Yes We Can. No I Can't.

Reality check: I had a transplant six months ago. It's easy to forget that since I feel so good. Since I've returned to nearly all my pre-transplant activities. Since I banished the pill caddy. Barack Obama is coming to Rhode Island tomorrow and I really wanted to attend the rally. I wanted to bring Mark and Harry with me. But I can't. It's the height of flu season, so even wearing a gas mask (I actually have a very serious mask that purports to block bird flu virus), I'm at risk. So says my esteemed doctor. He's been right so far so I'm going to err on the side of caution. No martinis, no parmesan cheese, no Obama rallies. I'll live.

My 15 Minutes of CyberFame

I'd better be careful what I write. It's come to my attention that my words have been shared in a college classroom in Iowa and have also been posted on facebook. I don't want to get too specific, because the next thing you know my comments will be turning up in The Hack Report, but I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't secretly pleased. Who writes who doesn't want to be read and quoted? If you saw my post on Plymouth, Mass. you apparently experienced a fine example of postmodern commentary on mythic historical events, my very own PoMo Moment. My professor niece used the post in her class the other day, as a counterpoint to William Bradford's narration of the Pilgrim Settlement. My other 7.5 minutes of fame are on display in my daughter's facebook profile, which you will not be able to see unless you're a) a facebook member b) one of her "friends." That will eliminate 95% of you. The rest can visit her page and read the exact quote, which she refers to as my "rant" on the topic of teenagers & rebellion. It's from an email I sent her last week in which I responded to her realization that she (3 weeks shy of 20) strongly dislikes teenagers. She may have quoted some other part.

"The basic stages of child-adult relationships: adore, cooperate, rebel, cooperate, peace. The peace part's achieved when you realize (reluctantly) that you've become your parents. "

Fame's expired. Please insert 25 cents for each additional minute.

Knit One, Stir One

Back in November, I started knitting a sweater. Last night, I finished it. Surprisingly, I might actually wear it.

I'd feared the final result would be misshapen. Early diagnostics revealed several mutations which threatened to undermine the structural integrity of the sweater: the back was unnaturally wide even though I added inches to the length; I didn't really know how to perform certain essential techniques (decreasing, increasing); no matter how often I measured, I struggled to make even parts that would eventually wed. It was with a sense of relief then that when I was done knitting and blocking and joining, after I'd sewed on the last button and tied the last knot, it looked like a typical collared cardigan with turn-back cuffs and nifty recessed pockets. No mere vest or crew neck pullover for me. I chose to knit a sweater with all the fixins.

My mentor will judge what type of job I've done. El Exigente might suggest I wear the next sweater I knit. (Side bar: I just discovered last week that the Colombian coffee maven's name is not Alex Ahente. ) If she knew some of my unorthodox knitting techniques, she might seize my needles. Have you ever tried knitting and cooking at the same time? I have. Never one to pass up an opportunity to multi-task, I've put the ball of yarn in my pocket and continued knitting through dinner prep more than once. Knit one, stir one, add salt. Works great with risotto.

I suspect I'm not really the knitting type. If I quit though, if I give up a habit I've indulged in nearly every day for the last three months, I may be like the smoker who manages to let go of the craving for nicotine, but can't figure out what to do with her hands. Guess I'll have to read while I'm stirring the chili tonight.

The Word According to Fort Greene

Live Blogging from Brooklyn

I'm living my dream: live blogging. We drove to NYC this morning (record time: 2 hours, 30 minutes), arriving in our old neighborhood where there was no parking. We had to circle for a while, which, since we've become staunch suburbanites, was a major annoyance. We found a spot in front of a building that hasn't changed since we first moved to the 'hood in 1985. Its lower story is host to a profusion of biblical graffiti. Vaya con Dios.

We're visiting Dianne and Sandy and their son Jake. We used to live five blocks away from here so it's always a treat to come back and see what's changed and what hasn't. I'm happy to report that the tire store remains, but that's about it. Dianne was my caretaker the first week I was home post-transplant. She saw me at my worst: extremely low energy but still able to give cooking instructions. Dianne's not a cook, yet she'd signed up to cook for me and my family for a week, bless her. Adding to my physical debilitation was the verbal exhaustion of explaining how to cook things she'd never attempted before. Dianne did a wonderful job in the kitchen, but an even better job keeping me company when I sometimes barely felt that I existed, or felt inhabited by an alien. Which I was.

Dianne fell off a horse 2 months ago, sustaining a major injury to her spinal cord. After surgery, she transferred to Mt. Sinai Hospital in New York and spent 5 weeks in rehab. She's home now and doing remarkably well. Her husband Sandy, who also pitched in during my hospitalization, staying with the boys for a week while Marty spent time with me in the hospital, just asked how my other caretakers are doing, suggesting, if I'm not mistaken, that caring for me is a potential health hazard.

More later ...

Sense of Urgency

When we lived in Costa Rica, fellow foreigners used to love discussing how the natives had no sense of urgency. My husband managed a factory there, and the head honcho (an American) used to tear out what little hair he had because the workers didn't seem to "get" that they were expected to churn out product quickly and accurately and oh yeah, yesterday. They just didn't seem to realize how important this was. Everywhere you looked, there were signs reminding the employees to embrace the mantra, but so little evidence that they were taking it to heart.

Everyday, my husband comes home and asks me how my day was. Every day, I tell him how I can't possibly do all the things I want to do in any given day. I rarely leave my house, except for exercise in the neighborhood. I work from home. I don't go to grocery stores. I don't clean. Yet, I feel there's not enough time in the day. That's because I have a highly developed sense of urgency about EVERYTHING. This is not a new personality trait (or disorder, depending on how you perceive it); I've always been this way. It drives people crazy. It makes me feel I never complete all I feel I should. Take my knitting project. Please. Seriously, this would-be sweater keeps me from doing other things I feel I need to do (such as read). Oh, the pressure. Then there's The New York Times. A few weeks ago, I switched from weekends-only to 7-day delivery. Now I have two papers to read, although the Providence Journal can be skimmed in five minutes. But The Times stares at me all day long, saying you're going to miss something if you don't read me. Well, guess what? There's tons of stuff in The Times I can easily live without if only I'd admit it. Then there's the writing, for work and pleasure. Did I say pleasure? And the blogging and the posting on the LLS forums. Who has time to sift through the pile of financial (deleted) snickering in the corner?

What I realize is that my sense of urgency, heightened due to surviving (so far!) an illness that threatened to negate all my senses, is at times misplaced. I've been putting the wrong stuff into the urgency folder and the right stuff eludes me. I forgot that I already learned this lesson in Costa Rica, where the folder contained family, leisure activities, personal grooming, travel, margaritias. I don't have to knit that damn sweater or read more books or write more sentences. (I don't?) What I have to do is is give different priorities to that stern taskmaster in my head, because she's not going anywhere.

Signing off now because I have to hurry up and live.

I Approve This Post

The Obamas have come to Billary Country. Clinton siting is common in Rhode Island, but in general, the state's such a small piece (a crumb, really) of the political pie that candidates routinely blow us off. It's also a True Blue state, so republicans understandably don't want to spend precious $$ here. A couple of years ago, Little Rhody discovered that it actually mattered in a political contest. That's when much-admired Senator Linc Chafee (the ultimate "maverick," and at the time a Republican in name only) lost his seat to a democrat. The year U.S. voters emerged from a long, terror-induced sleep and realized they were going to hell in Dick Cheney's handbasket. All with the approval of the Republican-controlled Congress. Suddenly, our votes were courted and we were inundated with phone calls on both sides of the fence. It must have been difficult for them, but the republicans went all out for Linc. My 13-year-old was elected to field phone calls during this period. Who's on the phone, Harry? Bill Clinton. Again? On election day, Harry was offered rides to the polls. No thanks, I already voted. If you ever need anyone to run interference for you, Harry's the Man.

Yesterday, Michelle Obama visited RI. Today, I saw her husband in an ad. The Dems are spending money here, woot! The primary's on March 4th, affectionately known in some circles as Command Day. Figure it out. As an Independent, I can vote in either party's primary. Now that the republican contest is over (unless you believe in miracles; some folks evidently do), all eyes will be on the Democrats' contest. The Clintonistas probably think they have it all wrapped up in Rhode Island. I wouldn't be so sure.