The Cycle Continues

Growing up with younger parents had its perks.  For example, how many parents took their kids to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Oingo Boingo in concert?  Mine did.  Granted, Dad thought Flea jumping off of the feedback speakers in his stuffed animal head pants was a little off kilter, he still hung in there and can now actually claim to like some of their songs.  Mom and Dad were 23 when they had me and 25 when they had my brother.   They never listened to soft rock when it was their turn to carpool us to school and honestly I was quite proud of how hip they were.  

As we got older, they kept up with the trends.  One of my favorite memories was driving down to my National Honors Society dinner with my Dad and watching him turn up the volume to jam out to MC Hammer's You Can't Touch This.  He also had a date night with Mom to go see 8 Mile and loved that rap theme song.  Neil Diamond, Dan Fogerty, and others of similar genre were not allowed in our house.  My parents had their own music "classic" influences, but The Beatles and Led Zeppelin were more likely to be found in our vinyl collection next to Peter Gabriel and Prince.  I truly had hip parents.

Don't get me wrong, we had some bumps along the way.  When I was in junior high my Mom went to the music store wanting to get the new "Michael George" album for me and "Moon Javi" for my brother.  Thank God she has a marvelous sense of humor and retold the story of the confused clerk trying to decipher her "Momisms."  Little did I know this phenomenon isn't just relegated to my Mom.  Last night SNL ran a funny skit that had me literally laughing so hard I was crying.  I couldn't wait to get up this morning and call my brother and my parents so I could email them the links.  

I realize that the cycle is inevitable, especially since I will be a much older, further removed generation from my future kids.  We don't even have kids now, but last weekend J asked about that new song by "Gabagooga."  When I looked caught off guard he then began to sing, "Joker Face."  Ah!!! You mean Lady GaGa and Poker Face.  We don't even have kids and already the signs are there:  we are getting old.

Awaiting a New Chapter

I'll state it again:  living out of cardboard boxes is overrated.  Don't get me wrong; it's filled with adventure and possibilities, but after 4 moves in 3 years the process begins to wear on a gal.  J and I knew Boston was most likely be a short lived chapter in our lives.  We were guaranteed 12 months for fellowship and even when the chance of settling our roots here became available, we passed.  Everything from cost of living to the commute outweighed the benefits such as living by the ocean and being in a culturally diverse liberal metropolis.

Somewhere around the end of June and beginning of July moving trucks will park outside our residence and Edgar will undertake his 3rd relocation road trip.  This time we're moving to Milwaukee.  I honestly didn't think we would return to the Midwest, but somehow the stars aligned just so.

Milwaukee is known for such things like Wayne's World's dialogue (thanks, J.B., for reminding me), Harley Davidson, Laverne and Shirley, the Fonz and Cunninghams, cheep beer, and unfortunately Jeffrey Dahmer.  It also has some up's:  Lake Michigan, the historic third ward district, good public schools, universities, tons of summer festivals, and unique neighborhoods.  If we really need a good big city fix, Chicago is only 80 minutes away.  My great grandfather actually attended Marquette University for medical/dental school.  Back then, both professions spent the first two years of their education together before declaring their "speciality" of dentistry or medicine.  Times have certainly changed.  It will be kind of comforting knowing I'm returning to a place where I have distant roots.

Moving to the Midwest means that we'll be closer to Utah and to family, but it's not the same as being in the same neighborhood.  There, of course, are pluses and minuses to this.  This move will also be different due to my physical limitations.  Last year I was packing like a mad woman and this year I'm recovering from back surgery.  Although my pain is almost nil, everyone is truly worried I'm going to wreck havoc on my spine by lifting too much, twisting, leaning, etc.  I suppose they do have a point as I'm not even 6 months out from surgery.  It truly is aggravating to see the list of things to do get longer and feel so helpless about checking any items off of it.  A lot of tasks can only be accomplished by my husband.  

We've also begun a bucket list for Boston.  What do we want to see and do before we leave?  The list is composed of such items like:  restaurants to visit, friends to see, and historical places of interest worth exploring.  We had a similar list for Indy and we only were able to cross a couple off before we departed.  Now we get a second chance to do the same process here.  Hopefully we'll be much more successful with this new list.

What's also a bit up in the air is how long we will be in Milwaukee.  Will it become the place we set up roots or just another stop over for a few years?  That kind of limbo makes it a bit difficult to answer practical questions such as:  do we rent or buy?, what about our rental in Utah?, what are we doing with the kid thing without being so close to family?  Lots and lots of questions remain, but I suppose it wouldn't be life without them.

Physical Therapy: The Challenges of Counting and Compliance

I've been going to physical therapy twice a week for the past 3 months.  On average, each visit lasts about 2.5 hours.  Yes, that is 2.5 hours.  I've been through a lot of physical therapy over the years:  knees at 16, 17, etc; back starting in 2007, and then this surgery.  When I tell you I think these guys are the very best physical therapy team, I'm not kidding.  

I typically go in the mornings when its a bit more quiet and there are fewer distractions.  Most of my colleagues are well into retirement and are nursing fixed broken hips, replaced shoulders, total knee replacements, etc..  There are a lot of characters.  Today I sat next to Chuck, a big African American guy with white hair and an AC/DC tee-shirt.  He was doing his exercises while singing along to the radio:  U2, Midnight Oil, and yes, even the B-52's.  He even knew all the lyrics and did some solo air drums in between sets.  I was amused.

When my physical therapist was stretching me out I started a new conversation thread asking him what the most difficult part of his job was.  He said it was those patients that want to legislate the program he designs for them.  For example, someone is referred because of hip and back pain but refuses to do the exercises because it hurts.  Or, another extreme would be someone who keeps pestering him for new exercises, harder drills, or excessive sets.  It was almost on cue when Pat showed up at the door.

Pat, a 65+ year old female with a thick Boston accent, came in on crutches and immediately began talking about the games last night.  How if her hips were better she would have gone out to shoot the pitcher of the Red Sox because it was pitiful to see how he missed whatever x-y-z play.  She then announced that she decided to not do the "clam shell" exercises at home yesterday because she was sore.  Pete, my P.T., asked how she was sore and how many she did.

"Oh, abouht 75."

I couldn't help but bust out laughing in the middle of my painful hip flexor stretch.  75?!?  Is this woman mad?  

"Paht, we told you 3 sehts of 10.  That shoulda been thirty.  Where'd ya get this wicked idear of 75?"

"Wherz Woody?  Woody!   Cohm heahr a minute, would ya?  You had me doin 25 last week."

Woody, another physical therapist, meanders over.  "Yeah, I told you to do 30, as in 3 sets of 10."

Pat shrugged her shoulders and picked off some imaginary lint.  "Well, you see I gotta whole systim figgred ouht.  I gotta have somethin' ta do durhing tha commercials of that awful game, which I still woulda shot that pitchar if I could.  But I do 3 sets of 25 on each side."

"Paht, that's not 75, that's 150 total.  You see?  And you wondah why youz still hearh since Nohvemba."  

"Acutally I started in Octoba.  See?  That's what you know."

Patriot's Day

We couldn't have asked for a better day.  After spending the morning relaxing over coffee and conversation, J and I finally got out of the house.  I have to say this is an amazing feat!  Typically we talk about what we'd like to do for the weekend, but if we're still in our pj's at 4:00 you can pretty much bet our plans were defeated.  

As our time here in Boston wears down, our interest in playing tourist at home goes dramatically up.  On Saturday we actually made it to the battle in Concord.  In case you didn't know (and really, who does when you aren't from here) the place where the American Revolution began is now a National Park.  Minute Man National Historical Park was a mere 15 minutes away from our house and yes, we just barely got our butts in gear.  Its even more surprising because during our caravan from Indy to New England, J and I would practically salivate every time we saw a sign for a National Park.  Growing up in Utah will do that to a person:  love for the National Parks seems genetically embedded.  

As we briskly walked down battle road I realized I wore the wrong shoes.  I wasn't in stilettos or flip flops, but I wore my standard Dansko clogs when I probably should have worn tennis shoes.  The sound of gun fire drew us closer until we finally found a few tents housing the British soldiers.  There was even a surgeon tent and he seemed to lack business but he wore the costume with gusto including an apron with fake blood on it.  The rangers had us roped off and the crowds were busy.  This particular battle lasted an hour, but we only saw about 30 minutes of it.  The Brits played their part well lining up to be easy targets and then firing their muskets.  And sure enough, the Minute Men in their colonial dress flanked the roads, came from behind, and closed them off.  The cannon fire was very loud and I have to say that gunpowder is not one of my favorite scents.  J informed me that since its illegal to bring firearms into National Parks, our US government paid and provided all of the gunpowder needed for this reenactment.  This was the 113th reenactment.  Apparently there was only one year that was missed and it was during WWI.  

All was good and well until I realized two things:  1)  No one was aiming at the other side but really just shot into the air, and 2)  No one pretended to die or be wounded.  With all of that gunfire one would think a few would play dead.  I watched the crowd filled with families and boy scout troops.  Little ones ran around in tri-cornered hats, like the colonists and had wooden muskets bought at the gift shop.  The muskets were twice the size of the kids pretending to shoot the suckers.  And others who didn't con mom and dad into buying a $22 piece of wood carved to be a gun, they were just using sticks on the ground.  It was disturbing.  Here was a perfectly good opportunity to show why guns are NOT play toys by showing the wounded and the dead, but nothing like that happened.  

As the battle finished and the Brits retreated, the colonists yelled, "Huzzah!" to let us know the show was over.  We wandered back to the British post where the mock soldiers picnicked on potato chips and sandwiches.  We listened to the gruesome tales the surgeon told the kids about how they sawed off legs and fished around for veins with their tools for a bit.  God help me, I can't believe I actually wanted to be a doctor at one point in time.  The drums and piccolo began to signal the troops to assemble and their general announced:

"Great job, soldiers!  You fought bravely.  Now we're going to continue our journey to Boston.  So we're going to get on a bus...um...whatever that is and head to Lexington!  And for those of you who haven't had enough of the battle, we start again at 4:00.  Three cheers to the King!  Huzzah!  Huzzah!  Huzzah!"  

Sure enough both sides loaded up on the waiting school buses to head to their next mock battle.  J and I took the opportunity to wander a bit around the historic houses.  One thing that dawned on me is that they never yelled, "The British are coming!"  Its kind of like a well, duh.  EVERYONE was British at that time!  So instead, what they really cried was, "The regulars were coming!"  We read one historic marker about some dimwit house builder named Josiah.  On the eve of Paul Revere's ride he opened the door and somehow, and I really mean SOMEHOW he missed the guy dressed in the red soldiers outfit because he asked if the soldiers were coming.  He got knocked in the head by the soldier (call it Darwinism if you must) and died a few days later.  I try to give him the benefit of the doubt:  it was during the night, but the moon was 3/4 full according to history.  

J and I drove around Concord where we stumbled across Louisa May Alcott's home and other historical sites only to return home exhausted.  So the Mormons pull their handcarts through State Street, the Indy fans camp out on race day near the track with their RV's and cold Bud Light, the Mardi Gras folks drink daiquiris and flash for beads, and here they battle all paid by the US taxpayers where no one dies.    

Local Traditions

When I was counseling drug addicted teenagers I learned all about 4/20.  Even though I was in a sorority in college I didn't have a clue what this was.  It was anticipated that we would have runaways from the program every year on this day.  Now that I'm living in Boston I realize this day has a different meaning.

Has anyone heard of Patriots day?  Believe it or not, its a real holiday here.  It's analogous to Mardi Gras in New Orleans or Pioneer Day in Utah:  a real regional holiday.  Businesses close to observe this day and over in Lexington there is a reenactment of the Minuteman's rise up against the British at some God awful hour in the morning on Saturday.  I think I may actually struggle out of bed and in true local fashion head over to Dunkin' Donuts for coffee and a treat before heading to the battlefield.  J thought of bringing Edgar, but I think gunfire might be a bit scary for him.  

Before I lived here I was vaguely aware that the Boston marathon happened every spring, but I had no idea it was always on Patriots day.  J's dad ran it once in the 80's.  When he helped us move here he called somewhere along the turnpike and said that the marathon began out in Framingham or somewhere.  All I know is it was out in the boonies.  That's a long way to run.  This year I have a friend who is running in the marathon.  I hear it's a blast to find a place on Commonwealth Avenue to cheer on the runners.  Perhaps I'll make it out to cheer her on just like a local.

Wildflowers, Schlitz, and Possibilities

This month has been filled with trips...ok, well only 2. This is quite a different development considering I spent 4 months on my back in pain. The one visual I kept in my foresight was a spring trip to Austin. Visions of hanging with Ms. AP in the sun or visiting boutiques, enjoying REAL Mexican food with J, potentially renting a car to visit one of my bff's and her newborn in Houston, and showing off one of my favorite cities to my husband kept me focused on what was important through the pain.

Its been 10 years since another one of my bff's and he-who-shall-not-be-named rented a Geo and drove from New Orleans to Austin on spring break. It was kind of like National Lampoon's Vacation. We showed up to Six Flags in Houston only to find it was closed. We drove to Austin and spent one day hanging out by the University and hanging in awesome clubs only to retire early because we were tired. We then drove to NASA's command central near Houston to tour space shuttles, attempt a simulation of landing a shuttle (I totally was the best even though I still crashed the sucker), and find out how fast we could get a sunburn on other planets as well as our relative weight. One of my best memories was pulling over the car to frolic in the wild flowers on the side of the highway. We even took photos.

I doubt J and I will have photos of us frolicking in wild flowers on the side of the road, however I am hoping to capture his very first horseback ride on film. I can't believe my husband grew up in Utah and has never rode a horse in his whole 34 years on earth. The whole purpose of this trip is to "attend a conference." The conference is on death and dying. Not very uplifting, but I need the continuing education units and he has to attend so its a double tax ride off. Believe me, I'd rather be going to eat Texadelphia sandwiches and laying by the pool. But I should attend a few sessions if even just to network.

I haven't seen Ms. AP since 2006. My Ya Ya's mean the world to me and I am in serious withdrawal from their influence. All of them are strong willed, beautiful, professional, witty, and absolutely the most amazing women I know.

The first trip I took this month was to balmy Milwaukee in late February. I know, I know, hold back your jealousy that I visited the capital of old school breweries like Schlitz, Old Milwaukee, and Pabst. And, no, I did not see Laverne or Shirley or even the Fonz. However I did see a sausage making factory. I also visited some fabulous boutiques in the Third Ward District. The lake is beautiful and if I liked it this much in the dead of winter I'm guessing my appreciation will multiply in the spring, summer, and fall. Its a good thing because its on our radar of a potential relocation. Yes, relocation.

As J's fellowship winds down, the job hunt rev's up. I knew when I was dating him that I would be putting my career secondary...Milwaukee isn't the center for healthcare organizational consulting but it may be just the amazing experience for us. There are other locations on the radar as well like staying here in Boston. The one thing about limbo is that it can make you completely overwhelmed by the lack of anchors and yet it can be so inspiring as anything is possible.

Edgar's "Frienemy"

It's a balmy 25 degrees here in Boston and yet I have all of my windows open. Why, oh why? Let's go back to last night.

After an evening of icky leftovers (go us being thrifty) J and I decided to watch an episode of "Scrubs." As he got the DVD ready I let Edgar out while I finished the dishes. I expected Edgar to be waiting for me at the back door but he wasn't there. As soon as I opened the door I heard scuffling in the bushes by the fence and frantically began to call his name. Sure enough he came running towards me shaking his head, grumbling/growling, and foaming at the mouth. It seriously smelled like he doused himself in paint solvent. Let the panic begin!

I yelled for my husband to come help because Edgar had been skunked. But then I smelled him. It didn't smell like skunk. It smelled like some volatile chemical compound. All things being common and me being uncommon, I began catastrophic thinking - or not thinking as the case may be. Racing thoughts of neighbors deliberately poisoning our dog (although everyone LOVES Edgar) ran through my head. Or perhaps our landlady (who also loves Edgar) left out some chemical solvent in the backyard even though she is not the handy type. I wanted to scoop Edgar up into my arms and rush him to the vet. By now I just knew he was poisoned and we needed to get him help to immediately induce vomiting. After all, he was foaming at the mouth so perhaps he ate something. As you can see, I am not the rational person in our marriage. Thank God I have J to balance me out.

J stopped me from embracing our paint solvent pet and offered to get a towel. He then wrapped our highly pissed off surrogate child into the towel and put him in the bathtub. I'm rushing around finding suitable clothes to rush Edgar to the vet. I had my purse out, keys ready, and was freaking out why J wasn't hurrying. Instead my husband was outside with a flashlight trying to find the source of this chemical nightmare. I began to rinse Edgar off, who was now trying to barf unsuccessfully. J came back inside and suggested the whole skunk idea. I'm checking Edgar's eyes, his gums, and his nose like a good ex-vet tech would. J also began to do a physical exam. Skunk, huh? Ok, but it still didn't smell like a skunk. The smell was stronger on his face than on his back. I've never seen gray squirrels until I moved back east - only brown ones - perhaps the skunks here are different too. I was set on going to the vet when J decided to call one of his best friends for advice who happens to be a vet...but he lives in Australia. It was mid-afternoon there, but he was probably doing something fun like sea kayaking and J did not leave an emergency message. We thought about calling his wife who is also a vet, but J pointed out they don't have skunks in Oz - where she is from - so she wouldn't have a clue.

I've only had one other skunked dog experience: Henry. I think I was in junior high when this happened. Our Scottie roamed free in the neighborhood because Dad didn't want to fence the new house he built up on the mountain. He thought it would be ascetically unsound. Henry found more trouble than he was looking for. Once he ate a whole turkey carcass after Thanksgiving he found in a neighbor's compost pile and I swear I've never seen a more bloated dog in my life. Then he got into a cactus. Dad duct taped his mouth shut so he wouldn't bite while Mom pulled out the spines with pliers. The whole time Henry was making noises like a wounded cow. That was highly traumatic to watch. And then he got skunked one night. Remember, Dad didn't want a fence so he certainly didn't want to stink up the house by bringing Henry in to get bathed. Like a good protector of the family domain, Dad slept in his comfy bed and had poor Mom sleep outside on the flimsy lounge chair with Henry chained to the deck rail. What kills me is that Mom never objected. We laugh about it now, but inside I've got issues. The next day I think we did the tomato juice routine with the hose outside and then the groomer. When Henry was put down, Mom insisted a fence was put in with locks before getting another dog. Dad acquiesced.

All I can say is thank God for the Internet. My rational side began to emerge and I sought out home remedies for the noxious pooch who is now looking like a drowned rat in the bathtub. I'd also like to give a shout out to "Mythbusters." J and I love this show because its all about putting science to crazy ideas. Things like will an airplane take off on a conveyor belt or will bullets go off in a stove (because people do stupid things like store their loaded guns in the oven) or are bulls really attracted to the color red? These are all fantastic questions and highly amusing to watch them try to debunk or confirm the myth. Sure enough they had conquered the skunk issue.

Ladies and gentlemen, always and I mean ALWAYS keep hydrogen peroxide in your house. Not only is it good for cuts and scrapes, but it is an essential part for de-skunking a dog. You will also need dish soap and baking soda. J carefully applied the solution to Edgar's skin and fur avoiding the eyes at all costs. Hydrogen peroxide can also cause blindness, FYI. It was a relatively smooth venture. I acted like a scrub nurse and J did the procedure. Edgar, our patient, was actually highly patient. We repeated this several times and it took us about 90 minutes. By now I'm also noticing that our house stunk. We opened windows, burned candles, and searched the Internet again. Edgar was freezing, but what are you going to do? His eyes were red, gums swollen, but he was breathing fine. The whole time this is happening J keeps asking me, "And you are sure you want to have kids?"

Females have a higher sense of smell than males so I was the designated sniffer to see if anymore skunk anal gland "perfume" remained. We did the best we could and while J dried him off a second time after passing my test for "good enough," I did laundry. It was midnight by the time we finished.

The smell lingered through the night, but I don't think it was from Edgar at that point. I slept terribly and Edgar kept having nightmares where he was crying/growling/running. Poor little guy. And to think he was probably just trying to make friends with the big black and white striped nocturnal "squirrel."

This morning I'm typing in gloves, wool sweater, and socks with slippers. I have bowls of vinegar set around the house, the shower curtains are being washed, and I have cinnamon in the oven. I've also hand washed the vacuum filter and am letting it dry before putting vacuum beads in and running it through the house.

It was another bonding adventure instead of our boring Friday night "date."