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milk

His picture is on our fridge, held there by an alphabet magnet on one end and Pickup Stix magnet on the other. Part of a careless gallery of photos and ephemera. I feel guilty that I look at that photo more now than I did when he was alive. Still alive, a little over two weeks ago. Now I look at it constantly. MB looks at it constantly. Part of me feels frantic to take it down. It’s too much to see his open face, his shining eyes, knowing he’s gone and I’m just getting some milk. It seems wrong. I want to take the photo down so I can get some milk. I don’t want him to see me doing something so mundane. But then I don’t want to take him down just so I can get some stupid milk. Standing at the fridge door has become some cosmic junction between the everyday and the eternal.

And I am bothered by milk.

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no good deed …..

I sent my mother-in-law a Happy Mother’s Day email yesterday. Our relationship is complicated. She needs to be needed and I don’t need her. I have one mother already and that’s complicated enough, thanks. She drives both her daughters-in-law crazy, frankly, so at least I know I’m not alone here.

It’s taken me years to be able to write her what I wrote her yesterday, the gist of which was: You did a wonderful job with MB and I reap the benefits every day. I told her I loved her, which was hard — HARD — to do.

She wrote me back, two words:

“You’re welcome.”

I paid her a compliment; she said “you’re welcome.”

You did a great job on that project, Thelma.

You’re welcome.

Your recital was wonderful, Margaret.

You’re welcome.

You’re so sexy hot, Ryan.

You’re welcome.

Oh, for the love of God. Is it me???

Crackie’s in no mood these days.

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the “triangle of life”

All right, pippa. I’m posting an excerpt from an article on earthquake survival. Yes, I am! You may never be in an earthquake. I mean, I really hope you’re not. BUT just in case — and because the Easter earthquake out here was, uh, scary — I’m posting this. It’s fascinating because it goes against everything anyone has ever been taught about earthquake survival, but it also makes complete sense to me.

It’s not thrilling reading, but it IS informative. My blog is now a PSA. Great. It’s because of the love, naturally.

So, yeah, read on, Macduff!! Survive those Midwest earthquakes!!

My name is Doug Copp. I am the Rescue Chief and Disaster Manager of the American Rescue Team International (ARTI), the world’s most experienced rescue team. The information in this article will save lives in an earthquake.

I have crawled inside 875 collapsed buildings, worked with rescue teams from 60 countries, founded rescue teams in several countries, and I am a member of many rescue teams from many countries.

I was the United Nations expert in Disaster Mitigation for two years. I have worked at every major disaster in the world since 1985, except for simultaneous disasters.

The first building I ever crawled inside of was a school in Mexico City during the 1985 earthquake. Every child was under his desk. Every child was crushed to the thickness of their bones. They could have survived by lying down next to their desks in the aisles. It was obscene, unnecessary, and I wondered why the children were not in the aisles. I didn’t at the time know that the children were told to hide under something.

Simply stated, when buildings collapse, the weight of the ceilings falling upon the objects or furniture inside crushes these objects, leaving a space or void next to them. This space is what I call the “triangle of life.” The larger the object, the stronger, and the less it will compact. The less the object compacts, the larger the void, and the greater the probability that the person who is using this void for safety will not be injured. The next time you watch collapsed buildings, on television, count the “triangles” you see formed. They are everywhere. It is the most common shape you will see in a collapsed building.

TIPS FOR EARTHQUAKE SAFETY

1) Most everyone who simply “ducks and covers” when buildings collapse are crushed to death. People who get under objects, like desks or cars, are crushed.

2) Cats, dogs, and babies often naturally curl up in the fetal position. You should too in an earthquake. It is a natural safety/survival instinct. You can survive in a smaller void. Get next to an object, next to a sofa, next to a large bulky object that will compress slightly but leave a void next to it.

3) Wooden buildings are the safest type of construction to be in during an earthquake. Wood is flexible and moves with the force of the earthquake. If the wooden building does collapse, large survival voids are created. Also, the wooden building has less concentrated, crushing weight. Brick buildings will break into individual bricks. Bricks will cause many injuries but less squashed bodies than concrete slabs. (So be in wooden buildings at all times, pippa. Like yurts. This is somewhat less helpful information.)

4) If you are in bed during the night and an earthquake occurs, simply roll off the bed. A safe void will exist around the bed. Hotels can achieve a much greater survival rate in earthquakes simply by posting a sign on the back of the door of every room telling occupants to lie down on the floor, next to the bottom of the bed during an earthquake.

5) If an earthquake happens and you cannot easily escape by getting out the door or window, then lie down and curl up in the fetal position next to a sofa or large chair.

6) Most everyone who gets under a doorway when buildings collapse is killed. How? If you stand under a doorway and the doorjamb falls forward or backward you will be crushed by the ceiling above. If the door jam falls sideways you will be cut in half by the doorway. In either case, you will be killed! (He’s not a super cheery fellow, is he?)

7) Never go to the stairs. The stairs have a different “moment of frequency” — they swing separately from the main part of the building. The stairs and remainder of the building continuously bump into each other until structural failure of the stairs takes place. The people who get on stairs before they fail are chopped up by the stair treads — horribly mutilated. Even if the building doesn’t collapse, stay away from the stairs. The stairs are a likely part of the building to be damaged. Even if the stairs are not collapsed by the earthquake, they may collapse later when overloaded by fleeing people. They should always be checked for safety, even when the rest of the building is not damaged.

8) Get near the outer walls of buildings or outside of them if possible. It is much better to be near the outside of the building rather than the interior. The farther inside you are from the outside perimeter of the building the greater the probability that your escape route will be blocked.

9) People inside of their vehicles are crushed when the road above falls in an earthquake and crushes their vehicles, which is exactly what happened with the slabs between the decks of the Nimitz Freeway. The victims of the San Francisco earthquake all stayed inside of their vehicles. They were all killed. They could have easily survived by getting out and sitting or lying next to their vehicles. Everyone killed would have survived if they had been able to get out of their cars and sit or lie next to them. All the crushed cars had voids 3 feet high next to them, except for the cars that had columns fall directly across them.

10) I discovered, while crawling inside of collapsed newspaper offices and other offices with a lot of paper, that paper does not compact. Large voids are found surrounding stacks of paper. (Woo hoo for all the pack rats, I guess).

Spread the word and save someone’s life …

Uhm, so there you go. Sorry to bring the room down.

But, then, you can find “triangle of life” now, can’t you?

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lessons from doctors

So I’m editing a ton of video interviews with these hoity-toity Manhattan plastic surgeons. Basically, every plastic surgeon in Manhattan, it would seem. A massive, sort of soul-sucking undertaking — oh, how I hate editing the spoken word — but good money. So I’ll be a little absent until Friday is good and gone.

I’m learning SO much about breasts, though. Weird, because I kind of considered myself an expert since I came with two and have to corral them on a daily basis, but seems I don’t know everything.

For instance, did you know it’s very challenging to make a “breast mound that looks like a breast mound”? It’s true. One doctor looked straight into the camera and said that to me, in a voice a little low and rumbly and inappropriate.

You know what I said to him in response?

“Doc, your teeth are yellow like dried mustard. Do you know NO ONE who does teeth whitening? Aren’t you filthy stinking rich?? Also please stop talking about breast mounds. I’m delicate.”

But he didn’t listen. He just kept droning on and on about breast mounds, those two words slipping through his ochre teeth until I became uncomfy in my own skin and hyper aware of my own breast mounds. And I’m usually fine with them.

Another doctor was very nervous and fat and basically pre-verbal in front of the camera. He broke out in flop sweat. The entire interview, he glistened like an Easter ham and I wanted nothing more than to stick him with cloves. And, you know, I’d say “aww, poor guy,” I would, but he’s clearly not poor. Just ….. socially marginal.

Another doctor went on a rant about doctors who ignore “the human element”:

“So you’re an oncologist and you walk into the examination room and say, ‘You know you’re going to lose your hair, right?’ I mean, those are the first words out of your mouth? Who does that? Who says that? I don’t care what kind of physician you are. Make believe you’re a human first.”

And right there, on the spot, I looked him dead in his pre-recorded eyes and declared my undying love for him, porn ‘stache and all, because honestly, that — THAT — is genius.

Those are words to live by.

I can think of several people at a recent church I attended who really need to hear these life-changing words:

Make believe you’re a human first.

So, thanks, Doc.

But, seriously, shave that thing or name it.

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drunk santa

Remember Drunk Santa?

Well, there’s a postscript to this tale, relayed to me by my sister.

A couple of days after Christmas, a neighbor knocked on my sister’s door. Drunk Santa’s son, who had been on the scene at the time.

“Hey, I just wanted to thank you and your family,” he began.

“Really?”

“Yeah, about my dad. About letting him be Santa for Piper and your nieces.”

“Oh, sure. It was fun.”

“No, you see, uh ….. he’s got Alzheimer’s.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Well, thanks, but, see, every year he dresses up as Santa. Then he thinks he IS Santa. We usually manage to keep him in the house when he’s dressed up, but he wandered outside and your sister saw him.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, I think she was just excited to have the girls see him.”

“I know. Well, I know he wasn’t really ‘all there,’ talking to the girls, but he was so happy afterwards. He was just SO happy. That entire day, he was a different man.”

The neighbor’s voice started to choke.

My sister teared up.

“Oh, I’m glad. It really was fun.”

“Well, thanks again. It meant a lot to him. You have no idea.”

When my sister told me this, I teared up too. I was touched, but I was also chastened. I had simply assumed he was drunk. I had judged him as nothing but a drunk. It staggers me, shames me, that no other alternative even occurred to me.

He was just a drunk, weaving across the street, slurring my niece’s name.

“Drunk” Santa wasn’t drunk, Trace.

The man had Alzheimer’s.

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oasis

I want to publicly thank dear blog friend Brian for sending me some books that have made all the difference the last couple of months as I’ve processed Ye Olde Churche Debacle. No, I’m not done processing. I’m slow on these things. I overanalyze; ask too many questions that probably don’t have answers. Or at least satisfactory answers. I know I haven’t finished telling the story and I intend to. I probably need to.

But in the midst of all this, dear Brian offered to send me some books that had made an impact on him and they sounded so great, so spot-on for where I’m at right now spiritually, that I said yes, yes, yes, and literally DEVOURED them all when they got here. I read all three of them so quickly and, uh, maniacally that I’m now going back and re-reading them ….. slowly, deliberately. Like, Calm down, Trace. Maybe take a Xanax before you read, mkay?

I wish I could adequately describe them all right now — the impact they’ve had on me, how they’ve completely changed how I now consider issues of faith and church — but I can’t quite, not yet. I just wanted Brian to know that not only did I get the books, I read each one and am re-reading them because I need to. I WANT to. I know when I give books to someone, I love to hear that they’ve actually been read, that they aren’t just sitting on a shelf — so that’s why this is here, too.

So Brian, thank you, thank you, thank you. These three books have been a kind of spiritual oasis to me in the last couple of months. It means the world to me that you did that. Thank you again.

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sourface lemonpants

So we were up in the deep dark middle of nowhere for Thanksgiving, where tortoises while away the winter clawing hopelessly in drawers, etc.

(Oh, wait. Update on that: The tortoises — yes, there are now two — are in separate boxes in the closet. They are, ahem, too BIG to fit in the dresser drawers anymore. And, you know, I have mixed feelings about this: First, I’m relieved that hibernating torti are no longer clawing about all stump-like amongst anyone’s delicate underthings. Although, second, I’m concerned about just how large these critters will get and how that might negatively impact meee. I can imagine some Incredible Hulk Tortoise scenario where they fly (uhm, plod?) into a murderous rage one night and pop all gigantic out of their shells whilst I’m fitfully sleeping mere feet away, and, oh! the slow havoc they will wreak upon me in the deep dark middle of nowhere! And just how big is too big for a tortoise or any other such creeping reptilian creature? Shouldn’t they be soup by now? Just think of all that yummy soup crammed carelessly in a box in the closet for six months of every year. Well, okay, you don’t HAVE to think about it, but I sure do. All the time. Especially when the clawing happens. Oh, Lordy, yes, especially then.)

For Thanksgiving dinner, we went to my in-laws’ friends’ house. At their home, I met this lady, a friend of the friends, and for whatever reason, she seemed to develop an instant white-hot hate for me. I’m a polarizing figure, pippa; it’s true. Generally, I have found that people either like me or HAAATE me with not much middle ground. I don’t know why. Well, actually, I have some theories, but who really cares? I’m a polarizing monster is the point I’m trying to make here.

So this lady — let’s randomly call her Sourface Lemonpants — brought all the appetizers and set them up on a side table. She had crackers and cheeses and cheese spreads and all the spreads were in these little jars with tiny toothpick signs detailing what they were, so you’d know which one contained the deadly poison, is what I think now, in retrospect. I loitered around this table, gorging, ignorant of the imminent white-hot hate and thinking, “Wow. How adorable and pretty this all is, mm-mmm, yummy, blahdie blah blah.” Just thinking the best of people, as I am wont to do.

I turned to Sourface Lemonpants, who at that point was just “a human lady,” and said, “Wow. I love this lemon ginger cheese spread. And it’s all so pretty. You’re like Martha Stewart!”

She turned to me and, yamahama, I tell you true, her eyes were like blazing red lasers of death. She did not say a word, not one word, as she tried to bore her crimson gaze into my hapless skull.

Basically, she had a sudden and total RED ASS for me, pippa, and, well, owie, owie, owie.

I spoke fast.

“Oh, uhm, I meant it as a compliment.”

Her eyes were dead and cold. In a split second, I realized the tortoises in the drawer would look just like this when they finally club me to death with their slow stumpy legs.

“It’s not a compliment,” she said.

“But, uh, really, I meant it as a compliment. I did.”

“IT’S NOT A COMPLIMENT! MARTHA STEWART IS A SCUMBAG!”

She proceeded to detail how That Scumbag Martha Stewart was a big fat felon and WENT TO PRISON, YOU KNOW, and what’s more and even worse, pippa, did you know that That Scumbag Martha Stewart said some REALLY MEAN THINGS about Sarah Palin, aka The Virgin Mary?? She did. It’s true. Seriously, off with her head for that one. Surround it with some flowers for a nice centerpiece.

“Listen, Slappy, I’m not complimenting you on your insider trading; I’m just complimenting you on your stupid cheese spread” is what I would have said right then while showing her the door at MY house. Instead, since I was raised right and mostly try to behave in social situations, I just stared gobsmacked and open-mouthed at her while she ranted on and on and, well, as I watched her mouth move and her face become more and more puckered, that’s when she became Sourface Lemonpants. But, again, it was all very random, as you can see.

When she was finally done raving about That Scumbag Martha Stewart, I turned and bolted to the bathroom where I hugged myself and hummed Jesus Loves Me until This Chick Who’s Never Sober announced it was time to eat. She was three rooms away, but, oh, I could hear her. Oh, yes, indeedy.

Later, at the table, Sourface Lemonpants again went off, this time about the outlawing of the incandescent bulb and how we’re all going to have to use only CFLs in just a few years. (This IS true.) And, honestly, I don’t know why I did this, but I spoke up, made a random comment.

“Yeah,” I said, “and the clean-up on those is a huge pain because of the mercury content.”

Oh, dear. Oh, no. Why oh why do you speak, Trace? Why are you engaging Sourface Lemonpants? Have you forgotten the red ass? I mean, it’s sad. It really is. You have SEEN the face of the red ass, Trace, and it’s a horror and yet, yet, you still remain this hopeful idiot who believes in happy endings with crazy people.

Dumbass.

Sourface Lemonpants just looked at me with her lasers and barked, “NO, IT’S NOT! THAT IS TOTAL BULLS**T! YOU JUST READ THAT SOMEWHERE!”

I stared at her, and in my best grade school teacher voice, simply said a clipped, dismissive “all righty” and turned away from her.

Before she finally left, dragging her ex-Marine husband with her, she packed every last jar of spread and every last crumb of cracker and every last schmear of cheese into strange plastic suitcases, like a makeup artist, growling the whole time about how this “didn’t taste good” or that “was too runny” until someone would finally compliment her and she’d bite their head off.

All righty! Happy Thanksgiving!

Later that night, I had some indigestion.

And, yes, I blame Sourface Lemonpants and that lemon ginger cheese spread.

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a quibble

We have these new neighbors in the condo next door. Two dudes. To be honest, we’re a little confused as to their orientation. They’re a little bit of The Ambiguously Gay Duo — or, well, at least one of them is ambiguously gay. We sit around now, wasting perfectly good breath discussing their orientation because we’re nosy and shallow and contemptible. But that’s neither here nor there. Or, more precisely, it’s not news.

(ed.: Yes, watchers, I said the word “gay.”)

The day they moved in, MB came back from an errand and said, “Okay. A quibble.”

Now when MB says he has a quibble, I will stop whatever I’m doing to hear it because the man doesn’t have quibbles. He’s just not a quibbler. I, on the other hand, am a world-class quibbler. I’m a quibbling virtuoso. The Michelangelo of quibblers. Some people dream; some people achieve; me, I quibble. With feeling, of course. Really, I have no idea what this thing called “life” is. It’s all just one massive quibble to me. Which seems like an oxymoron, but, really, it’s not.

So when MB announced he had a quibble, I stopped whatever I was doing, as previously promised, and said, “Ooooh, what?”

Because, you see, quibbles are never not interesting to me. I care much more about quibbles than legitimate concerns.

“Uhm … they’re using our rock to hold their screen door open.”

“What?”

“They’re using our rock to hold their screen door open.”

Uh-oh. Wait. This is a legitimate concern. I need to over-react to it just to keep it in quibble territory.

“Uhm …. WHAT????”

“Yeah. Our rock is holding their door open so they can move in.”

I ran to the door to see for myself, and, sure enough, there was our rock, OUR ROCK, propping open their screen door so they could, you know, schlep in their cocktail cart and Eames chairs.

Oh, no, no, no, no, no.

Our rock is a rock that we keep next to our front door. It’s smooth and round, about the size of a small shoe. It’s a perfect rock. Beyond that, it means something to us. It’s from somewhere significant to us and it represents something significant to us and it’s NOT to be used by The Ambiguously Gay Duo for a door stop on moving day. Without even asking. And, frankly, HAD they asked, I still would have said no no NO. Sometimes a thing is not just a thing. Sometimes a rock is not just a rock.

So keep your ambiguously gay mitts off my heterosexual rock, mmkay, Slappy?

I stood by the door and watched until they left for another load. Then I leapt out, grabbed our rock, and let their door slam hard. Back inside, I placed the rock safely on a shelf, where it still sits now.

Yeah. Sorry for taking away your door stop, dudes.

So we’re off to a great start with The Ambiguously Gay Duo.

It’s like I always tell MB, “Well, it’s not really home until the neighbors hate me.”

Home sweet home, I guess.

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ghosts

You have them in your life, these ghosts that haunt you. Shadows of ones who at some time cast themselves long and deep across the walls of your heart. Old friends, old loves.

People who have come by chance and gone by choice.

Some go too quickly. Or too easily. They leave you, suddenly lost on the road of your life, dazed and raw and full of unanswered questions. So you stand alone in this grayed-over place looking here and there for the crumbs leading home, but you, of course, just set out on the trek too careless and sure to pack them.

Of course you did.

Over the years, these are the ghosts that haunt you again and again because you were vain enough to think that, once, when you stepped across the threshold of their lives, you tread firmly enough to leave a footprint. An impression. To matter, somehow. You can retrace the path of your life and find the clear prints they left, see their shape, but you find yourself always wondering what sand storm of amnesia or apathy or chosen forgetfulness blew across their hearts and forever buried your careful steps in their lives — or the steps you thought were so solid and sure.

But maybe it was you. All you. That’s probably it, you tell yourself. Easier to believe that than anything else. Perhaps you only tiptoed across their lives. Perhaps you stumbled badly. Perhaps the balance of your heart was uneven, out of whack. Perhaps the footing of your soul had become numbed and callused and you couldn’t feel your own tracks. However it all happened, somehow the steps you thought you took were not the steps you left behind.

So these ghosts drift through your mind, lugging the burden of questions you’ve packed for them over the years. Sometimes, you dare to gather the ghosts and place them on the witness stand in your mind. You question. Prod. Beseech. But they’re non-responsive; they evade. It’s all so unsatisfying. You just can’t get to the truth of it all. And when the verdict comes in, it’s always the same. Guilty. You, not them. You sigh a long sigh and wonder why you even bother with this — the same cold courtroom of your mind. The ghosts flit away and you don’t question them again for a long while.

But you will. You know you will. And it will turn out the same as it always does.

Then a day comes when one of those ghosts escapes the shifting walls of your mind and stands real and solid before you. You see the ghost and the ghost sees you.

And, as you always feared, the ghost is not pleased to see you.

You feel a pinprick of tears as you turn away, calling that cold courtroom of your mind to order once again.