jennethink

SOME PEOPLE NEVER LEARN

One of my favorite places to go in the whole ding dang state of Florida is the Sugar Mill pancake house in DeLand.  First, any pancake house would be a good place to go as far as I’m concerned but this one … this one takes the griddle cake.  There is just too much good about it.  For one, it is inside a state park.  Actually I’m not sure why that makes it good except that there just aren’t ANY other restaurants around … in fact the only other thing around is well, water.  And trees. Spanish moss.  You know, that type of thing.  Oh oh, and the water that is around is a hot springs so sometimes, in the winter when it is very, very cold in Florida (read: 70 degrees), some manatees will come up to the dock because the water is so warm. And frankly if I could figure out someway to make a deal with the manatees to keep them warm if only they would come see me at every chance, I would spend nearly all my off hours knitting giant manatee scarves.

Okay so that’s two good things – the park and the manatees.  Another is that it is all atmospherey and what not.  The restaurant looks like an old sugar mill and is made like a log cabin and has a big fireplace in one room. And they cram you into this place.  Often you are sitting at a table with another group of people so it feels very homey.

And it has the craziest gift shop you’ve ever seen shoved into one teeny tiny corner of the restaurant.  Crazy because it is the most hodgepodge grouping of items I’ve ever encountered.  Where else can you buy a clay pitcher made by disabled adults AND a stuffed possum – that unzips to become a purse?  And clogs.  See what I’m saying?   

But the best reason to love this place is … YOU MAKE YOUR OWN PANCAKES!

WHAT???!

I KNOW!!!

Once you get there and are seated (and believe me, this is a chore.  Sometimes the wait is THREE HOURS!) the waitress comes and hands you authentic tin plates and turns on your table.  Meaning she flips a switch ... not that she does a naughty dance or something.  Once she does, the middle of your table … WHICH IS A GIANT GRIDDLE … becomes hot hot hot.  Then she brings you a couple of pitchers filled with pancake batter and then, well, you can probably figure out the rest.

I’m not sure exactly, now that I’ve typed it out, why this is so delightful.  Clearly this whole “make your own pancakes” is something that can be done at home but somehow … maybe it’s the size of the griddle, maybe it’s all the delightful “add-ins” you can put in your pancakes, or maybe it’s just that you can flip a flapjack while sitting down… it’s just magical.

And I love it.

Last weekend HOLLIE and I were in Florida for our annual “It’s a technology convention at Jelly Rolls thing, you wouldn’t understand” trip.  We, of course, visited the pancake place and were in the middle of what turned out to be nothing short of a gluttonous breakfast when a man came in with his two boys.

I tend to always notice men with children.  Maybe it’s because The Hub did the father thing by himself for a few years I don’t know but I’m keenly aware of men in public with kids.  I don’t give the same attention to women with children because it seems to be more common but men … well you just don’t see guys out alone with their kids as much.  So I noticed this guy.  I noticed his long mulletous hair.  I noticed his bushy mustache,  I noticed his faded jeans and chain on his wallet and oversized Coors Light t-shirt.  He sat down. The boys – probably 5 and 9 – sat down.  Their breakfast started.  They poured out 3 large pancakes onto the hot plate to cook and about 2 minutes later, I wasn’t the only one noticing them.

The younger of the two boys spilled his water right onto the griddle.  And in an instant, the whole room filled with steam.  The usual hub-bub ensued … the waiter brought some napkins, the cup was turned upright, the steam dissipated, and I waited for what was next.

I’ve known people who have stepped in when a child was getting overly disciplined.  I watched my father take issue with a man one time.  I’ve seen people in malls and at football games get out of hand.  When that water spilled, I immediately began prepping myself for what I was sure this redneck was going to do to his son.  I didn’t know exactly what I would do but I knew I would somehow make that man feel ashamed.  Just as ashamed as I was sure he was getting ready to make his little one feel.

I used to spend the summers with my grandmother in West Virginia.  Often we would walk from her house to the little downtown to window shop.  Occasionally we would go into the small grocery and pick up a few things.  Any trip was fun because Grammy would make it fun.  We’d talk along the way.  We’d run into people.  She’d always introduce me.  I loved the way she introduced me, like I was more than her granddaughter … like I was someone.  It was neat.  Every so often she’d get caught up in a conversation and I’d wander off.  It was a small mountain town, no worries, when I got bored, I’d come back.  One time as she was chatting with some old lady inside the Five and Dime, I wandered off to see what was going on outside.  I didn’t stay gone long. There was a crazy man outside.  He was dressed in all kinds of clothes in the middle of summer.  Most of them were dirty.  He had long hair and a ratty beard.  And he was singing.  Loudly.  And sort of dancing … I guess.  Every so often he would fall completely silent and still and then in a couple of seconds, he’d be at it again.  I didn’t know what was going on, but I knew this guy was weird.  And that’s what I said when I ran back in the store and found Grammy. “There’s a really weird guy outside!” I said gleefully, “You should SEE him! He’s SO WEIRD!!!”  and nearly dragged her out onto the sidewalk.

The instant we were out and she saw him her whole demeanor changed.  She stiffened.  She grabbed my hand and we turned for home.  I wasn’t sure what happened.  Maybe she was scared of the man.  Maybe the man was dangerous.  Maybe she was trying to protect me from the dangerous weird man.  We walked home silently.  When we got to the house, Grammy started dinner and I was told to set the table.  Which is Grammy for “get lost”.  Later that night as we were washing and drying the plates my grandmother changed me with a few simple words.

“That man you saw,” I knew instantly what she was talking about, “he was in the war, child.  That man has a family.”

It wasn’t much.  It didn’t need to be.  I learned my lesson – don’t judge a book by its cover.

At least I thought I learned it.

The moment the steam dissipated in the pancake house that long-haired, boot-wearing, chain-on-his-wallet dad took over mopping up the spilled water and as he blotted the griddle in short quick pats he looked down, smiled at his little boy and said brightly, “Well, at least we know the pancakes won’t be dry!” Then he leaned over and kissed his son on top of the head.

I’m amazed at how far I have to go
to be right back where I started.

WHY WE DON'T LET THE HUB USE THE CAMERA PHONE

Man, those were some good margaritas.

 

And I’m not sure, but I think I got that whole Arminianism vs Calvinism thing figured out during this conversation.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY NINE YEAR OLD GIRL

Here you are, 9 years old and I’m late with your birthday message. I have no good excuse except that for a whole week I’ve been unable to move my fingers across the keyboard as rapidly as I need to in order to convey how wonderful you are.

I can’t remember turning 9 or being 9.  The first birthday I remember is my 11th – complete with a chocolate layer cake with a huge 11 in yellow icing on top.  “Don’t you want to put 11 candles on it?” my mother asked.  Nope, I just want this.  Two fat, fat lines of thick yellow icing running down the center of my chocolate iced cake.  It looked less like a birthday cake and more like someone had cut a round chunk of asphalt out of the center of a no-pass highway.  But at 11, I didn’t care about things like that.  Details didn’t matter to me.  Not at 11 and I’m sure not at 9.

But they matter to you.

Oh
My
Goodness

Do they matter!

I was in Iowa for your birthday but called you bright and early last week.  I wanted to make sure I talked to you before you left for the one story brick schoolhouse and what was sure to be a fun day of birthdayness for you.  Your mom answered.  I asked for the birthday girl.  She laughed and went to find you.  HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! I shouted into the phone and then sang sang sang my heart out.  Happy birthday to yooooou, happy birthday to yoooooou, happy BIIIIRTHday dear … Neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, happy birthday to-ooo-oooooo yoooooooou!!!! 

Hooray!!!! I shouted
Woop woop!!! I called
YAY Nena!!!! I said.  And then I asked, How the heck does it feel to be NINE YEARS OLD???  Your answer? …

“I don’t know.  I’m not 9 until 9:15 tonight, Jenné.”

What was I thinking?  Of course you aren’t. 

It’s no secret that you and I are different.  And I guess that makes sense.  Why would we be the same?  We share very little – no genetic code, you got that from your mama and daddy.  And we don’t live together in the same house for the majority of the year – your mom and Tommy get that privilege.  So I guess it makes sense that we are different. And I’m sure, when people look at us, when they see us in pictures or out in public, or when they hear about us – the stepmom and the stepkid together,  they probably only see the differences.  They only see the ways we don’t mesh – that you like to match all your clothes and I like to grab whatever two socks first come out of the dryer.  That you think every word of a book should be read… in order, and I like to skip around a bit to add interest to the story.  That when we do crafts together I like everything to be unequal, on angles and whooper-jawed and you … well, let’s just say “keep it in a straight line, Jenne” is uttered more than once a day around our art table.  People don’t always get us, Snoopy, have you noticed?  People don’t understand the relationship we have.  I guess that’s because some people have a harder time than we do with the whole step-parent thing. We’re pretty lucky.  You have a fabulous mom, a terrific step-dad, and an amazing father and all of them have helped us be the very best stepmom and stepkid we can be together.  But unfortunately, that’s unusual.  We’re different than most.  And people don’t understand.  Maybe because they only see our differences and what we don’t have … and not what we share.

They don’t see us when I wake you up in the mornings during the summer and do the Good Morning Nena Dance.
They don’t come along in the car when we do our drives around town and in perfect synchronicity put on our sunglasses and begin nodding fitfully to the music on our favorite CD
They don’t watch us as we drive to Pizza 51 – every day – and sit together waiting for your giant slice of pizza and my ham and cheese sandwich and how we laugh every time the waiter brings our food and thinks the big pizza is for me and the little sandwich is for you … little do they know!
They don’t know about the secrets we share which I will NOT write about here because they are our secrets and ours alone
They don’t know about how we sometimes sneak ice cream in the middle of the day and then pretend later when your daddy gets home that we haven’t had any treats in sooooooooooo long so he’ll take us to get ice cream … AGAIN!
They didn’t see us when I was sick and bald and you would climb up in bed with me and we’d watch House Hunters together and try to guess which house would be picked
They don’t know how sometimes, early in the morning I’ll come upstairs to wake you and pull you into my lap and we’ll sit together for the longest time just rocking back and forth while I tell you how lucky I am you are in my life.
They don’t see, hear, know any of that … and that’s okay.

Because I know.
And you know.

So let others see how different we are from each other.  Let them wonder about us and how it all works.  Let them be confused when we are together and you talk about your mom or when they ask me where my daughter is today and I say, New Jersey. They don’t get it.

But I do.
I get it. I get that you are one of the best example I have that God loves me very much.  And what other people think is normal just doesn’t matter to me.  I’d rather have you, your daddy, your mom and Tommy than normal any day of the week.


Happy Birthday, 9 year (and nearly one week) old.

I love you,

StepMom.

LOW MILEAGE, GOOD CONDITION, NEEDS SOME BODY WORK

I have mixed feelings about mile markers.

I went to college about 78 miles from my home.  Give or take.  My senior year of college I left campus a lot and came home nearly every weekend.  I was dating a boy back home and so each Friday I’d pack up, jump in the Cutlass Ciera and hit the highway.

The majority of the drive home was highway.  That highway could be a little monotonous.  Things pretty much looked the same along that highway.  It was lined with farms and fields.  And more farms.  Then some fields.  As I drove along, the miles would slowly tick away.  The best drives were the ones when I would lose track of where I was and then suddenly .. BAM … my exit appeared.  The worse were the ones where I watched the mile markers.

Mostly it happened by accident.  I would be driving along and notice the green mile marker on the side of the road with the big white numbers on it.  It was then I knew I was doomed. The numbers of the exits along that highway coincide with the mile markers.  So mile 78 was also where exit 78 was.  I knew the number of the exit that took me home so the moment I saw a mile marker, I knew how far I’d gone.

And how much farther I had to go.

It seemed like 90% of the time, I’d notice the mile markers way too early.  Like just a few miles into the trip.  Then I’d groan.  I couldn’t believe how much more I had to drive.  From that moment on, I would try SO HARD to keep myself from paying attention the other mile markers as they came up because even though I was making progress, all those markers did for me was remind me how far I have to go.  And for some reason, noticing them only made the drive seem to take so much longer.  I know it isn’t REALLY taking longer but it sure SEEMS to take longer.  It’s the watched pot syndrome, I guess.  I still experience this same phenomenon when I get on the treadmill at the gym.  In fact, I have to cover up the timer on the treadmill with a towel or a extra shirt.  If I don’t , I just watch it and doing so makes the time  c r  e e p   by.

One day, while those miles were ticking off so slowly, I decided to change my perspective.  Instead of looking at each mile marker as an indicator of how far I still had to go, I would shout “12 MILES DONE!” when I flew by.  I was still terribly aware of the distance yet to cover but I didn’t focus on it.  As the next mile approached I’d get my lungs ready, “13 MILES DONE DONE DONE!” I would yell to no one but myself.  This would continue mile after mile.  “THAT’S 14 MILES GONE, FOR THOSE OF YOU NOT PAYING ATTENTION!”  I’d make myself laugh.  It was entertaining, if nothing else.  Occasionally, the greatest thing in the world would happen.  Every so often I would, for some reason, miss a mile marker or even two.  Maybe I was changing the radio station or doing my nails, who knows, but for some reason every now and then I’d be expecting a certain number mile and I’d get a mile marker farther down the road. 

These moments, as you can imagine, were glorious.

To realize, I’m so much farther than I thought I was! To recognize how much closer to the end I was!  It was like blacking out in freshman Spanish and waking up bilingual.  I felt like I got away with something.  I pulled one over on someone.  They were moments of pure bliss.

Today marks one year from my 12th and last chemo.  One year.  Most Hodgkin’s patients who relapse do so in the first 3 years after treatment.  And like that highway exit that led me home all those years ago, 3 years seems so far off. But for the moment I just want to stop and shout,

ONE

YEAR

DOWN!!!

I'M HAVING A HARD TIME BREATHING MYSELF

Um.  Folks?

What’s going on with the pamphlet illustrations in the medical field?  You already know my feelings about cancer pamphlets.  And I really thought those were as bad as it could get.  Boy was I wrongitty-wrong-wrong-wrong.   

While in Orlando for Christmas my mom had to go and get a new mask for her C-PAP machine.  That’s the machine that helps you breathe if you have sleep apnea.  Which she does.  Recently one of the straps broke on her machine so it had to be replaced and instead of just fixing the strap, they gave her a whole new mask. 

WITH INSTRUCTIONS

And quite possibly the scariest illustrations ever. 

First of all in this picture, clearly marked Picture 1

This contraption doesn’t really look like this is something I want to put on my face.  Is it just me or does this look suspiciously like a jock strap?  I mean if you had no idea how to wear this thing don’t you think you be headed straight for the crotch with this one?

Thankfully all the other pictures show you how to put it on your face but …

Does this guy look this way because he HAS BEEN wearing the mask or because he HASN’T BEEN?  Because frankly, I think this may be a deterrent to new users.

Wear the mask like this
And look like a frog

With 6 hands

Don’t worry.  There’s more. These illustrations were on the back and like the first series on the front, there are no words.  Just pictures. 

Pictures about how to go from a blue frowny face to a yellow smiley face.

Do this.

Then this.

Then with both hands (he looks really sleepy here, doesn’t he?)

Then do this

Then …uh … put a kotex on your face.

There. Feel better?

EMPATHY

I don't often send you away to read something else.  I guess I feel like once I have you here, I want to keep you all to my little ole self. 

I'm greedy that way.

But today, I'd really like you to read this article.  Not just because it talks about cancer patients (although I will admit, that's what drew me to it) but because I think it has a lot of wisdom in it about expressing empathy.  Any of you who know me, know this is a hot button of mine and how much it means to me.

At least you act like you do.

I found this paragraph especially thought provoking:

Even so, oncologists sometimes miss signs of distress, particularly if those signs are indirect, she said. For example, a patient may ask how big the tumors are, and the doctor may answer in millimeters — when the patient really wants to know: “Is the cancer getting worse? Am I dying?”

I think in many ways, we are all occasionally guilty of this ...of not asking for what we need or want.  Instead we hope the other person will answer our unasked questions, sense our unspoken needs, give us our silent desires.

I think we women are perhaps more guilty of this than men.  Not that I don't know some very direct women as well as some hemming and hawing men for that matter, but all in all I think woman have a more difficult time just putting it out there and being okay with it. Maybe it's the old "you can't be disappointed if you don't get your hopes up" scenario.  Maybe we think it is more significant if someone "just knows".  I don't know.  But I do know it works better when you don't pout or complain but instead ask for what you want.

At the same time, I think most of us are also guilty of not really hearing people when they do ask or ask in their own way.  People rarely ask what they want to know straight out of the shoot.  There is almost always a question behind the question.  Just like in the paragraph above - the real question wasn't about the potential cancerous mass, it was about potential Catholic mass.  People, for some reason, hardly ever lead with the question they actually want an answer to.  Just like when you want to go to lunch with someone and you call them up and say, "Hi.  What are you doing?"  You don't actually want to know what they're doing.  So the next time someone asks you a question, maybe follow up with another question or try to find out what they really want or need.  It helps.

Now I'm just rambling when what I really want is for you to read the article.  So go on now ... read it.

   

THE MEANING OF THE HAIRY JELL-O POST

It was a scarf.  I was knitting a crazy messed up scarf for someone for the holidays.  Actually for more than one someone …which made it worse because by the time I figured out that what I was doing was wrong I had already made three of the bastards.

I don’t really know how to knit.  My grandmother used to knit.  She’d knit bandages for lepers.  I’m not kidding.  She would knit.  Bandages.  For lepers.  Which really is sort of a hard standard to live up to, if you think about it.  And could be why I have knitting anxiety.  Regardless of the pressure, I learned to love knitting from her.  Loved it because it keeps you busy and you actually can see the progress … not like parenting or consulting where you’re busy but you don’t see the results until therapy years later. I would never try to knit entire bandages … not for anyone.  I would just knit a little then go eat something.  I enjoyed it.  In small doses.

After my grandmother died, I never thought about knitting again.  Not until last year.  Last year I began knitting.  Sort of.  I never really wanted to knit anything.  I only wanted to keep busy.  Knitting was the only thing I could think of doing while laying in bed recovering from each chemo. I wasn’t able to read – mentally I just couldn’t engage.  And, due to nausea, my usual hobby of eating was out of the question as well.  So I started knitting.  I didn’t make anything.  I would just knit.  And knit.  And knit.  Then I would unravel what I’d knitted and start again.  Because it was that or another episode of Flavor of Love. 

I know.  Tough choice all around.

So I knitted.  And then I stopped knitting when I felt better.  And once chemo was done completely, I put the knitting away.  I never thought much about it until a month or so ago and I’m not sure why but I thought it would be fun to take it up again and really try to make something.  Nothing as noble as bandages.  But something … something easy, useful, fun, and well, the whole scarf thing just seemed to fit the bill.  What could be hard about a scarf? It’s basically row after row of stitching with something at the beginning and something at the end. 

Even I could do that.

So I bought a beginner’s knitting book and began clicking away.  I quickly taught myself how to do a stockinette stitch – which is pretty basic and close to what my grandmother used to let me do in small doses all those years ago when she was earning sainthood.  But I had to learn a lot of new stuff.  I never knew how to start a project (called “casting on”) or stop a project (called “casting off”) or redo any mistakes in a project (called Grammy to come fix).  And I certainly never knew that a blasted stockinette stitch will curl in on itself like an unruly piece of Christmas wrapping paper when done.  And sure enough, this is what happened when I made the scarves … they curled.  The sides came inward.  They rolled up like flat fruit snacks.  After all that work.  All that needle crunching.  All that labor, I made a wool sausage.  Three of them, actually.

It was more than a little frustrating.

In the beginning when the first scarf got to be about 6 or 7 inches long, I noticed it was curling.  I skimmed ahead in my Knitting for Dumb Asses book and saw that at the end of your project you are supposed to do something called “blocking” and that when you block a project, you reshaped it.  So I figured once I did this blocking, I would be okay.  Of course, the blocking takes a while … you wet the entire project (in a tub, not as an “accident”), then you lay it out on towels (which, by the by, takes a fine-howdy lot of towels for three 9-foot scarves), then you reshaped it (read: uncurl side, pat pat pat, uncurl other side, pat pat pat, uncurl first side again, repeat).  Of course I decided to wait and do all my blocking after all the scarves were completed. 

You know the rest.

I wet
I blocked
I reshaped
I patted
Not too much!
No, no
I patted some more
And reshaped
And patted … myself on the back this time
And left them to dry.

I came back the next day, picked up the first scarf and va-loop!, it’s a tube.

And that’s when I ran to the internet in desperation and found out that the way I knitted them there scarves in the first place meant they would never be flat.  Their very nature was to make like large knitted snakes.  That I could block until the boas came home and those scarves would still roll up like sushi. 

And that’s when I made my Jell-O post.

The good news … the very, very good news is that I gave the scarves as gifts anyway and, either because the recipients are very nice or because they’ve always dreamed of wearing a 9-foot yarn hot dog around their neck, they loved them. 

And I love them for loving them.  Or saying they do, anyway.

We’ll see how they react next year when I knit them all blankets … which, of course, will be sleeping bags by the time they get them. 

HOLLIE's Wool Snake