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Friday, June 8, 2018

Tee Shirts for Life

          My seventh grandchild is in the works. Seeing as how darling daughter has slimmed down considerable since the last production, I get to seek out bargains in maternity clothes for her. Size zero. From my outpost in 12-14 land, that looks like no size at all. Hahahahahaha. Sorry. But it did mean some way-low clearance prices on classroom-acceptable duds from one major merchant when the teensy size was the only one left. I clicked in triumph.
          On a whim, I searched “maternity” on a discount website not especially known for clothes. Up --or out-- popped dozens of tee shirts with baby room and all sorts of designs. The cheesy: sprays of flowers and variations on the word blessed.  No. Lots of colors with “due in (month)” to answer the common first question, and plenty announcing boy or girl for the second question. Others I read over again, asking, “Did they put that on a shirt? They did put that on a shirt.” Among the milder texts, I did snort over “I just wanted a back rub” and “It’s all fun and games until somebody gets pregnant.” Didn’t buy them.
One that I did buy.
          Then came the peek-a-boos: image of a zipper with baby peeking out. Girl babies, boy babies, twin babies. White babies, black babies, Asian babies. Jedi baby. Army baby. Even a mooning baby. Cute. Funny. And in a natural, incidental, even accidental way, powerfully pro-life. Somehow, in a day of 4-D sonograms, surgery in utero and medical advances that save tinier premature babies than ever before, there’s a movement to insist that the little creature in there is not a baby. “Noooottt a baby,” as one tweeter contended to me. This cultic dogma calls itself “science” while it stubbornly ignores all logic and evidence of the senses. Evidence, schmevidence, you gotta believe.
          But, still. Ordinary people with brains unwarped by PC death-worship (I’ve been called a “fetus-worshipper.” So, nyah.) and its sacrament of abortion know perfectly well what’s growing in that pregnant woman. Moms and dads know it. Grandparents know it. Little kids know it. Designers of tee shirts know it. I think somewhere deep down in their twisted, dark little doctrinaire souls, defenders of abortion know it. They just don’t want to look.

Sunday, March 4, 2018

Handling the Sword

The Bible calls God's word "living and active and sharper than any two-edged sword, and piercing as far as the division of soul and spirit, of both joints and marrow, and able to judge the thoughts and intentions of the heart." (Hebrews 4:12) Ephesians 6:17 mentions "the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God." Given that, shouldn't we expect the pastor of a church to have a pretty good handle on the word of God? Or at least to know which end is which? If you grab a sword by the wrong end, you might get cut. Well, here is a Methodist minister in South Africa making a proclamation based on a Bible verse. It says "Jesus was the first to decriminalize sex work. John 8:7" The group that happily posted a video of the scene works to "decriminalize" prostitution. Not to rescue women from it or to discourage the practice, but to make it legal. And this pastor claims to have found that idea in the Bible. Here's the verse: "But when they persisted in asking Him, He straightened up, and said to them, 'He who is without sin among you, let him be the first to throw a stone at her.'” 
     Problem. This passage is about a woman caught in adultery, not prostitution. The mob wants to stone her to death on the spot, never mind a trial. They are operating outside the law. Jesus' beautiful solution is to ask the one who is without sin to throw first. They are not so far gone that they deny their own sinfulness. When they slink away, Jesus tells the woman He will not condemn her, but ends with "sin no more." Few seem to want to quote that bit. 
    Jesus forgives our sins. (Thank You. Thank You. Thank You.) He can do that while maintaining justice because He took the punishment for sin on the cross. He expects us to quit the sins, not to go our merry way, pounding in a few more nails. 
     "Not many of you should presume to be teachers, my brothers, because you know that we who teach will be judged more strictly." (James 3:1) And Matthew 18:6, “If anyone causes one of these little ones—those who believe in me—to stumble, it would be better for them to have a large millstone hung around their neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea." 
     Whether you believe the Bible or not, you have to see that John 8 has nothing to do with the legality of prostitution. When a "pastor" uses it to promote a sinful practice, to tell women that there's no sin in selling their bodies for sex (and apparently no blame for the customers either), he is certainly causing them to stumble. He will face judgment one day. The one Who truly is without sin, the one Who is the living Word, will teach him just how sharp is the Word of God.

Wednesday, January 3, 2018

The Latte Bowl

     I won the hideous holiday outfit contest at a
party, so I got to go first in the present exchange. The voters went for the burgundy and gold tulle ribbon bow in my hair, pink-circled cheeks, striped shirt of fuchsia and  pink, forest green sleeveless jerkin, red belt, red capri pants, brown Fair Isle patterned tights, red and teal striped socks and red sneakers with huge jingle bells tied to the laces. Hideous. But I got to go first in the present exchange. 
     It was one of those in which you may unwrap a package from the gift table or steal something that someone else has opened, thus allowing nice Christian people to indulge in coveting and theft. But if you go first, you also go last and can excise from the whole collection. First I snagged a pretty candy jar and a "latte bowl," both of the Pioneer Woman brand. "Anybody know what a latte bowl is?" Shrugs all around. But it was a handy size and had a microwave lid. I liked it.
     Somebody stole it. 
     I opened a set of TV speakers. What corner of the warehouse were they in that they met the $10 limit?
     Somebody stole them. 
     I got a bag harboring a chocolate coin, a little Tupperware bowl in a leopard print (say what?), a "lump of coal" candy wrapped in black, and a can of hair-remover. Nobody stole that. 
    Last turn was mine. I studied all the goodies, but none supplanted the first. There in the hands of a sweet young thing were the jar and latte bowl. I took them back and handed her the maligned bag. She said,"Ohhh, grrreat." 
     Only dimly aware that latte is a type of coffee, I Googled. A blogger related a visit to a coffee shop at which he was served a latte in a bowl. A latte bowl. You can find them all over second-hand shops, he said. I had a brand-new one. Ha! But what exactly is a latte? 
     Espresso-- pressurized coffee-- mixed with warmed milk and topped with foam. I happen to own a cute little Italian moka pot. I even had a package of espresso-ground coffee with instructions in Italian. Check. Now, the foamed milk bit. There are battery-operated milk frothers out there. They spin a little loopy coil to foam up the milk. To the hopelessly unhip, they look ridiculous. Figuring that clever people must have made lattes before that invention, I took stock. My eyes lit on a salad-dressing mixer-- a plastic jar with a blade thingy and screw-on lid. It would have to do. 
     I fired up the moka pot, poured half a cup of milk into the mixer jar and shook it madly. The volume doubled, so I supposed that was foam. The moka pot burbled its last drop, and I poured  the brew into... a different bowl. It had seemed like a good idea to microwave some steel-cut oatmeal in the high-sided, Ree Drummond-endorsed bowl, but when they say to use high power, well, they lie. The hard-won official latte bowl was still in the dishwasher. A rice bowl volunteered. In went the espresso, the warm milk, and, by golly, foam. Voila, a latte, made by me in my very own kitchen. Pretty darn good, too.
What does Starbucks charge for a latte? I figure this creation cost less than 50 cents. And, of course, my last shred of dignity, but that wasn't much anyway. Just listen to my sneakers jingle as I take another sip. Ahhh. Delicioso. 

Thursday, October 12, 2017

The Best Part

    There's this thing called "referred pain," and it's not the best part of anything. Yeah, it's the kneecap that's broken and has the scary incision over it, but swelling and displacement and, I don't know, perturbation of the humors makes other bits hurt. I refer to my manifestation as the shin splint from hell. Moving the leg up and down can trigger it. Pulling the brace up when it slips down the leg can trigger it. A therapist bending the knee ferociously can trigger it. Even stretching in bed can trigger it. And if you have a dream in which you are sitting against a wall, and someone tries to steal a valuable knife that's down by your side, and you kick him with the left leg, which in the dream is fine, does that ever trigger it. Boy howdy. First you wake up and think, "Ow. Bad idea." And then you think, "THE FRONT OF MY SHIN HAS SPLIT WIDE OPEN AND WHEN I TOUCH IT I'M GOING TO FEEL A BLOODY MESS." Only the leg feels perfectly solid and dry. It just hurts. Like the shin splint from hell. I mean, the incision was pretty bad the first couple of days, as though periodically filled with lighter fluid and set aflame, but that wore off. A mere bit of prickliness remains. Referred-pain killer shin splints linger on, gradually a little less groan-inducing.
How it feels
How it feels, II
       But then there's the friend who brings you an orchid plant and a couple copies of The Enquirer (yeah, I read 'em) and offers to get groceries, even though she has to go to two stores because inventory hasn't recovered from the hurricane. And another stops in with food, empties and reloads the dishwasher and takes the dog out to the yard to play fetch, a one-woman band of elves. There's the young dear who's busy with her own life who sets up an online bring-a-meal list and goes first. And here come the comfort foods: lasagna, meat loaf, shepherd's pie (we almost fought over the last serving), an unusual chicken stroganoff (for which I must have the recipe), homemade Cuban picadillo with rice and black beans and the thinnest, crispiest tostones ever, and lentil soup and beef and vegetables and brisket and pork roast and a chicken and tomato dish worthy of a French bistro. And breads and salads and fruit and chocolate chip cookies and bourbon-laced brownies. (Yes, sir, gotta love them Presbyterians.) Couple of restaurant gift cards too.
    I am strict about exclamation points. I edit them pitilessly from all church publications. The aforementioned organizer of meals knew she was taking a chance when she emailed that it was no problem to arrange help because our church people love us! She used exclamation points! I didn't mind a bit! I love them too. And that's the best part.

Tuesday, October 3, 2017

The Middle Part

    They didn't bring me dinner in the hospital because there was a slim chance I could go for surgery in the morning. No one was sure because of Hurricane Irma. Once it got late enough that the staff knew I wasn't on the schedule for Sunday, my nurse scrounged up some chicken noodle soup in a styrofoam cup and a very plain sliced turkey sandwich in one of those clear plastic triangular packages. Hunger truly being the best sauce, I savored every bite.
     There was a hurricane out there somewhere, but up on the seventh floor in that sturdy building, there was little sign of a storm. My bed faced away from the window, so I couldn't watch the clouds, or even take it very seriously when they rolled my bed as far from the window as possible because of a tornado warning. My survival instincts fixed instead on getting somebody in here with a bedpan stat. (I never actually used the term "stat," but it sounds ever so imperative.) Imperative was the word of the night, since I'd been forbidden to drag myself to the bathroom. This is distressing to a person who has given birth four times, is under major stress, and is... old. So, sorry, adoring public, but that was my focus while Irma did her worst outside.
       If I'd been ambulatory, I might have seen the staffers of all kinds that I later heard were bunking down in offices and break rooms to make sure there would be enough nurses and techs and transport people to run the place the next day. Did I mention how thankful I am for modern medicine? And extra thankful for the people who do things like that to make sure little old me is taken care of? I told one of the nurses, "You make me feel like I'm the only person in the hospital." She smiled. "That's the goal," she said. I learned later that a staffer or two had been perfectly happy to stay where electricity was guaranteed, as opposed to their hot, dark homes. I don't care. They're still noble.
    Sunday morning, I was still on the no-food list, so nobody brought breakfast.
There was mention of oatmeal, but the promise was washed away with the storm. Fortunately, there was plenty of oxycodone. I seem to remember some sort of fairly edible lunch. Then, good news: no dinner for you. Because you're on the list for surgery on Monday. After non-breakfast, the surgeon came in and initialed my left leg with a marker. It was on.
     I wish I had more to say about the operation, but all that registered was being rolled to the surgery staging area, where the most interesting sight was the man across the way. He had a beard like you can't imagine: rolling masses of variegated gray surging across his chest from shoulder to shoulder, Lear's limerick brought to life. "There once was a man with a beard/ who said, 'It is just as I feared./ Two owls and a hen/ four larks and a wren/ have all built their nests in my beard.'" Gotta love the classics. Then the nice anesthetist came along and poured some oblivion into my IV. Next thing I knew, I was back in my room with two screws in the kneecap and a couple of wires stretched over it to keep it in place.
     I was starving. I told the nurse that back in my baby-having days, we got apples and freshly baked cookies in this very same hospital. She brought me some more chicken noodle soup in a styrofoam cup and a turkey sandwich in a clear plastic package. And a packet of mayo. When darling daughter's family came to visit later that afternoon, the nurse brought in a stack of graham crackers. So that's all right. The little guys wrote and drew adorable get-well notes on construction paper. That's a whole lot better.

Sunday, September 24, 2017

The Worst Part

     The worst part of slipping in a puddle of dog urine when a hurricane is near and breaking your kneecap in two is... um, that. Hurricane Irma was due in Orlando on Sunday, so on Saturday I was going to get all laundry and dishwashing done and turn the ripe bananas into banana bread, all the things that require electricity, before the storm struck. I was hustling a stack of shirts back to a bedroom when I located the latest dog puddle. The Amazing Shelter Dog had been suffering an infection that made her forget her house-training. Feet flew up, head and elbow thumped against youngest son's door, and knees went into a swan dive with a one-and-a-half twist. My bottom went smack into the puddle.
     As menfolk emerged from respective rooms, my hand flew to the painful spot, felt round bone off to the left of where it belonged, and squeezed it back into place. Still felt worst pain of my life. Hollered. Hubs called 911, and we mopped up as much dog pee as we could with paper towels. When EMTs arrived, they couldn't fit gurney into the hallway, so bundled me into a carrying chair of some sort, lifting the leg as gently as possible. I hollered some more.
     Turns out the best way to get from this carrier to the gurney is to hoist yourself, while an EMT transfers the leg. "Last time I did this," I said, "I was in labor. It wasn't any fun then either."
     The worst part of being hoisted into the ambulance was feeling the soaking wet skirt, now cold under me, and thinking I would leave a wet imprint on the sheets. Focused on the hubs tail-gating the ambulance. "Is that your husband?" one of the EMTs asked. In the Winter Garden ER, they gave me a shot of morphine. The worst part of morphine is that it sends a creepy sort of tension up the neck and through the jaw, and the pain relief only lasts 15 minutes or so. The doc ordered X-rays, and in rolled a portable unit, so I could remain in my puddle while they detected the worst of the news: kneecap was broken into two separate pieces on the horizontal. Quad muscle attached to top half and tendon attached to bottom half both gave their halves a good, strong, dislocating tug. Whee. Must transfer downtown to where the ace surgeons are. When a room becomes available. In the meantime, got a steel and canvas brace strapped onto the leg. Worst part of that was, I couldn't kiss the hand of whoever invented the thing. Keeping the knee still was better than morphine.
     Hey, a room is available. Call the transport people, who haul me onto their gurney on the damp sheets. "One, two, three." At least no one can look askance at the wet spot. Riding backwards in the big ambulance was disorienting. They might have been driving me anywhere through the great masses of gray clouds, but they pulled up to the Florida Hospital door and trundled me in, through lobby and hallways, into elevator, up to seventh floor where all the busted legs go to await the sawbones.
     Had any nurse ever before heard a patient beg, "Please oh please, put me in one of those drafty, embarrassing hospital gowns"? Well, this one did. I have to admit, the gowns have improved. They actually extend across your rear, and you can tie them at the side. Could have been worse.
To be continued. 

Monday, August 28, 2017

What She Was Made For

     Many a nature film has showed me lions bringing down an antelope or wolves selecting and devouring the slowest caribou, so suppose I was as well prepared as any child of the suburbs. And yesterday my dog Tiger Lily leapt repeatedly at the porch screen, snapping her considerable jaws, until a trespassing dragonfly lay on its back on the sill, one leg twitching its last. In fact, it had only one leg. Tiger Lily couldn't know that I really like dragonflies, with those huge glinting eyes and iridescent wings. An intruder is an intruder. She has even barked furiously at the little windows next to the front door until we realized she was protecting us from the scary dried starfish whose alien arms stuck out beyond the top sill. 
     Today she caught a squirrel. She walked out with me and my bag of eggshells and banana peels to the compost bin. I was about to set the empty bag aside and get ready to play some fetch when she dropped her shredded, filthy knotted-rope toy and dashed at the big oak in the rear corner of the yard. A squirrel skittered up the trunk, as usual. Then a second one appeared. Lacking wit to climb straight up, it ran around the trunk, only a foot or so above ground, with Tiger Lily right on its tail. 
     We're pretty sure Tiger Lily is a Catahoula leopard dog. They breed them, a mix of many, in Louisiana to rout wild hogs out of the swamps. Her body shape is somewhere between a boxer and a greyhound: big chest, tiny waist, long spine. She's very fast, strong and smart. She likes people better than other dogs, and she has the brindle pattern common to the leopard dogs, in her case a tawny base with distinct, black tiger stripes. And I can easily picture her bounding through the bayou, snapping at the heels of a hog. 
     For this chase, she kept a tight radius, and, as the squirrel slowed a little on maybe the tenth circuit, she grabbed it and flung it onto the grass. Pounce, grab, shake. When it flies loose, nudge it to see whether it's playing dead, which it did a time or two, then tried to run. It didn't get far. 
     I did hope she wouldn't go full feral and try to extract its liver while I fetched the shovel. She stood guard over the corpse while I dug the deepest hole I could manage and restrained her instincts while I slid the shovel underneath, noting the teeth marks and slobber in the grey fur. Covered it, tamped down the soil and picked up her fetch toy. Normally, when she returns it to me, she shakes it until I have to say, "Yeah, I think it's dead, girl." For this session, she brought it to my feet and dropped it.