Ewte Talk

Today, as I settled in for the final twenty minutes of my physical therapy session on a bed of heat, a woman in her eighties slowly lowered herself down the one wide step leading into the main room to meet Farouk, the physical therapist. It was her evaluation: the initial visit to go over the history of her injury and other related information, ascertain her physical condition, determine course of treatment. I could hear the woman and Farouk because they were right next to me so I quietly stared at the ceiling and listened.

Something about the number 12. It was a magic number, though not magical in the sense that it was a good thing. Instead, in this woman’s case ‘12′ meant that she’d already used her allotted Medicare PT visits for the year and would now have to pay out-of-pocket for whatever treatment she received there at the facility.

“I will tell you,” Farouk said, “we are expensive here.”

Or had he said ‘not cheap’? Either way it was clear: her pockets would empty quickly. She wasn’t saying much. What could she say? Farouk proceeded to explain her options: she could go as an out-patient to a hospital and do her PT that way. This was the only way to get around Medicare. He told her to find the hospital closest to her. The treatment would be fine, and this way she wouldn’t be spending her own money. Exhaust all options first was his point.

Kathy, the hilarious woman who runs the front office, jumped right in, as is her strong suit. “Oh,” she told the poor dear woman, “You’ll get good care in the hospital. Hospitals have good people working in them.” I have no idea if this was consolation to the woman or not, but Kathy can make even the unbelievable sound convincing. Like: Oh, you’ll never get sick in a hospital. She’s that good. It’s her heart of gold that people get distracted by. She has an inexhaustible faith in the goodness of Man.
One of the PT students offered the woman a cup of water. People were asking her if she needed help back out to her car. Later, Kathy reported that the woman wept in the parking lot. I never really got a view of the woman’s face, just her tired sloped shoulders. I sat for a few moments and replayed the way she looked before she exited the office, the way she rallied enough energy to hoist herself back up to standing, onto her cane, and carefully slowly up the one wide step, out the front door.

No doubt she will now have to wait another long while for another new appointment, with whatever hope she’s got, or can muster, for her next attempt at curing her pain.

Dear Grandma,
I hope you enjoyed your birthday. It’s your second one since you died, though you’ve been gone for just over a year. It’ll always be like that because you died shortly before your birthday. I realized this year that I’d like to celebrate your birthday instead of mourn your deathday, especially since they’re so close together. You were more of a party girl anyway.

I hear Aunt Ann has just decreed that we women will now wear beige on your birthday, which is well and fine with me. I have some beige. Plenty of black if anyone should ever die who loved wearing black (I guess that would be me. . .), but I could pull together a beige ensemble or two for May 21st. No problem.

Of course, if someone ever gets the idea to honor you by way of wearing a new pair of shoes every day for one year, I might chair that committee. Too bad not one of your lineage can fit into your hundreds of tiny pairs of slippers, otherwise the memorial would be feasible.

I know you must have been surprised to see me go to church on your birthday. I wasn’t sure the building would be open, but I guess someone wanted me to be there because the choir was practicing and I was able to walk right into a pew unnoticed and alone.

I sang you two songs, I am the Bread of Life, and Be Not Afraid. Could you hear me? My voice is so out of practice I could barely hear myself. I love those songs, and I will always remember the time when we sang them to you as you were dying. I thought they might be nicer than “Happy Birthday to You. .yada yada yada”.

You know, life here has gotten easier for all of us. You probably know this, can see this, or sense it. It was a tough year. Nutty. Grandpa is doing so well we all can hardly believe it. For starters, he’s still alive. That’s something, huh? Many widows his age, with his amount of grief would have succumbed. Add in his poor health, and you can only surmise that he’s a tough cookie, which we all knew anyway, but still. In addition to his great survival skills, your husband of sixty-odd years has become something of a social butterfly. Aunt Ann has him quite self-sufficient in many ways, and I hear he relishes the several social gatherings he attends each week. Pretty remarkable for a blind man on oxygen who can barely walk. But his wit and mind are still as sharp as ever, the old bear.

One last thing, Gram, I know I tell you all the time, but I thought I’d say it officially here: thanks.

Thanks for all of your intervention this past year in all of our lives, most especially mine. I can feel you in so many ways. And now that you’ve attained that most rarified of positions, omniscience by virtue of being dead, you know how things are inside all of us I expect. While in some ways this is a bit disconcerting, in others it’s a comfort. You are now the first person (except for Aunt Mary and Uncle Louie) whom I’ve known and loved with all my heart who now knows that on the outside I’m a very very kind and loving person, but on the inside I’m a wench.

I’m hoping this is common among humans, as you (dead) all see it, and I sort of blend in with no problem. If this isn’t the case. . .well, then, uh-oh.

Last, but not least, while I definitely am catching all of your signs and signals to me, I am not always able to interpret the exact meaning each time. In fact, many times I debate the polar possibilities of what any given sign might mean. Like today. Just as I posed an important question to myself as I was driving, I hit and killed a bird. Tell me. Was my answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’?

??

At any rate, it’s going to be another long summer without you at the Lake, without you anywhere, without you here on Earth. It’s just so nice to know you’re still so close, even if it is in such a quiet. I have to try to hear you with different ears. What a change.
Happy Birthday,

Love,

Stephanie

With each mile I log on my bike my resolution to hold off on bowing to cycling culture pressure to own the various paraphernalia of the sport has slowly begun to soften. For one thing, some of the gadgetry sure could make life a lot easier, like, say, a water bottle that actually is made for my water cage and not the one we jerry-rigged to jam in there. (Think: danger to get a drink while riding fast.) For another, my bottom was in protest: “Fine. You too cheap to get biking shorts. Me too sorry about the pain I causing you.”

Biking shorts, for those of you who thought the form-fitting black apparel was for sex appeal only, actually have a built-in heaven-sent padding on the inside right where your anatomy hugs the seat of the bike. Where your anatomy hugs and chafes and grinds against the seat of the bike, mile after mile, under the weight of you and against that hard hard seat, well, it ain’t pretty. And, so, ahh, those shorts. Now you know why all manner of body type ride by in them, modesty to the wind: necessity.

So, as is the daily scene with me, I walked into the sports store with my sons following (not close) behind. Now, I am not the most avid shopper in the world, and with my kids in tow, I am the worst. Who isn’t? But my plan was simple: take a quick run in to grab shorts and water bottles before my next ride, or else! (As explained above.) All the while I’d be repeating the mantra: As soon as we finish here, we go straight to The Lego Store.

My oldest son had saved allowance and other income for quite some time and that very day was the day we’d agreed to blow it all at the Lego Store. He’d calculated, planned, knew exactly how much he’d need. His capacity for delayed gratification knew no bounds. Waiting through one more store at the end game would not deter him, and I grabbed the opportunity. What a jerk I am.

The salesman hovering around the biking shorts racks asked ever so politely if there was anything he could do to help. I waved him off, as I usually do. I was fine. No needs here. But the thought did occur to me, as I saw his toe kick the floor in the vain hope that his sales position might be justified that day: I was running late. Why not put the guy to work?

“Actually,” I said walking over to him, “if I can still take you up on your offer, I’m trying to find these Sugar Shorts in my size.” My boys were milling about, making nuisances of themselves as they could, Max slipping in and underneath the racks of clothing while Quinn gleefully chased him. While I pried my sons out of the jaws of the Store Demon (it chews, digests, and regurgitates children, returning them to you in a state of misbehaving frenzy), the salesman found me a bunch of shorts. I grabbed my kids.

“Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“You’re going to help me try these on.”

“What is it?”

“It is Sugar Shorts.”

“What’re Sugar Shorts?”

“Come and you’ll see.”

Sugar Shorts are the name Pearl Izumi gave to their shorter legged version of women’s biking short. More leg shows. You can imagine why the name ‘Sugar’. I opted for them because I’m taking indoor cycling classes and there is less fabric to contend with: a plus. And I won’t lie. I like the Sugar aspect. . .

I asked the boys in the big dressing room that REI graciously provides: which do you think? The Sugar Shorts?

“Yea. Let’s go, Mom. How much time will we have at the Lego store?”

“Okay. Okay. Let’s go,” I said, and we almost made it to the check-out counter before we ran into a clearance table that had gel pads for your bike seats at a blow-out price.

“Hey guys,” I called to no one in particular because where exactly were my kids? “Look at these. Maybe we could fit these to your bike seats. What do you think?”

“What is it for?” Quinn asked, appearing out of nowhere.

“You put it over your seat and it’ll make your seat much softer to ride on.”

“Oh,” he said, coming closer, suddenly very interested, “I could really use that. The last time we went for a bike ride, at the end it felt like my bottom had been spanked a hundred times.”

Now, in our house, sadly, we don’t spank for fear of being rejected by the liberal, educated, child-centric socio-economic class to which we belong. It would be like being a Life Member of the French Manicurists Society and having them find out you secretly garden. Without gloves.

So, despite my son’s spanking imagery (rather, because of it) his point was clear: sore biking bottom. As a family, the four of us go on fun-filled action-packed bike rides along a converted, paved railroad bed we have here in Northern Virginia. It extends 45 miles point-to-point and hosts a community of active folk. A while back we bought these attachments that convert our adult bikes into tandems, with the second bike in back made for a child.

We’ll ride long enough to require padding on any scrawny low-fat bottom (i.e. my skinny son’s.)

“Oh honey,” I looked over to him, standing at the clearance table, “I had no idea your bottom hurt you. You never told me.”

“Oh yes. I think we should get these then,” he told me, holding up a gigantic gel seat cover. The only problem, we needed mini-bottom size and there were none to be found.

And then Max did what he does best: made an apt suggestion without the slightest clue as to his surrounding context.
He was streaming in and out of the women’s short rack as Quinn and I stood contemplating. Suddenly he pulled out a leg of black polyester and declared, “Mom! Quinn and me need Sugar Shorts!”

Sugar Shorts. I smiled. “Sugar Shorts,” I said,” Now that’s not a bad idea, Max.”

We grabbed an arm load off the kids’ rack and trapsed back to the dressing room. I can’t say the shorts were remotely close to form-fitting, with the padded bulk at the inseam waddling behind them in an independent motion altogether. But my kids loved them. “Sugar Shorts!” they squeaked, jumping and bouncing around the dressing room like crickets. They danced for themselves in front of the large mirror.

Mission accomplished. Quinn looked up at me. “Lego store, Mom?”

“Lego Store, Quinn.”

Our next ride was smooth and comfortable, thanks to whomever invented that padded inseam idea. [Dear Inventor Person, I love you.] When my family takes to the trail now, there’s a little more leg, a lot less less ache. Sweet.

HOLLYWOOD, May 1–Contrary to what you might have read a little while ago in all the international press, Daniel Craig is not going to be the new James Bond. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, Inc. and Sony Pictures Entertainment have had a change of heart apparently and, according to MGM spokesperson Katrina Sanderson, have now cast actor Max Dawkins as the new 007. While backing out of contracts before a film goes to shoot is nothing new for a major studio, recasting it’s longstanding iconic adult lead as a five-year-old is unprecedented and has industry insiders shaking their heads over the decision.

At a press conference this past Saturday night to announce their choice of Mr. Dawkins, MGM and Sony made it clear that this was a well-thought out strategy for what they see as going forward into the future, as well as a choice made based upon Mr. Dawkins talents. “The next Bond film, Casino Royal, is at it’s very heart about youth, ” Sanderson explains, “We felt a younger actor would convey this more directly than the usual formula we’ve used thus far.” The new film will have a feline theme running through it, which, according to Sanderson, is Mr. Dawkins’ specialty. “He knows cats. He loves them. He’s very comfortable working with them.”

Studios have had to deal with waning attendance at the box office over the last several years which analysts contribute to a number of factors, including multimedia home entertainment systems and the growing problem with piracy of movies. The move to market to the next generation of Bond fans was seen with some ambivalence on Wall Street following MGM’s announcement. “This is just a marketing ploy that is going to come up and bite them, I’m afraid,” said Donald Fritters, Vice President of Marketing at MediaRead, a well-known Hollywood media analyst firm. “I don’t know how they’re going to get around the fact that a five-year-old isn’t even legally allowed into a casino. The Bond character just isn’t built around someone that young.”

Initial reaction from fans was mixed. Announcement parties were hosted by Sony Pictures in London and Los Angelos the night of the press conference. Mr. Dawkins came up to the podium to speak to reporters briefly before being whisked away to his hotel for an early bedtime. When asked how he’d deal with the sudden fame his new job would bring him, he answered what has become his signature answer to many such questions, “I love cats.”

Sonja Pearling who came out for the party from Santa Monica found the actor quite charming. “I believe he’ll breathe some new life into the role. Who knows? Maybe this will be part spoof, part tragedy. What an interesting take for Bond, don’t you think?”