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Dealing with brain injuries is an up and down proposition at best. Some days are good, and some are not so good. I never really know what to expect when I go to the hospital. Some days he is himself, and other days, he is someone who looks like someone I know but isn’t always recognizable as the man I married. My husband had endless patience, the patience of a saint as they say. He would put up with any amount of grief and trouble, because he was not one to make waves. He never had an unkind word to say to anyone, unless they were trying to steal from one of the many stores he managed. Then that quiet thoughtful little man would turn into a raging tiger. My daughter says that he never intentionally said an unkind word to anyone. If he didn’t have something nice to say, he simply didn’t say it. I compare that to myself, and I don’t accredit myself very well in that regard. I am the poster child for person you most would not want to be trapped on a desert island with. I am selfish and he is the most selfless man I know. If it is true that opposites attract, then he definitely got the worst end of the deal. While it is true that I bake good bread, cookies and cakes, I don’t think that most people would say it was a fair trade, when a sharp tongue went with it. Think of an acerbic Berry Crocker, and you aren’t far off.

Yesterday I went to rehab with high hopes since his blood pressure was under control again, and he had had several days where his humor was good, he was alert, and I could see him in there when I looked at his dear little face. Then I walked into his room and found a querulous man who complained bitterly about everything. He couldn’t get his shirt or socks on, he couldn’t put his shoes on, he couldn’t stand up, he couldn’t walk, he couldn’t eat his breakfast, he couldn’t do any one of a hundred things if you listened to him, and believed him. He complained that I never bought him an electric shaver before. Naturally not, because he always refused to have one in the house! At the end of all his complaints, he did everything and did it well, despite saying that he couldn’t. Fortunately the therapists are all made of sterner stuff, and they got him to do everything he said he couldn’t do. He has even taken to flirting gently with the Physical Therapy staff. Not what one might term overtly flirting, but sweet smiles, and a little sarcastic comment here and there. At any rate they are amused and charmed by him, so he is amused and charmed by himself. I think I can see the little mischievous boy he was, still bobbing below the surface. It is a pity that life and it’s cruelties robbed him of that glorious mischief and laughter. It’s about time he rediscovered himself and took time to be who he is. I have frequently thought that he needed to think more of himself and less of others. Or at least find and maintain a better, ego-healthy balance. While it is true that we need to think more of others and maintain virtues, it can be uncomfortable living with a saint. Mostly for the saint, since the unsaintly will frequently take them down a peg or two, in retaliation for those nagging feelings of guilt engendered by the saintly behavior and demeanor!

On the plus side, he stands better and is walking, slowly but well. When I consider that a week ago he was being lifted by a machine and two people, I think it is a miracle. God has certainly been good to my husband, and to all of us. You just have to know where to look. Never has it meant more to me that we have God and have each other. I may never be rich, and in fact, I am fairly certain that I won’t be rich, but as long as he continues to make such great progress, the future looks much brighter and more assured. If we carefully guard his health, my dear sweet husband will be with us for a good long time, and that is better than anything in a bank account. His speech is clearer, but when he is tired like yesterday, he mumbles and slurs and doesn’t want to do anything. I must constantly remind myself not to anticipate him because he is temporarily disabled. I have to help him help himself by endlessly asking him to slow down and speak more coherently. Otherwise, like me as a child, he will rarely speak at all. I had an older sister who interpreted all of my babbles, and as a result, I rarely spoke until well after the age of three. It wasn’t that I couldn’t, I just didn’t think it worth the bother, since there was my strong-minded sister standing there with a cheerful smile, a mind like a steel trap, and a fluent tongue.

It is a new road for us both, and we are traveling it carefully with light hearts and a belief that things will be better for us. That, plus faith in God and trust, can get you a long way. Love never hurts either. Even if I go in today and he hates the shaver that I bought him, it won’t bother me, because two weeks ago, he didn’t always have the ability to say what his name was. It is all part of recovery, and it will be many days and many ups and downs. I have God, I have my husband, who is more precious than ever, and I have my wonderful loving family for the support and courage that I sometimes lack. They are always there to remind me that I do not walk alone, and they are always there to hold out their hands during rough patches. God lifts me up, and my family holds my hands. I can’t think of anything better than that. Every day I thank God for all of my children: both the ones I gave birth to and the ones that I acquired by my children’s marriages. My son in law is currently on a mission to spoil me, and I am still unsaintly enough to say that I like it. A lot! My daughter in law who just had a baby, writes lovely letters, sends pictures and frets that she isn’t doing enough. Everyone has done more than enough in their own ways, and I am very lucky to have each and every one. I know that I have said this a lot recently, but I love you all very much. You mean the world to me.

I just wanted to thank those that I love for their support and outpouring of love in this difficult time. It is easy in those moments of despair and dark nights of the soul to feel all alone and isolated, but I have never felt that way, thanks to my wonderful, loving children, who dropped their jobs and lives to join me in those long painful vigils at the hospital, and who got me through those first dreadful weeks by being by my side both physically and metaphysically. I felt their presence even when they weren’t there, and when my daughter was here, we even indulged in our favorite pastime. We laughed until we cried, which was a wonderful tonic for the heart and soul. If you can laugh, you are alive, and if you are alive and laughing, life can not be so bad.

My oldest son who is often reticent about feelings, expressed the same feelings of anger, despair, hope, and hopelessness that the rest of us felt, and like my daughter, he gave me laughter, love and something to hang my hopes on. He took me shopping and we devoured entire episodes of our favorite TV shows all in one day. Although we don’t often express it, we are a family of faith, and we always trust God, even if we don’t say it out loud as often as we should. I know that with God’s help and blessings, we can go far, and that things are never as bad as they first seem. We have all been praying and talking to God these last weeks, more than usual. It is always a comfort to drop our burdens and cares with God, and leave them to Him to do with as He sees fit. We sometimes forget in our hurry to want everything our way, that there is a beautiful and perfect architect in our life, who is with us on our long journey, and who never forgets us, even when we are caught up in our lives and appear to forget Him.

In an especially low moment I received the most beautiful email from my daughter. I have excerpted the part that gave me hope and reminded me of things I sometimes forget when I am sad and sulking.

” I try to remind myself that it is the physical dignity of an imperfect body in a messy, imperfect world. There is a perfect world. And our dignity as children of God resides there. No one can take the wholeness and beauty of the soul from us.
My flesh and my heart may fail, But God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.
Puddie is in there and the inane chatter and foolish indignities of that place will never take away the man that God made for you”

Just what I needed to hear, and just what I needed to reinforce my newly rediscovered feelings of hope in a sometimes hopeless world. To my youngest son, who is the great organizer, thank you doesn’t seem enough for giving me laughter, support, and for setting up a house account with a cab company, giving me mobility and the ability to see my husband whenever I want to, and to go shopping. It seems crazy that someone with a house full of food needs to constantly buy food, but I never seem to want to eat what I have. In times of despair, illness or tragedy, I seem to only like fruits and vegetables, and I prefer fresh, because to my knowledge, no one has dried or frozen lettuce for human consumption. There may be someone thinking of it, and if so, please get it on the market, so I can order it from Amazon!

It doesn’t seem enough to say thank you for loving us and being there with us, walking along in step when it is difficult to lift our legs and hearts, but it is easier knowing that you are there, and remembering that God has a purpose for everyone and everything. I thank God daily, and I talk to Him often because He is always there and loving me even when I am most unlovable. But I don’t thank my loving family often enough. To Ian, Damon, Alexa, Kara, and Ciaran, thank you from the bottom of my heart for the love and support that you have showed me every day in every way. Even when I didn’t say it, I appreciated every second of your love and your precious time. Thank you for everything, and when this is all over, I hope to show you all just how much I love you, and how much your love means to us. and will always mean. If hope springs eternal in the human breast, then laughter is it’s younger, chippier brother. If I have faith, hope, and laughter, what else can I need or want?

This morning I passed my dining room table and saw two perfect red apples sitting cheek by jowl. More than anything else they brought home to me how fleeting and desperately sad life can be. In the middle of laughter, there are always tears lurking and waiting to be shed. Tears that spring out and grab you, and refuse to release you. You may struggle for a long time, but eventually, they will have their way with you, and you surrender in deep wrenching sobs. Life is futile, life is not futile, but whichever way it is, the tears are waiting, and they will introduce themselves to you.

He bought those apples some two weeks ago, he bought them on a bright crisp and sunny spring morning. Easter had not yet arrived, but I congratulated myself on having the grass, the baskets, the candy, and the hope of renewal and beginning again. My love bought me two red apples and he teased that he would not buy me any more if I did not eat them. I did not eat them and he did not buy me more.

They sit on the table, a silent testament to the love with which he surrounded me. The cheerful red is a reminder of his droll and sometimes hilarious sense of life and humor. We laughed as often as we fought. Only he did not fight, he sat in resignation waiting for the storms that bore my name to pass. I can not eat the apples now, they would choke me. More than anything they remind me of him. He was restless and always wanting to be outside in the fresh clear air that reminded him that life is fleeting. He was forever inventing excuses to go to the store, even if only for apples, which until recently, were the only thing I could eat without being ill. The rosiness of his German ancestry showed in his cheeks, but the apples were brighter still. Some men bring roses and chocolates, but he brought his heart, his soul, and apples.

The apples will rot, because I can not eat them. I can not eat much of anything these days, because we ate together so many meals in the last two years. We sat and talked, we sat and bickered, we sat and laughed and broke bread together. And he brought me apples. I never thought the days of apples would end, but for now, they have fled into the misty days called the past, and no one brings me apples, hearts, or laughter.

I always thought that I had special connections with those I love, and when I needed them most, they failed me. I walked on the treadmill, raucously singing along to my iPod, which was blazing heartily in my ears. For extra punch, I had the fan turned on high. Eventually the extraneous sounds from outside beckoned to me. He had not gone to buy me apples, but bread with my free coupons. Now I will not eat that bread, because it never came. When he needed me most, I failed him. I did not see him return, I did not see him fall in the drive and lie wedged between the Saturn and the garage door. My heart and soul were engaged with lifting my legs and breathing in and out. He breathed in and out, but he couldn’t speak. It was slurred and incomprehensible when he did. I did not yet know that my life was changing forever and would never again be the same.

In the beginning they lie heartily with cheerful smiles and they shrug everything off. Oh it’s nothing, he will be fine, and when someone does tell you the truth, it is like a punch to the heart. Your world capsizes and you can do nothing but refuse to cry. You nod your head and you look solemn. You feel you will never smile again. But somehow you do, and you lift your head, and you look around and you shrug. Life caught you when you weren’t looking, and you will laugh and smile again, but the apples will wither and turn brown, and you will never eat them again. If you eat bread, it will choke you, and lie in your stomach like poison, until it makes it’s way up again, past your choking lips.

How good or how bad it is, no one knows. He can speak again, but they can not seem to control his blood pressure. They leave him lying in bed or sitting on the commode, robbing him of his dignity and privacy. He waits and waits for them, and they speak to him and to me in voices of cheerful stridency. They treat us as though we were idiots. No matter what we ask, they brush it off and say everything will be fine. It has been apparent to us both that nothing will be fine for a long time. This is supposed to be a very good, renowned hospital, famous for it’s rehabilitation therapy. They are all clowns and fools on a good day, demons and harlots on any other ordinary day. It is all they know and all they can do.

I force myself to go to the hospital four or five days a week and sit through therapy, pureed meals and the agony of his having a roommate who is much better than he is, with a constant stream of visitors, who never shut up or speak in quiet tones. They are so hearty and jocular I want to slit their vocal cords and pummel them with pureed green beans and the ubiquitous pudding. No matter how often I tell the staff that my husband hates whipped cream or any kind of ersatz topping, the more dishes he gets with large dollops piped on the top. Like Amy Winehouse, I do not want to go to rehab, no no no. But I go for the man who keeps my heart safely in his own, who smiles, and catches my hand, and who one day, brought me apples and said there would be no more if I didn’t eat them. There will be no more apples.

I am sick of the hearty voices, the institutional smell of piss, disinfectant, and medicine. I am sick of the babbling voices that can not find the words they want to say. I am sick of neighbors I don’t even know lying in wait to inquire after him. I am sick of their false good wishes. What they really mean is better he than they. It is my grief and my family’s, and everyone else is trespassing clumsily on my heart, and wounding it more with each passing day. I have days where I lie in bed and dream of the luxury of pulling the covers up to my nose and doing nothing useful. But then I get up and go to rehab, no no no.

I go because I love him, and because despite this latest blow, he is still in there, still fighting and still holding out hopes that one day he will emerge whole and healthy with a spring in his step, and present me with a bag of apples and his heart. And I will accept them with a smile that holds my heart and soul as I welcome him home, and dock his heart next to mine in the lagoon of life. Sometimes you laugh, sometimes you cry, and sometimes there are apples.

My mother loved babies, and the older she got the more she loved them. In her case, it was that the older she got, the older and less tractable we got, so she had a fierce love for the one age that didn’t talk back to her. My sister has always been baby crazy. Even when she had three of her own, she babysat to make a little money, and for the joy of having a baby in the house. I never understood that and still don’t, but I will admit that while babies in general don’t appeal to me, I do love my grandchildren, and any news of one of them, is a good day. Aside from counting down the birth of my granddaughter, I have been obsessed with the birthing process of an eagle in Decorah, Iowa. They have a live feed up at ustream, and I check in daily to see what Mama Eagle is up to. So far I have seen Mama Eagle haughtily and patiently wait for her brood to hatch. The most action I have seen from her the past two weeks is a checking of the eggs to look for cracks, and the typical hypnotic rocking motion as she sat on them. One day she impatiently poked the lazy eggs with her beak, and seemed aggrieved that none of them were cooperating. I understand her point of view: we are all impatient for our babies to arrive.

Her first egg was given a due date of on or around March 23rd, which happened to be my grannddaughter’s delivery date. I was placing bets with myself that the eaglet would arrive first, but like babies everywhere, this eaglet and it’s siblings seem to be taking their own sweet time. I will admit to feeling sorry for Mama Eagle sitting up high in her nest and battling the fierce, blustery Iowa winds that at times threaten to blow her clear out into the wild blue yonder. I love my grandchildren and fall in love swiftly and immediately, and so it is with baby birds. I have always been a bird person, even when I had cats. Even then I longed for a house full of song and the crisp flight of a bird to run the household and not care who knew it. Some people have told me that it’s bad to indulge the birds, but like any other creature, human or not, birds always feel best when they are in charge, and they don’t give you the choice of opting out. They take charge and benevolently dictate to their heart’s content, and I let them. I am besotted with birds, and they haven’t dictated anything onerous. They like attention, and almost seem to smile when they are getting it.

We are even back to buying extra bread to feed the birds, and putting out dishes of seeds and dried fruits to tempt their winter-dictated famines. When March brings cold winds and icy rains that beat on the roof and windows, I don’t worry about the house, I worry about the birds, and nothing will persuade me that they are perfectly alright, and perfectly used to the treacherous Minnesota seasons. The house bird ignores the sounds of the fierce winds buffeting the house and the trees and accompanies me around the house. When I had babies, I carted them around the house too, and worried that they would be lonesome stuck in a crib. Like me, my children were not sleepers, although as they approached junior high and high school, they found that they liked sleeping. By then, I had to leave them be, because they were much too large to heft around the house. And they wouldn’t have liked it.

I have almost given up on Mr. and Mrs. Eagle and their offspring, because I am currently begging endless pictures of the grandchildren, and have gotten a flood of pictures of my granddaughter. I am not the least bit biased when I tell you that she is the most beautiful baby ever born since her brother Dylan, and her cousin Jack were born. Her soft downy skin has lost the crimson overcoat that newborns habitually wear, and her face is relaxed and not scrunched into the deep lines and frowns that beset the very young and the very old.

Yesterday I saw three pictures where she was smiling. She is a very happy, beautiful little girl, and we live for the pictures that trickle into our inbox or hop into instant messages. I think we now have twelve pictures of her, which is amazing when you consider that she is only three days old, and that her parents have other things to do than take endless pictures to satisfy the besotted grandparents! All grandchildren are special, but Eliza is the last one, so that makes her even more special. She is the perfect spring baby. She is fresh, lovely and perfect. I know that I say the word perfect a lot when I talk about her, but after seeing her, there is nothing else I could ask for. I suppose I could ask for it to be Easter so that I could stop hiding the candy from my husband. Some of it has been here a month and he hasn’t gotten into any of it. At least not to my knowledge. He is currently obsessively taking walks to strengthen his legs, he says. I think he is merely in training for the strenuous task of swallowing copious amounts of Easter candies. And maybe he is in training to be able to hold Eliza for many a happy hour. I don’t know about him, but I will do what I always do. I will sit and drink in her soft and innocent perfection, I will kiss her sweet pretty face, and I will consider that I have been lucky in my children and grandchildren. The only treasures I care for are the ones that smell of baby powder and perfection. And to a lesser extent, the ones that live high above Decorah, Iowa, and fly, but never touch the sun. Icarus may have something to do with that, but I think birds know they won’t ever get that far, so why bother? They probably don’t think that their children are perfect and beautiful, and seem to be rather offhand with them, but their love and devotion can not be denied. Every year after this, I will think of Eliza and smile, and decide that spring is a very nice season just as fall, summer and winter are. But this year, I am thinking that it is perfect because it brought the birds, the flowers, and a very beautiful little girl with pink skin and ravishing smiles. I suspect there are angel wings on her somewhere, even though no one has seen them. That doesn’t mean they aren’t there, it just means that no one has seen them, yet…..

Ever since we knew you were on your way, and that you were a girl, we have been eager with anticipation. I love my boys, but for a mother, a daughter is special, and nothing can replace that bond. There is something almost magical about that. My daughter is my best friend and so many other things, that I can’t even name them all. I know that you will be all of those things to your mother too, little angel, and she to you. What do we know about you already? As I sit writing this, you have not been born yet, so we do not know your name, we don’t know if you look like your mommy or daddy, we don’t know the color of your hair or eyes, we don’t know anything, but that we love you.

As the old nursery rhyme has it, Monday’s child is fair of face, Tuesday’s child is full of grace, Wednesday’s child is full of woe, Thursday’s child has far to go, Friday’s child is loving and giving, Saturday’s child works hard for a living, while the child who is born on the Sabbath day, is bonny, blithe, good, and gay. I have always been sorry for the Wednesdays of the world: imagine being told that Wednesday made you sad and miserable and full of countless sorrows, but I am fortunate to know a little man born on Wednesday and he is a very happy child full of laughter and with a song in his heart and eyes. Your brother shares a Thursday birthday with me, and if his life is anything like mine, he will indeed travel a lot. I suspect that being loving and giving won’t be enough for you, that you will find it too limiting, and you will yearn for new places and new faces.

You will have a hunger for knowledge, and like your brother, travel will be on your list. I don’t know the color of your eyes, but I know they already have a zest for life and are eager to see where it takes you. You are fearless, beautiful, full of laughter and advice, and you hate cruelty of any kind. You will go after anyone who threatens those you love, which means the rest of the world. Like your parents and brother, you are interested in all of mankind, and anything that upsets them, will upset you. Because of your parents, you will be disposed to welcome and love anyone and everyone. You are the first one to extend your hand in friendship. Having said that, I also know that you are not impulsive, and will think things through before you commit yourself. In others that process could take days or weeks, but in you, it is a shortcut. Get used to people saying that you are impulsive, because slower people do not often understand anyone who lives and loves at the speed of light. The rest of the world has never understood someone who dances with the stars and awakens with a smile on their lips to welcome the day. You never will shake off that stardust, and every day of your life will be full of magic, love, possibilities, and promises.

The one thing you must do, is to make sure you have all of the facts that you require for those rapid fire mental Olympics that you will live by. Because you are human, you will make mistakes, but you will be the first one to admit it, and to say, “I am sorry.” Unlike many people, you will truly mean it. The very idea that you have hurt someone, will make you sad, and you will do everything in your power to make it up to them. Your face and heart are made for joy and laughter, and so they will always be, little angel. Even though you have very exacting standards for yourself, you will be very tolerant of those who don’t. So I know you will forgive me for not having been awake at seven this morning, when your mother was admitted to the hospital. I wakened at five minutes before seven, but it was central standard time, not eastern. I can see your lips curling into a gleeful smile, and I can almost hear you say, Oh Grandma, that’s alright, I love you.” I have the feeling that you will be saying that to me quite frequently. You will love it when you are right, and you will always do your best, but you will be very forgiving of those who don’t share your capacity for being right….

Now I am waiting to hear all about you, to see your face, to touch your tiny starfish hands, to feel the soft and rosy satin of your face, and to kiss your feet and toes. I have always been a toe person, and I find baby toes enchanting. I want to trace your parents in the planes of our face, and yes, I tend to be that annoying person who thinks you look just like…. But I will not say it out loud, because you will find that irritating. You will always look like you, and you will like that you, so fellow mortals, beware! You love your parents very much, but you are independent, so you would much rather be told you are beautiful, sweet, funny, precious, perfect. In your own mind, you already know who you look like and you will love looking like your parents, because you will think them quite perfect, but you just don’t want to hear that from anyone else. It is for you alone to savor and rejoice in.

You love your mother and father very much, and will treasure being their daughter, but that will not prevent you from thinking your own thoughts and expressing them! There is nothing mean about you, nothing little or petty. You will always have a good reason to disagree, or at least you will think so. Let me just say this now my love: I have never won an argument with your father and I have never won an argument with your mother, although I don’t think I ever have argued with your mother. I know you will, because daughters and mothers feel freer with each other than with anyone else. You two will share many thoughts and ideas, and although you will love your father and think he is perfect, it just isn’t the same bond as you will have with your mother. It will be a special bond with your father, but it isn’t the same.

Being independent will always be important to you, and it may be one of the traits you are known for, along with being sweet, genuinely good, and loving. You are also blessed with a fine mind, but since you already know that, you expect everyone else to know as well. You like to hear it every now and then, with an emphasis on every and now. Forget later: now is now and time is fleeting and precious. You want what you want when you want it, and I will never say you are demanding, because you know you are not. Your mind works in a very straightforward manner and A always leads to B, etc. There is no A to Z or one and one equaling five with you. There is also no excuse for being wrong, and you will be sorely tried when you watch people being excused for that very thing! Everyone is not always right, because this is not a perfect world, but I agree with you my love: not everyone is right, so someone always has to be wrong. You know that patience is a virtue, but no one ever told you it would be so hard!

Here I sit at my computer wondering, hoping and dreaming. I am waiting for the phone to ring, and I am nervous, as I always am at these times. Maybe nervous isn’t the right word though, and because you are exacting you want me to be exacting, just so there is no mistake. I am impatient, I think that is the better word. I trust in God, always, so no nervous flutters, just a restrained impatient joy waiting to be released. I can feel the laughter and happiness bubbling up inside me, and I long to shout it from the rooftops, “It’s a girl, it’s a beautiful perfect little girl, and her name is……” I love you already and I feel as though I have always known you and always will, and I want everyone to know and share the joy of the earthly perfection that is you.

Updates:

I just saw saw your picture, and you are even more beautiful than I thought you would be. I am still smiling little one and just waiting to hear your name which I will repeat endlessly with love and delight. I will look into your eyes and see the past present and future, and I will never ever forget that there was a time before you. I wish you love, joy and everything your heart can hold, and so many little pink dresses, that it will satisfy even my pink loving heart.

7 A.M. I voke up in mein bed und I poked Siegfried in der shnitzel und asked him vould he please to open the vindows for me. Vhen you are a great designer, it is necessary to get the fresh morning air, not to be confused mit der French air. Still, the French put up mit mein eccentricites, und haff made me a national hero. Ach Nancy boy, they say, you haff done vhat ve could not: you haff made us look normal und manly. Ja. it a hard job, but somevun has to do it, ja?

7:30 A.M. It is time for the breakfast, und I had to beat Siegfried for breaking vind, instead of the breakfast. Siegfried seems to enjoy it, und I must admit that I did too. Ve had eggs und a lot of sausage aftervards, und as I alvays say, a little exertion in mornings is good for Siegfried, und even better for me. Mein doktor suggested protein in the mornings, und Siegfried und I alvays do as herr doktor says. I am seventy years young and I credit that to mein doktor und mein little Siegfried.

8:30 Und now it is time for vork. Siegfried vatches as I put on mein pantaloons und shirt, und he throws flour, eggs, and bread crumbs on me. Vhen I am feeling creative, mein pen and ink are thrown about mit abandon, und there is no telling vhat color mein vhite clothing vould be if it was left to the mercies of mein creative chenius. Therefore, I must flour und bread meinself. I generally vork until 9:oo before resting on mein laurels, vhich I do not care to do, because it seems that they are scratchy und harm mein delicate skin tissues. Today is a special day for me: mein new collection’s sketches must go to the vorkroom for the cutters and pattern makers to haff a clue. Normally they are clueless and it is naturally, the vay I prefer it. Othervise I vould haff to beat them, und they are not so undershtanding as mein little Siggy. Ah Siggy, I am ofercome vith thoughts of mein Siggy, und I am forced to take a pinch of snuff to releive mein inner turbulence, before it becomes mein outer turbulence.

10:00 A.M. Now I vill go to the gym und meet up mit mein personal trainer. Mein herr doktor says that exercise is good for finely tuned mechanisms as meinself to haff a vorkout. He also says two hands are better than vun. It is how I became the age of seventy: exercise. Mind you, I do not vork out meinself as I find it too shtrenuous und difficult. Also I vould haff to take off mein four inch shtilleto cowboy boots und leather pantaloons. Und there is alvays the danger of someone shtealing mein eighteenth century Marie Antoinette fan. Now there vas a real man! I am consumed vith lust for him until I am reminded that he vas actually a voman. Damn it! I am perspiring heaffily thinking of Marie Antoinette und vatching the veight lifters und tumblers. Only the clowns are absent today, but I do not mind, because I haff vorked hard mit mein new collection und I am in exhaution mit the exertions of athletes in the leather shorts that I haff personally designed und fitted them mit. Mein vork is neffer done, ja?

1:30 P.M. I drife back to mein second apartment. It is three blocks aways from the first one, und I haff the second one only for eating and taking the bathe. I like to keep mein life compartmentalized und tranqvil vheneffer possible. I send the chauffeur avay vith orders not to come und pick me up, because the athletes haff already made me require too much more exercise today. I can smell the exciting aroma of air und potatoes as I open the door to mein second apartment. I eat a potato from the finest Limoges, und qvaff a flacon of fresh imported English air. Then I push away mein chair, as a signal to mein entourage that I am finished und ready to vork. Ah Nancy they say, one day you vill kill yournself vith all this vork. You vill die in the harness. I find the thought comforting und extremely stimulating. I must go to Hermes later, und see if they can fit me mit a harness.

4:oo P.M. At last I arrife home und Siggy is beside himself. Ach Nancy, ve vere going to send out the search parties, but I remembered meinself that you take the exercise after the lunch, so ve just sat here und ate bonbons and fretted chenteely. Did you haff a fine vorkout? Yes, I declare, und then I slap mein forehead mit mein fan und concuss meinself. I vake up two hours later in the hospital mit a concussion und a broken fan. I veep for Marie Antoinette, that bitch, und then I call for mein driver. Against mein doktor’s advise, I go home to my second apartment. It vas quite the interesting experience: mein chauffeur vas off vork, so I had to call a taxi cab. It reminded me that little people sometimes take this fery same transportation, und I shudder, und remind meinself to raise prices to make sure that none uff them vill ever vear mein priceless and delightful clothing. It takes two hours to shpray down the taxi mit Fabreze und another hour to persuade the drifer that I am not crazy. At nine o;clock ve set out for mein second house. It is past time for mein bathe. Siegfried knows that I do not carry money on mein distinguished person, so he agrees to tip the drifer. I hear the screams of the taxi drifer as Siegried deliffers ein large und painful tip. Somehow I know this vill cost me many Euros, but I am too shtressed to care. I soak in an inch of vater and admire myself in the mirrors on the ceiling und valls. There is no vun like Nancy. I am helped from the tub by a retired cavalry unit und dried mit the finest Sham Wow, und dressed in my Shtar Trek pajamas, und Mickey Mouse shlippers. Mein chauffeur comes und drifes me to mein other apartment, vhere mein bed has been freshly made.

10:00 P.M. I am tucked under the fine sandpaper sheets, und I order meinself to dream of Chevrolet Noir, the avant garde American designer on television. I sleep peacefully und mit exertion. Tomorrow is another day, as Scarlet O’Hara is pleased to say. Tomorrow vill come soon enough, so good night mein darlings, und haff pleasant dreams, ja? I vill see you all again in exactly eight hours und fifteen minutes, at vhich time, ve can do this all over again. Sometimes I amaze meinself.

Her toes dragged as she was propelled across the sagging hardwood floors.
As usual, she was looking for a life and found it where she had not been looking.
Her eyes grew wide with shock as the reality of her helplessness blinded her to the possibility of life.
And left her shipwrecked in the flotsam of humanity.
Had she been able to wonder, she might have thought, “Is this all there is?”
She does not think as we do, but lives life as it occurs, and makes no plans for a future she has never considered.
Her eyes see everything and nothing, and she does not think about the political landscape, life as she knows it, or tomorrow.

The future holds no terrors for life’s pilgrim, and she jauntily marches from one circumstance to another,
Never counting the cost or looking inwards.
Her arms lustily embrace the life she has and she is forced to exist, but not to live.
She has no idea that she does not live, and she lives her sheltered life to the fullest.
One might imagine, that the constant clacking and scratching of her nails (as she skitters in high arching steps across the sloping floors that define her existence),
Should have told her something.
But they have not.

She sees but is blind, she loves but is maddeningly alone, she reaches constantly for something she does not know and will never have.
When she dies, others will mourn her passing, and grieve with salty tasting tears splashing the flimsy bars and hardwood floors of her prisons.
I have contemplated buying her a mate, but in truth, I have not the time or inclination.
Whoever said once is not enough, didn’t know anything.
Once is often too much, when you are dealing with women of any species,
But
Two cockatiels is one too many.

Two would be endless machinations and pleas for attention,
And four eyes staring at me hypnotically,
Might prove too much for my fragile ego and love of privacy.
Currently she sits on my shoulder crunching her beak and avoiding the hard word floors of her walking nightmare.
The vet has not been able to discover how she injured her wing and how she continues to free fall
Despite all her efforts to soar; she remains earthbound
Blase and accepting of her fate.
No matter how often she crashes and frantically struts
Looking for rescue, she fails to soar above the humanity two feet below her.
Life is an endless series of friendly faces that terrify her
And hands and shoulders that she knows and loves.
Is is strange how often a wild bird finds sanctuary with another wild bird or birds,
It is right that two children of the daylight who shun the terrors of night can live so happily together.
But it is almost a contradiction in and of itself.
Two negatives only make a positive in grammar and in mathematics, but
Life can often surprise you, and make you giddy with love.

I know that feeling as I know the grooves that her toes have carved into my left shoulder,
Never the right. I would ask her why if I could, but she would only
Look gently amused and delighted
And hold tightly to the life she has,
While in her dreams and thoughts, she flies, soaring above the clouds
Sloughing off the constraints of reality.
Wings don’t matter when you are truly alive.
Love is where you find it and nurture it, and when it is unexpected
It is most often the best kind and
The stuff of fables when it is unexpected.

I love you Miss Bird, and despite your wonky wings and my broken gait
We
Will float together and think about today, but never tomorrow.
I said you exist, but I think I lied.
You live more than most humans I have known and loved,
And sometimes I wonder why I bothered loving some of them.
I never wonder why I love you, because you are and I am.
Sometimes, that is more than enough.

I have a not so secret addiction and everyone who knows me already understands that. I love the internet and I love any gadget or gizmo that gets me there. You would think a computer would have been enough, but then you don’t know me, if you think that. I wasn’t satisfied until I got an iPod. Thanks to my generous sons I was gifted with one for a birthday a few years ago. Then of course there was the iPad, and I yearned for that. Whenever I passed the electronics aisle, I was sure to catch one looking longingly at me: take me home, take me home, it chirped in little electronic lullabies that no one but me could hear, unless they were as obsessed as me. The price tag put me off, and I really couldn’t justify it. My good angel reminded me that I had a very nice computer also from my sons, and that for portability you couldn’t really beat the iPod. I would virtuously tell youngest son that he shouldn’t buy me one, and I meant it. They are expensive, and it was, again, one of those things I couldn’t and wouldn’t buy regardless of the endless arguments I’d had with myself. Then Christmas arrived, and there it was under the tree. I was thrilled. It was already pre-loaded with all of the sites I visited on my computer and iPod, so I could get right down to business. For me, business isn’t making money, it’s spending it.

I could read my email without squinting and turning the screen every which way, and my friends at Amazon knew who I was, so that was wonderful. Recently I discovered the wonderful world of buying magazines online. I am particularly addicted to Hello!, Majesty, and once in a while, I will condescend to pick up Royalty. For me, to condescend means that while I won’t specifically leave home to pick one up, if I see it I will buy it. Subtle difference, but there it is. Once I discovered that I could buy a magazine and read it online, and pay less money, I was hooked. Today I decided that I wanted the latest issue of Hello! If I buy it locally it means a ten mile drive to the only store near my house, that actually stocks it.

When I want something I want it five minutes ago. Today it is 44 degrees and raining, so that was two strikes against my planned expedition. I don’t like rain when my hair is behaving itself. Behaving means that I straightened it and it stayed straighter than a first term congress critter from a conservative state. Rain is rude. It produces frizz and it makes my husband irritated. Not that my hair frizzes, he could care less. He has an aversion to rain, because before he retired, it always rained on his days off. Always. It may have been brief showers, but it rained nonetheless. He says the word rain, like the wicked witch said water in the Wizard Of Oz.

Knowing that going anywhere was not even something either of us would contemplate, I bought the issue online. It was cheaper, I saved gas, neither of us got wet, and now that I have it, I can savor every page and keep it without clogging up the bookcases, baskets, bins, and flat surfaces in the house. My table is currently clogged with paper work, magazines, and printed recipes to organize and toss in my endless supply of three ring binders, and a bowl of fruit. The fruit is my sole concession towards recognizing that the table is in the dining room, and that normal people don’t generally share meals with reams of paper.

After I bought the magazine I blithely told my husband that I had saved him gas money by not leaving the house to buy something that I had fully intended to buy. I saved almost three dollars in the cost of the magazine too, by not going to the news stand. To my husband, saving him money means that I am not spending it, not that I spent it online, but in this case, since it saved him three bucks and leaving home, he was happy, and foolishly told me to always buy it online. I might buy one or two issues a month, but I won’t be buying it every week. I don’t care how many tempting royals are on the cover: it has to have more than that, and most magazines are the cover story and a lot of filler that I don’t care about. This one was different since it had the Queen, the Duchess of Cornwall and the Duchess of Cambridge. Together! At Fortnum and Mason! Having tea with the little people who worked there. The little people at that store look like jet setters so little people may not be the correct term. There is little and then there is little. At any rate, the magazine is safely slumbering on my iPad until such time as I get around to reading it. Once I get something that I want now, I act somewhat like a three year old. I got what I wanted and smugly consider how I maneuvered my way into getting it, and I can wait until the right moment to appreciate it. I have suspicions that eventually my decided immaturity as regards finding and purchasing reading materials may leave me with no room on my computer at all! But it will be there waiting for me. Now if I could just find an online copy of Majesty to buy and not read, my day would be complete.

I never win anything. That is my constant refrain. I never win anything and I don’t mind, because sometimes just thinking about it is enough to satisfy me. The last and only thing I had previously won was my weight in candy about five or six years ago. Of course no woman will admit what she weighs, so I entered in my husband’s name. I was absolutely delighted when I/he won, and planned to send my daughter and her roommate half of it, save a few boxes for me, and donate the rest to local retirement homes. My husband was irritated and promptly thought of ways to void my first win ever. He called the company and told them that he noticed that distributors and their families were not eligible. He was not a distributor, but it worked, and they took back the prize and donated it to someone else. Believe me when I say that my daughter and I were enraged with him for quite some time. Some people just aren’t happy when other people are happy, and sometimes he is one of them. I finally made my peace with him after endless days of frosty silence on my part, and refusing to come out of the office when he was home. Childish? You bet, but he got the message. In case he didn’t, when I did come out of the office, I told him at length that I loathed him several times a day for quite some time. Eventually he got over it, but once again he was hoist by his own petard. He liked that particular brand of candy, and he was saddened when I refused to allow any into my house, ever again. To this day he has not been able to eat any in my presence. I consider that a mean but effective victory of sorts.

Two weeks ago I entered a giveaway at one of the websites I subscribe to, Gluten Free Mom. Rudi’s bread was giving away coupons for two loaves of free bread, a toaster with the Rudi’s logo, and a very sturdy shopping bag. It is so strong that I could probably carry a grandson in there, but I don’t plan to test that theory any time soon, if ever. All we had to do was say what our favorite gluten free sandwich was. Mine is turkey pastrami, lettuce, tomato, and mayo on one slice of gluten free bread. I forgot about it as soon as I entered. Imagine my surprise a week later when I got an email from Jamie asking for my name and address. I sent it the same day, and exactly one week later, my prize package arrived.

Not only did I get the toaster and the shopping bag, I received five coupons for free loaves of bread, a bag clip, two gluten free magazines, a bread shaped note pad and a bread shaped magnet for my fridge. I love that little magnet as much as I love the toaster with the Rudi’s logo on it! There was also a little plastic tube shaped thing with a screw that we have not been able to figure out. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t care. I have spent several free minutes staring at it and pondering about it’s use. There may be a piece missing. or it may be something that fell in by accident. That is probably the most plausible explanation. Regardless, we have had some very lively and amusing discussion s about it.

It is officially the first prize or giveaway that I have actually won and taken possession of, and it has given me as much pleasure as winning a bag of money. More probably, because it is something that I have liked and used for the last year or two. It is rare in the gluten free category to find something both delicious and affordable. My husband also eats the bread so the five bags won’t last very long. Thank you to the kind people at Rudi’s who sponsored giveaways on several websites, at Twitter and at Facebook. It was especially nice in this era of high food prices. Locally, Rudi’s was the least expensive of the big three gluten free breads, and the best. Whether you can eat gluten or not, their cinnamon raisin bread is outstanding, and I wouldn’t say no to their multigrain loaf. I haven’t found the hamburger buns or pizza crusts at any of my local stores, but I live in hope.

This totally unexpected win is almost enough to make me forget about the candy. Almost but not quite. Tomorrow we will make our monthly trek to the Wedge, and I will get a few loafs of bread for my freezer and one for the table, and every time I open the bag, I will smile and silently thank those lovely people at Rudi’s for their kindness and generosity. Rudi’s also makes bread for those who can eat gluten, but even the gluten lovers would like the gluten free. It is really that good.

Sometimes you do the same thing year after year and day after day with the same results. You want there to be a better way and there isn’t. Nothing is easier or better than the same old same old, and then one day, a solution comes along and slaps you in the face, leaving you to wonder, why didn’t I think of that?! In this case, it’s nothing earth shattering, but it was a problem that had always perplexed me. To wit: how do you reheat pizza and maintain the taste and texture without it becoming too dry or too soggy in the process? You can reliably reheat almost everything in a microwave without any changes in taste or texture, but pizza isn’t one of them. I had always heard that you put the pizza on a napkin or paper towel to absorb the moisture, but I have never found a paper towel that did what it was supposed to vis a vis pizza. You can still find that tired suggestion in countless women’s magazines and on endless streams of cooking shows. But alas, it’s lazy and stupid advice. The pizza generally emerges soggy and dry at the same time, with pieces of the napkin or paper towel stuck to the bottom. Invariably you lose some of the crust trying to peel it off, because in general paper seems to fuse to the pizza, and like an abusive boyfriend or girlfriend, they just don’t let go, and you have no choice but to excise the offending piece. If you opt for the oven route, you are pretty much guaranteed to have the crust blacken while the topping becomes a molten crust of rock like proportions. I sometimes suspect that burning one piece of leftover pizza in the fireplace would heat my downstairs for at least three hours, but I’ve never been able to test that theory because the fireplace doesn’t work. Either.

The solution is actually pretty easy and logical, but logic was never one of my strong suits despite the A that I managed to get in logic in a college course. Yeah I know, I was surprised too. I like cold hard facts and cold hard thinking, but outside of a classroom, I tend to be the stereotypical absent minded professor. My avatar should be a scowling bolt of tweed smoking a pipe, while a question mark looms overhead. I currently don’t have an avatar because if I did, I would only misplace it anyway, or totally forget about it. If I put something down it will turn up three weeks later in a totally random place that has no commonality with the missing item. Screwdrivers and keys seem to find their way to my freezer, and money or checks end up in the wastebasket. I find cleaning and neatness so annoying that I have to turn up the radio or stereo to get through it, and mindless is the operative word. You listen to the music, and you don’t have to think, you just do it. My theory was that I’ve done so much cleaning in my lifetime that my body would go on autopilot and just put things where they belonged. Unfortunately, when my body does things automatically, it always shifts to a default setting. Treasure hunt anyone?

The freezer has always eluded me though: why on earth would I put keys or my husband’s orphaned tools in there? Money and checks going into the trash makes sense when you consider that even if I didn’t lose it, there would be something frivolous to spend it on, eventually. Apparently throwing the money away is my inspired but vain attempt to cut out the middle man. Perfectly logical if you are me, but not so much if you are someone else.

But all that is getting us no closer to reheating the perfect slice of pizza. I happened on the perfect solution by accident last spring, while staying at Z’s house. We had ordered pizza the night before and he asked if I wanted my leftovers. I said no, because it is worthless eating leftover pizza. He is the only person I know that can smirk and smile wolfishly at the same time, and not be offensive about it. He said he would eat mine since I didn’t want it. I have hung around him long enough to ask questions and he readily gave me the million dollar solution. Alright, maybe you wouldn’t pay a million dollars for it, but somewhere, there is a Saudi prince willing to give up a few bucks and his brother’s kingdom for the secret of perfect leftover pizza.

The answer is a covered nonstick frying pan on the stove top. You don’t actually need it to be a nonstick, but I find that’s easier for my peace of mind. I have used an ordinary pan and a cast iron pan with equally good results, but since I tend to distract easily, I prefer the nonstick. Turn the heat on low until the pan is heated up, put in the pizza, cover it and ignore for five or ten minutes. I set a timer, but less “creative” types probably won’t need to. Leave the heat on low, and do not turn it up. When you come back and lift off the lid, the cheese is nicely melted, the topping is warm, and the crust is crisp without any brown or black spots, unless of course you have forgotten to check in on it. In which case, it will be hard as anthracite and just as edible, but still marginally better than if you had reheated it in the oven. It is my favorite kitchen tip, and to think that all I had to do was ignore the “experts” and ask one of my resident geniuses. Now I just have to find out how to remove the garlic that sticks in my garlic press, without losing a finger or a knuckle in the process. Z, are you out there? Enquiring minds want to know.