Every time I pick up a can of hairspray, I cringe. I know I’m not the only woman on the North American continent experiencing this, either. It’s always been something of a problem, but seems to be getting more so. My hair — which was never anything to brag about to begin with — has decidedly become less so. My mother used to tell me it wasn’t thin — it was “fine.” Even as a child, I knew better. My hair wasn’t just “fine,” it was thin, too. Great, both thin and fine. Wonderful. The only thing mother could do with it was braid it into two thin (or fine. or both) braids which she dressed up with ribbons. And, as if that weren’t enough, it would never grow much past my shoulders. In fifth grade there was a girl named Maria Mendez. Maria had heavy, thick dark hair. Maria… Read More »
Oh no, not John Gavin!
“Wait. Wait … who is John Gavin?” Jeanine and I looked at Kathie and then looked at each other. “What do you mean who is John Gavin?” I asked. “How can you have not heard of him? He’s one of the handsomest actors of all time. He was every woman ‘s dream man.” “He was in a bunch of movies,” Jeanine added. “Psycho and Spartacus, Imitation of Life, Back Street… You don’t emember him? ” Kathie shook her head. Granted, she is a bit — well, maybe more than a bit — younger than I am, but how could she not know my teenage heartthrob, John Gavin? “Here, let me pull up a picture,” Jeanine added as she reached for her phone. This all occurred a few nights ago when Kathie and Jeanine dropped by. We had started out talking about dogs and their people and it brought back a memory… Read More »
clarification and apology
Oh, my word, I owe you an apology! When I sent yesterday’s blog about my adventure in the hospital, I didn’t take into account that many of my friends and blog followers were not aware of the situation. So I apologize for (1) leaving you in he my dark and (2) startling you with my account. Just to bring you into the loop – about six months ago I started having breathing problems and ended up in the hospital with pneumonia. (And by-the-way, on the hospital admission paper, they put the reason for admission as “SOB.” A bit confusing until I figured out that stood for Shortness of Breath and was not a reflection on my character. I hope.) CT scans and X-rays show scarring, cloudiness and “spider-webbing” in my lungs, none of which are good. In spite of extensive testing, X-rays and CT scans, the doctors couldn’t pinpoint the… Read More »
So how about that morphine?
“Okay, now, don’t move.” It was my first night in the Intensive Care Unit and the nurse was standing there holding a needle. “This morphine is going right into your heart.” “What?” “The vena cava. It’s the large vein that takes the blood right into your heart.” No … that “what” wasn’t a request for more information — it was a yelp of shock, dismay and whatever is the next step down from terror. “Hold real still,” she said as she picked up the IV port in my neck. Oh, believe me, I was holding real still! There was nothing in this hospital that was holding stiller than I was. The chair in the corner wasn’t even as still as me. I coulda been a statue. I wasn’t even breathing. “There,” she said. “All done. How do you feel?” Terrified would probably cover it. Scared out of my wits. You’re… Read More »
Is it Kipling, or is it my dad?
Okay, perhaps that is a silly question — of course the poem was written by Rudyard Kipling. At least I’m pretty sure. Dad would sometimes quote “Twenty Bridges from tower to Kew … twenty bridges or twenty-two … wanted to know what the river knew.” My dad was born and raised in England back at the beginning of the last century when, he would sometimes tell me, “British meant best.” Although he loved America, a part of his heart still belonged to England. So you bet I was thrilled when my second assignment in the U.S. Foreign Service was to the American Embassy in London. I remember walking along the Thames thinking of those twenty bridges … or twenty-two. Today when I was sorting through (yet another!) box of papers from decades ago in an effort to pare down the clutter, I came across the poem my dad typed out and… Read More »
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