Because I Said So

The Travels of My Sweater

I see from the UPS site that the sweater I ordered from Newport News (no link provided as I think most of their stuff is crap) has arrived in Maumee, Ohio, having made the 137-mile trek north from Columbus with a brief stop for a meal along the way. It made good time, but it still has 662 miles to go: skirting along the southern shore of Lake Michigan in the dead of night, continuing through light-blazed Chicago, still-sleeping Rockford, IL, and on to Madison, WI, where it will stop for breakfast at the Original Pancake House just off the West Beltline Highway.

Back on the road, it will continue heading west and north through Eau Claire, past the "Cheese and Taxidermy" sign near River Falls, across the Old Miss and on to the Twin Cities, where it will be astounded by the poor quality of driving exhibited here. Its faint and woolish whisper will be heard by the trusty UPS driver as he heads onto the 694 bypass: Would it kill these people to use a signal once in awhile?

At last the long-awaited sweater will arrive at my doorstep, be removed from its packaging, and slung over my chilled frame. It will be soft, comforting, and smell slightly of maple syrup. And it damn well better fit, or back to Columbus is goes: saddened, a bit chastened, but ready for another helping of Three Little Pigs in Blankets.

Random Thursday

Jon left for China yesterday, with a suitcase full of carbon monoxide detectors and Clinique products for his Chinese co-workers. Hm.

This morning, while I was letting the dogs out for their morning evacuation, Henry let himself out of his room. This is bad, very bad, because it means he was able to open his bedroom door by himself despite the "child-proof" knob lock. Now it's possible (nay, even probable) for him to free himself at 4AM while we are sound asleep, and descend to the kitchen where he can consume bananas without surcease.

I stayed up too late last night (1:30AM) watching "Mythbusters" on TV. I'm a little ragged today and actually had a cup of coffee a little while ago, but I am soothed by the fact that I now know how to free myself if my car ever plunges into a body of water. And given that we have 10,000 lakes, such a scenario is not unlikely. This show appeals to both my neurotic and geek sides. Not to mention the strange charisma of one of the show's stars, Adam Savage. He's not conventionally handsome, but he's cute. It's more of a humor/intellect thing.

I used to have a huge crush on Roger Ebert, too.

"The fat guy?" you are probably asking. YES. The fat guy. Fat, schmat. He's smart as hell. I always wanted to visit the Billygoat Tavern in Chicago because I heard he hung out there. (This is the place that inspired the famous, "No Coke, Pepsi!" skit on the old Saturday Night Live, circa late 70's.) Alas, it never happened, and Roger has lived lo these many years without knowing the kind of hot, geeky love of which I'm capable.

Where Art Thou, Inside Voice?

Strange evening around here. Henry fell asleep at 5PM today for what I thought would be a brief nap. But when I tried to wake him after a half an hour, and again at an hour, it was apparent he was down for the count. It is now 7:38PM and he is still asleep. The house is so quiet, it feels like Henry has gone off somewhere (dinner date? a drink at the club?), leaving me here to wonder if this will come back to bite me in the ass in the form of a 3AM wake-up call. Lately the only time Henry is quiet is when he is fast asleep.

He is going through some phase wherein he spends a large part of his day screeching at a register high enough to make the window glass shudder. Please, please let it be a phase as in fleeting, temporary, brief -- like spring! or acute intestinal gas. I find myself hollering, "HENRY, THAT'S TOO LOUD!" It seems the irony of my reaction is not lost on the little guy, who smirks at me from across the room and then emits a squeal that sends the cranial fluid coursing out my ears.

Which brings to mind a question: it is the autism, or is it Age Three? Surely there are parents out there (speak up!) who will join me in asking that Age Three be listed in the next revision of the DSM.

I've been assured that the sudden loud outbursts, the increased energy level, the more demanding behavior is a sign of developmental progress, and believe me -- this makes me happy. He's talking a lot more. He's asking more of us. He's wanting to spend less time by himself. I just wish he was doing it with a little less volume, with a slightly lower pitch, and in a frequency range that does not attract bats.

Goodbye, Garrison

I'm on vacation in Arizona this week, hence sparse posting.

We watched "A Prairie Home Companion" on DVD the other night. Being a fan of Robert Altman (especially "Gosford Park") and a Minnesotan, I expected to enjoy it despite the mixed reviews I'd read. But I didn't. The bits that were supposed to be funny were not funny. The bits that were supposed to be dramatic were not the least bit interesting or surprising. It was dull. No, it was worse than dull. It caused me pain.

I blame it on Garrison Keillor and his shit-for-script. Sometimes I listen to his radio show (when we happen to be in the car of a Saturday evening), and I've decided it's 90% crap and 8% so-so and 2% stingingly observant re. Midwestern habits, values, and people. His singing falls into that 90% category. If I turn it on and hear his yodel, I can't snap that radio off fast enough.

To use a phrase of my friend Girl Detective, this movie made me go "meh." Only this "meh" was far beyond a nonplussed shrug. It was a meh of bitter disappointment, of pain, of sorrow, of pity for poor Robert Altman whose last movie had to be such a...such a...words fail me.

Let me put it this way: in a movie which featured Meryl Streep, the highlight of said film was a scene of Woody Harrelson and John C. Reilly telling dirty jokes.

MEEHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

[She falls down dead.]

 

Curtain.

Mama Sexycakes

As I was getting Henry off the bus this morning, he tucked his chubby, chilly hand down my sweater and said, "I like sexy cakes."

At least, I thought that's what he said. But an hour later when his teacher came for a home visit, she said they had pancakes for snack at school today. And Henry loves this video. So maybe he said "pancakes."

But he still had his hand in my sweater. Alright, I'm not as nubile and perky in certain regions of my body as I once was. But to have this alluded to by a 3-year old is downright sad.

A Girl Can Dream

I had a dream last night that Ralph Fiennes loved me. Adored me. His whole face lit up with happiness when he saw me. He kissed my lips and then he put his tongue in my ear, playfully, and I awoke to find Sydney the Cat grooming my neck.

The Stranger

Henry had a speech therapy session this afternoon, and according to his therapist he did fabulously. He initiated interactions. He followed directions. He grasped some fairly sophisticated concepts. He did a great job at make-believe play. It warms my heart to hear it, especially because he was a bit distant this weekend and both Jon and I felt discouraged.

Maybe "a bit distant" is understating it. On Saturday, he seemed barely aware of us -- didn't want to play with us, didn't pay attention to anything we said or did, was wandering in Henryville for nearly the entire day. Sometimes he seems like a small foreigner or alien that has dropped into our midst, and we are trying to get him to understand our language, culture, and points of reference and he is struggling to teach us his. Doubtless in a situation like this there is bound to be discouraging moments. But he's not a foreigner: he's one of us. He's our son.

When we do connect, when Henry looks at me and truly sees me and I see him, there is complete understanding between us. So much that it's eerie, and I often wonder if he can read my mind. His teachers/therapists have commented on how well I am "attuned" to him. True, when he allows it. Or his brain allows it. Or the autism allows it. Or whatever it is that keeps us, at times, estranged.

Resolving to Resolve

The new year is a week old: is it still new? If a year were a person who lived to be, say, 80, then that person is now a toddler -- about 1.75 years old. Not too late to make resolutions, plenty late to break them. My friend T. says his resolution is to "set some goals." Resolving to resolve.

Last week ended up getting away from me, so no blogging, writing, or resolving for me. I spent a fair amount of time at the veterinarian with Ira the Cat, who will be 21 in April, and has developed new health problems. There's a list of them now: kidney failure, partial blindness, ulcers, and hypothyroidism, to which are now added high blood pressure and unilateral pharyngeal paralysis -- which makes it more difficult for him to breathe.

Quite frankly I thought he would die last week, but he has rallied once again. He is the Rasputin of cats. Obviously quality of life is an issue at this point, and I feel the weight of a decision ahead of me. Last week, when I went to rouse him to bring him to the vet, he didn't respond at first, and I felt a whisper of relief -- thinking that I had been absolved of my responsibliity.

Thus, one of my resolutions for this year is to face bravely what needs to be done for Ira, to put him down when his suffering outweighs his interest in the world. Am I letting him continue on because I can't let go, or because I truly believe he is still enjoying his life?

Resolved: to answer this question with the appropriate care and action. To say goodbye to my good friend when he needs to go.