that we (Ken and I) visited them last summer when they still lived in Notting Hill and that Ken managed the 75 some steps up to their flat quite well. You would also know that Michael had rented a wheelchair to ferry Ken around not only London but Paris, where the four of us spent a fortnight. (It wasn't actually a fortnight, but I've always wanted to write that word in conjunction with a visit to London or Paris.)
If I had been a good blogger you would also know that in this last 12 months I've become a dedicated reader of NYT Sunday op-ed columnist Frank Rich. It, like Setgame and reading Kacey's blog and Margot's daily, are my most consistent weekly routines. I have also taken up with Daniel Silva and his Israeli master spy, Gabriel Allon, finishing a book about every three days this past month.
And you would know that my book club, started almost 10 years ago, nearly faded. But this January we pricked out fingers and dedicated ourselves once more to the monthly gathering for wine, food and book chatter promising to actually read the book, to have more than a passing familiarity with the books we recommend and to faithfully rsvp to the brave woman who agrees to host this group on any given month. We shall see how this unfolds. So far, attendance at January and February meetings was strong; discussion good (Red Tent) but there are those of us who are straying from the reading list finding it not up to its usual robust self.
And you would also know that I am approaching my 60th birthday tomorrow.
In my second blog, albeit my last one more than a year ago, I reported that Amanda had found an apartment in London, where she and her husband, Michael, are living. Since so much time has transpired, she indeed has found a second apartment. They moved from their Notting Hill third-floor (three story) apartment to a garden level (cheaper but lovely) in Bayswater, a 17 minute walk from their Notting Hill roost.
They are in their last year of a two-year stint in London.
If I had been blogging like a good blogger you would know that we (Ken and I) visited them last summer when they still lived in Notting Hill and that Ken managed the 75 some steps up to their flat quite well. You would also know that Michael had rented a wheelchair to ferry Ken around not only London but Paris, where the four of us spent a fortnight. (It wasn't actually a fortnight, but I've always wanted to write that word in conjunction with a visit to London or Paris.)
If I had been a good blogger you would also know that in this last 12 months I've become a dedicated reader of NYT Sunday op-ed columnist Frank Rich. It, like Setgame and reading Kacey's blog and Margot's daily, are my most consistent weekly routines. I have also taken up with Daniel Silva and his Israeli master spy, Gabriel Allon, finishing a book about every three days this past month.
And you would know that my book club, started almost 10 years ago, nearly faded. But this January we pricked out fingers and dedicated ourselves once more to the monthly gathering for wine, food and book chatter promising to actually read the book, to have more than a passing familiarity with the books we recommend and to faithfully rsvp to the brave woman who agrees to host this group on any given month. We shall see how this unfolds. So far, attendance at January and February meetings was strong; discussion good (Red Tent) but there are those of us who are straying from the reading list finding it not up to its usual robust self.
And you would also know that I am approaching my 60th birthday tomorrow.
A year's absence
I have been kicked off Kacey's suggested reading list and that sudden realization has been sufficient motivation to get my blogging act in gear, so to speak.
It's been a long, long silence.
And my blogging name --Eventually Susan--seems sadly, sadly appropriate.
So, on the Ides of March, the last day of my fifth decade, I forthwith resolve to be a more reliable blogger and earn my way back onto to Kacey's suggested reading list.
Sadly, Kacey may never realize that I have returned to the blogging world because I don't know how to forward her a link.
But fueled with guilt and remorse, two motivating emotions, I will figure that out too.
Thank you to the kind and response Blog help gnomes who helped me reset my password.
Here we go.
.to this hu
It's been a long, long silence.
And my blogging name --Eventually Susan--seems sadly, sadly appropriate.
So, on the Ides of March, the last day of my fifth decade, I forthwith resolve to be a more reliable blogger and earn my way back onto to Kacey's suggested reading list.
Sadly, Kacey may never realize that I have returned to the blogging world because I don't know how to forward her a link.
But fueled with guilt and remorse, two motivating emotions, I will figure that out too.
Thank you to the kind and response Blog help gnomes who helped me reset my password.
Here we go.
.to this hu
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