Girl vs. Men vs. Food

So, you love your family, don't you?  On this thought I'm not really referring to your spouse and children but, to your original family unit....parents, siblings, your extended family....even toothless Great-Aunt Ginny.  I love mine, though everyone has scattered so far that there are cousins I potty-trained with (and, they were BOYS) that I haven't seen in over ten years.  That just doesn't seem right after years of bonding over basement horror movies, fried chicken picnics each summer at Kennywood, sitting at the kiddie tables every blasted get together, and general shared hooligan activities.

But that seems about to change.

Because my Mom's half of the family unit is in town to mark my Aunt's 80th birthday, and to eat bodacious quantities of family reunion-type food.  How do I know this about the food?  Because most of these family member people are men who were once boys who had Paul Bunyan-sized appetites, and could down a plate loaded with 6.7 pounds of Thanksgiving yumminess in under five minutes.  How do I know this?  Because I timed them.  And I never made it to the table to start eating my first plate before they finished their second.  Either I was pathetically slow at the buffet table or they were freakishly fast eaters of mass food quantities.  I, was not slow.  I, never got enough dark meat. 

They totally missed their calling as competitive eaters.

So I've been training for this reunion.  Oh yeh....the girl whose own mother introduces her to eligible men as "my daughter? she eats like a lumberjack"....plans to get my fair share of reunion food bounty and ensure that all children under 18 get theirs, too.  It's a risky strategy I can't share here, just in case competitive eating strategy hackers are creeping on this blog and, you know, then somehow plugging into my cousins' fancy Matrix phones to hijack the plan.

Because this little post, is the center of the universe.  Teasing! 

Truly, all kidding aside, I'm so excited to be with everyone again that I almost can't stand waiting a day to reunite and, hopefully, spark the desire to make certain we actually live as a unit.....even across thousands of miles.  Because there's nothing quite like the connections with people who really know what makes you tick.  And love you anyway.

And who don't mess, with the girl who eats like a lumberjack.

The Truth in the Universe Part 2 (or...why dogs rule)

When I finally grow up, I wanna be a dog.

Used to be that being called a "dog" meant that you were a "good dancer".  Ahem.  You know what I mean....your awesome dance moves made up for whatever was lacking in the physical attractiveness department.  Part of a Seinfield episode defended Tommy Tune, who might not've met match.com's "hunk" requirements but DAMN, he could dance.  Once, my 6th grade crush, Rick Norton, called someone a dog during a ridiculous Metric Olympics on our junior high ballfield.  He wasn't talking to me (of course not!) - I think he meant our To-Remain-Unnamed gym teacher - but after that I spent eons worrying that during Mrs. Creamer's science class, RN would woof every time I bent over a microscope. 

Now that I'm a happy long-time member of the "Science is Sexy" sphere, I don't worry about what Rick Norton thought.

But back to dogs.  I've always been a dog person, which I guess is something like saying "I've always slept on the right side of the bed", or, "I've always rolled the toilet paper from the underside" (fodder for t.p. WAR!).  Anyway, being a dog person definitely comes from my Mom.  Dogs follow her everywhere.  As a girl, a little furball stray followed her home one day and, my Mom being the most adorable creature ever, convinced my Ukrainian grandmother that nothing would be better than to take in a ravenous puppy, name him Nicky, and feed him for the next 12 years.  Later, neighbors' dogs used to follow us during our walks around my old neighborhood.  Just because my Mom is so damn cute.  And probably also because our dog Chips had peed on my shoes.  But whatever....we were absolute dog magnets, and still are.

Now, I have two, adopted from the same shelter.  The oldest is Dog #1 (Snoopy), and he's ten.  His housemate is Reesie.  She's six but she's NOT, Dog #2.  Despite my habit of calling her that.  Lately I've been watching them more closely, partly because I'm not 'working' 70 hour school weeks again til September, and partly because, Snoopy just got bad news from the vet, which has been upsetting to my family and me.  Snoopy doesn't have a clue that he's sick so....sssshhhhhh.  I don't plan on telling him.

Because as I'm typing this he's gathered the disgusting gnarled rawhide leftovers he's stolen from Reesie or, has dug up from the yard where he buried them hmmmrmphhh months ago, and is laying on them, like they're going to hatch and multiply.  So it's happened.  Snoopy's finally eaten enough bird road kill for his DNA to have mutated and..........

It doesn't matter. 

He's having a ball, thinking he's clever for hiding these disgusting bone things from Reesie.  He's having a ball peeing on whatever he wants to (OUTside) because his pee-er works again.  He's having a blast because it's wakeup time and that's when you squeak every toy in the toy pile because......we're awake!.  He's having a blast because food is GOOD and he's good at eating it.  His naps rock, and back-scratching on tree branches rocks, and so does looking for backyard frogs, and so does licking the beer bottles in the neighbors' recycling bins. 

So that's like, a 48-minute snapshot of his day today.  The best 48 minutes of his life, until his new 48 minute clock starts.  Then who knows what'll happen then, but it'll be the BEST. 

Not to oversimplify things or to generalize, but, this is why I think being a dog is so appealing.  It's been written elsewhere and probably more eloquently, but dogs seem to epitomize what the Jesuits call the "eternal now".   They're usually occupied only by where they are, what they're doing, and who they're with at this moment.  They seem to glean everything they need to know about how they're doing, from right now.  And right now they know they're (hopefully) safe, fed, and loved.  If they are momentarily confused or anxious or ignored, those moments pass (not always free of angst), and then they aren't.  If they were mistreated before, they don't hold it against who they're with now.  Really, who knows if they worry about the future but, if they do, they don't let it curb their utter absorption with now's enjoyment, now's learning, now's circumstances.

Their brains may be littler and have less capacity than ours, but I think that's pretty damn smart.


So maybe that's how it should be.  We adopt our dogs, but maybe then we should adopt their "eternal now" minds and trust that right now is good, and full of simple things to relish, and circumstances to teach us or provide us the things we need to move along and experience the next 48 minutes, and the 48 after that.  And unlike dogs, if our circumstances aren't what we hoped they be, then we should fill ourselves with what we've got now as we prepare to change them.  Because we can.  As Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote in 1836 (YEARS before I was in 6th grade), "every moment instructs, and every object: for wisdom is infused in every form". 

Oh.  And, the toilet paper goes UNDER.

Dirty Bird Talk

I live on a 1/3 acre aviary. Forget the groundhogs who just finished off the new hostas I planted two weeks ago. Yeh, they're cute and move admirably faster than any portly rodent should, but I'm about to wage Carl Spackler-inspired war. If you don't know Carl, you should - watch this. The deer aren't improving the landscape situation either but, they're deer and, they remind me of idyllic childhood forest explorations and hobbits so, they get a pass.

 

But back to the aviary.

 

This home and those around it are surrounded by large, mature evergreen and deciduous (oooo, official word) trees that host approximately 366,187 individual birds when it's not snowing. I don't know how birds learn but they've stopped flying into the big living room picture window, which has left Dog #1 without bird carcasses to "hunt" and swallow whole the next morning (and I still let him lick me?). So they've stopped committing birdicide, but they've started TALKING. I, KNOW. What kind of everyday non-exotic parrot birds talk, you're asking? I don't have any earthly idea, but I've started to name them based on what they say. And if what they say reflects their "truth in the universe" then, there's drama and heartache and.....reality-TV-like stuff going on between the branches.

 

For example...

 

There are "screw it" birds. Everywhere. That's what they say, all day long. I finally used my superior vestibulocochlear apparatus to locate one and realized that the "screw it" bird is actually, dismayingly, the cardinal. You know...the striking red bird on all the Christmas cards. The bird experts say they're actually calling "birdie" but, maybe that's because they're standing in a field with conspicuous recording equipment and, you know, the birds are showing off. Here in western Pennsylvania suburbia, birds get REAL. I know a "screw it" when I hear one. So there's that, and then the "Murray" bird. I haven't figured out what it actually is but when the two talk together, all you hear is "Screw it, Murray!", over and over and over. I don't know who Murray is but he's been hen-pecked (ha!) all summer. I wouldn't be surprised if the birdicides restarted and we found Murray carcasses in the yard, each with tiny little bottles of Jack Daniels clutched in their little Murray claws.

 

So that's a compelling little piece of birdarama, and adding to it is the "DO it" bird. It's like the devil sitting on your shoulder while you're on the back patio, challenging you to eat that third grilled cheeseburger, or, mocking poor Murray who's sitting at the birdie bar pouring his heart out to the bird-tender (pun, so bad it's good). There's also a "pur-dee, girl-EE" bird. You can make up your own story about that one. I just look over my shoulder when it starts, to be sure the lawn boys aren't peeking over the fence.

 

 

So these birds speak in simple nouns, adjectives and verbs. It could be one giant enraged cardinal responsible for all of it, for all I know. But whatever....put it all together and you hear a story of bird love, betrayal and heartache. And as I typed that sentence a large bird smacked the big picture window, I kid you not. Honest to goodness.

 

Hmmmmm....

 

So anyway, no redemption and no renewal in this suburban bird story, yet. But we should all keep listening for the "dude, it's all good" and the, "Murray, come home! (or in other words, 'screw me, Murray!')" bird songs. Because Murray deserves another chance.

 

 

But that groundhog? "Do it, Carl. Do it."

The Truth in the Universe

So, it's been 55 weeks of non-stop work for my classmates and I, and it just ended. For the next two months, at least. I'm not sure what they (Pitt) call this intermission but, I'm calling it "it's about freakin' time". At this time last year I couldn't imagine why or how the second-year graduate students got TWO CONSECUTIVE MONTHS OFF at this point. I remember looking at them, and thinking they'd just ruined this back-to-school gig for everyone because, you know, how would anyone in a positon of academic authority and in their right mind (i.e., intact executive functions as measured by the MMSE) allow their minions to escape for two months without any strings attached? Surely someone would realize there were 47 fewer people jamming their lunches into one 5th floor refrigerator and send an urgent mass email...."Kidding!! Olly Olly oxen free! You're desperately needed back here for ghdhgdghhohgsldghsalh. Oh, and for ^&*#%, too".

But here I sit on Two Months Off Eve, with no assignments due tomorrow, and no exams to take, and no last-minute "jk" email from Pitt. And I'm actually a little teary-eyed. Not because I'm bored already but, it's just been a long 55 weeks, and there were enough moments when I thought I couldn't do it (because I'm too old, because I'm giving up too much with family and friends, because it's too hard, because I'm too hungry, because it's too Tuesday....because, blah blah....). Just like a lot of other folks in a lot of other situations, if I'd known what this would be like, I'm not sure I'd have done it. Actually, that's kind of a lie. I would have, but my attitude would have truly sucked and everyone around me would've been miserable and left. As a fabulous friend recently reminded me, sometimes cluelessness can be an unexpectedly wise partner. Then she walked right into a light pole. Wait. Sorry...that was me.

So what's that got to do with the truth in the universe? What IS IT dammit?, you ask?

Well first, I'm watching a new episode of "Through the Wormhole with Morgan Freeman" on the Science Channel as I type, which reminds me and everyone that I'm an ENORMOUS geek. I didn't need the last 55 weeks to confirm that truth. So the first truth is that my Pitt-mates and I have spent a good part of the last two months discovering the 'truth in the universe' about clinical research (sounds fancy, it's not), and how to recognize the 'truth in the universe' when we see it (yeh, it surprisingly doesn't just send you a random text, or something). And I think we got pretty good at it. Good thing, because at some point the universe is going to expect us to finish school and start contributing to the tax base again.

So, now I can identify the truth in the universe. It's a wicked mad skill. And you knew I'd apply it in a schmucky way, didn't you.

I actually just wanted to suggest that, despite any many good reasons not to start or finish something worthy, something that you really want...don't. Don't not start or finish, I mean. I fake quit this grad program so many times in my head (pissily sometimes), for lots of reasons. But the truth is I didn't, and never would, because finishing it means working the rest of my life in a field I recognize is exactly where I want to be. That's just one truth. There are obviously many others for each of us (many of mine involve savory edibles, George Clooney, and dog hair). But this particular truth, I wanted to state for the record because I want to re-read this next year, when I'm graduating, and remember how much my Pitt-mates and I will have gained because of it.

See? That could've been a hell of a lot sappier. But it wasn't.

And that's the truth.

Speed Limits

This morning I was gesturally blasted during my daily commute to Oakland by someone in a topless Jeep annoyed at the universal forces that brought us together on the same stretch of asphalt at precisely that moment. I admit, he sucked me into driving faster than my current "Save Gas" campaign manager (uh, me) would normally allow. It's not the first time, and as a driver who used to be THAT person I would empathize with THAT guy if I had been, let's say, applying deodorant while driving (which I've seen, honest-to-Pete), or doing something else that would land me on This List. But I was driving in a way that even my Irish grandpa, orMr. Debold (greatly-feared high school driving teacher), would've approved. I think. Slightly above the posted speed limit, eyes on the road, cell phone tucked away, deodorant applied long before. I was however, singing with force and gusto, which isn't on That List, so maybe what set Jeep man off was my resistance to him badgering me into cruising so far above the speed limit that my vocal cords and other body parts would squeeze shut (G forces would definitely be involved). He clearly had a perspective of speed limit mathematics and logic, that I lack now.

So, I would've re-gestured to Jeep dude but with both hands on the wheel, and my torso safely jammin' (if I do say so) to Jimi Thing....it just would've messed with a good thing. But it did occur to me there's a better way to think about speed limits - both official posted ones, and the completely arbitrary ones picked by middle-aged girls thinking they'll get better gas mileage since (un)NASCAR-like drafting on the Parkway has been deemed too dangerous for un-professional drivers like middle-aged girls. So I've been told (Mark!).

So I have a proposal, for all of us. Here we go..... ESPN.com. Or some source that gives you access to sports teams' jersey numbers (for people like my Mom, who LOVES sports and even watches the NHL on Fios, but doesn't care what Sidney Crosby's number is). Because the better way to approach speed limits is to.....

Pick the jersey number of your favorite athletes, in any sport, and drive that fast. Or slow, depending. Seriously! This was the best idea I ever had during a crappy commute to Oakland, so listen up.

Let's apply this idea using the Pittsburgh Penguins. For example, from now on my Parkway North commute will be at Kris Letang speed, plus or - rarely minus - Matty Niskanen. Parkway West, I'd love to pull a Sidney Crosby on you but....I'm gas-cheap and I'm unwilling to sacrifice my vehicle or those of the other commuting souls around me. Sorry, young bud. But I can happily and legally do Brooks Orpik down Broadhead Road. And Marce Andre....you're the man for driving through my neighborhood, unless the school speed sign is flashing. Then it's gotta be at Chris Kunitz speed or Butch the crossing guard will be PISSED.

See? Aside from the Butch factor, isn't it nice to assign your favorite athletes' jersey numbers to the roads you've got to drive every single stinkin' commuting day?

Suddenly, if we all did it, maybe topless Jeep dude would gesture with his THUMB up instead of *ahem*, because he knows I'm just hauling some Letang but and not trying to keep him from his 7:30am EST call with Beijing (because I have SO many better things to do. really). And the world would smile, and drivers would relax a little, and all of our traffic lights would turn green when we approached them. Okay. That really wouldn't happen. But it'd feel like all our lights turned green each time. And that's the point.....it's just a different perspective. I just want us all to land in our parking spots with our grooves completely intact instead of slightly partially knocked around by pressure to beat the posted speed limit by, oh, say, 38 mph.

Is that so crazy?

Even if it is, I'm sticking to it. I'd rather smile while cruising to my Pens or Steelers logic and singing my Jimi thing.

Or thang.

Normalcy and Dirt

I love most times of year but right now, I'm REALLY loving this time of year because, for the first time since June 2010, I feel normal. That is to say....I feel like a divorced middle-aged girl with a family and a home and a re-blossoming social life and the burning need for....

Dirt.

Ahem. Where is your mind? I'm talking about Mother Earth.

My Dad wasn't a farmer, but he was a Farmer. If you know what I mean. He loved digging in the soil, planting vegetables, and working in the woods surrounding the house. When I was twelve or thirteen he turned a section of our acre into a vegetable garden, and introduced us to the frustration and solid satisfaction of growing and eating our own vegetables. Somewhere in an album my Mom still has pictures of us huddled over little rows of yumminess, which hid the fact that my sisters and I apparently thought that gardening while wearing patchy flooded denim overalls was incredibly hot.

My Dad's love for all things outdoors strengthened as he aged and fought an unpredictable heart. Even in the year before his death he was determined to "work his acre" as he always did, so, he and I chopped wood and cleared brush, and stabbed ourselves while bolstering his beloved roses on their trellis. These jobs were earthy and predictable, and I think it made him feel normal, and in control his soul no matter what was going on in his body.

This Mother's Day weekend we joked how much a "hick" I am, like him. On Mother's Day my Mom and I visited Dad's grave. That sounds morbid but, I'm the first born and, he was really the one who made her a Mommy so, off she and I went. Each time I'm there I think it's perfect that he's buried on an enormous, lofty, scenic rounded Pennsylvania hill, with woods just beyond the gravesites. It feels natural, like home for him, which keeps us connected. So it's natural and right that on each visit my Mom fusses over the latest heartfelt grave marker she's brought, and we stand and chat with him, and that I weed his grave (and the Rices' next door even though Mrs. Rice is still alive. but I don't think she minds). When we leave, my nails are caked in soil and greens, and bits of dandelions. And Mom is smiling.

Today, I can't wait to get home from school to put on my 'farming' gear (NO overalls), and start working. It's May 9th and I know I'm late, and I know the stink bugs will destroy my tomatoes and peppers. Weeds will win, kids will accidently stomp on plants and dogs will deliberately poo BOATloads (which I will still hit myself with). And I don't care. Everything - even the poo in doses - smells hugely, heavenly. All smells and sights....I know trees and shrubbery and wildflowers and raptors, but I don't know a damn thing about song birds despite all the field guides in the den downstairs. So today the songs I hear from them are - and I am not making this up - "screw it screw it screw it", and "Murray Murray Murray". I don't remember "screw it/Murray" song birds hanging around my parent's house but, we just go with it. You don't mess with Mother Earth.

I love that the natural world fulfills it's God-appointed role perfectly and unapologetically, and doesn't care that I maybe slightly misinterpret what it's telling me from time to time. I've heard loons and tree frogs and migrating golden eagles, and mountaintop gusts and the Milky Way (heard it, yes) and no matter what I think I hear, it's right. Eventually I - all of us - get it.

Just like my Dad. Right, Murray?

Damn. That was Hard.

So about two years ago I decided it'd be a great idea to start over. With my career, not my gender or worse, my hair color (some people are adventurous about that, I am not one of them). So a year ago I started a graduate program in a completely new field, feeling like an absolute newbie at the age of 46. Especially since my classmates and I had a major league "1st Year Student" stamp on our foreheads. And when you're 20 years older than your classmates, that stamp? It oozes. It's a little heavenly and hellish, at the same time.

But, guess what. We all navigated through a little bit of heaven and hell over the last year and just became "2nd Year" students, stamp location TBD (uh, on the lower trap maybe?). Three other 35+ classmates and I hung with the kids, who don't seem to mind that their parents and we four old girls watched original Cosby Show episodes. My classmates are brilliant (I think) and funny and impressive. I'm not sure how often they had second, or tenth, thoughts about things. I'm old, and I say the curriculum is grueling.

This first year was damn hard, and Pitt can be frigging frustrating, and some weeks completely sucked, but it's been worth it.

Honestly, who wouldn't want to spend 8 weeks picking apart cadavers? 16 weeks deciphering a mad doctor's clinical medicine hieroglyphics? Or managing 6-foot creepy Ken doll patients (who TALK, sweet Jesus!)? And listening to Biomechanic Gus's 8am "respect the deltoid" lectures? Or quietly freaking out about extrapyramidal lesion pathology or why cranial nerve signs opposite dorsal column signs are different from ipsilateral cranial nerve and dorsal column signs or how to diagnose an ischemic vs. a hemorrhagic stroke or determine if a spinal cord injury is complete or incomplete or understand the motor association cortices and the orbitofrontal cortex and cingulate cortex and dorso-lateral prefrontal cortex and the basal ganglia....(this'll take all night....) Basically everything, about neurobehavioral science freaked me out. Which is maybe why I've loved that class more than all the others. Even though the genius little professor is six years younger than me.

But best of all we began our fieldwork this spring term working with live, cranky, spunky, determined, gracious clients, for the first time. I was assigned to an adult day care center and though it's not the population I hope to work with, learned a lot from the wonderful staff and clients. Including how many dirty jokes are associated with Easter (approximately, 3) and an Italian song about fried fish. MUCH better, than Ken dolls controlled by evil doctoral candidates who probably have video-watching parties of 1st Year Students freaking out when Ken's vitals suddenly plummet because his butt is too rock-solid to handle. Bodacious.

So what's my point? That setting yourself up for extreme uncertainty and potential failure and financial risk is good? Well sometimes, it is. It's never too late to start, or to start over, as long as you're serving your soul. And you know when you are. As much as I hate some of the Pitt process and disagree with academia's tendency to stomp on what's logical and right, that soul thing? It's still there. Which makes this short-term "holy sh*t...I've sacrificed high income and family life and social life for.....?" panic worth it.

So pay attention mates. Your orbitofrontal cortex may be trying to tell you something. And that, you don't want to mess with. I know. I'm a 2nd Year Student. (smile)