What She Taught Me
She taught me oh them moose-goosers ain’t they a bunch and how to talk
in clichés when we’d get drunk as Lords and cut a rug but never
buy the farm. She taught me how to order drinks in a Donald Duck voice and
how to ask the local police for a ride home to Vivians so we
can eat more of that enchilada casserole.
She taught me how to tuck your dress up in your pantyhose when you
wash the floor. To tell Ole and Lena jokes to Iowans who loved them. To never
scrub the skin under your eyes because you’ll get wrinkles. To fill garbage
bags with junk and hide it in the bedroom when you get unexpected visitors.
She taught me On the Banks of the Ohio and how to
say shit fire in at least five syllables. She taught me the man
from Nantucket and the man from Madras and lovely poems about
her babies and her friends. She taught me that the best way to clean
the attic on a hot and humid summer day is to chuck shit down
the stairs, pile it on the lawn, and then go have a beer.
She taught me to suck the sweet flesh off artichokes after dipping them
in butter. She taught me to light candles and to pour wine when you’re sad
and when you’re happy. She taught me to have parties on the deck and laugh
until you’re sick over the story about Dick with the fire hose or the guy who
came drunk through the woods. She taught me to make everything
A celebration. She taught me when friends come for weekends
you cut flowers and put out pretty towels and you hire a big
red rusty party bus to haul you to the next town to drink beer.
She taught me that at some moment in the weekend, you sit on the
sofa with a cup of coffee and cry about shared sadness and shared joy
and what we hope for our children and that we’ve been
friends for more than thirty-four years.
This is the poem I wrote for Jane as a retirement gift. It was what Jill and I call a mentor poem...there is a poem written by a real poet that I used as a model. Other than that it just came from stories.
I went to the foot doctor today because since I've been walking, my one soft mushy ankle lump has turned into two mushy ankle lumps. My real doctor (who Regis says is not a real doctor) said it was nothing to worry about and I believed her but it was getting unsightly. Imagine this traveling up your leg in a series of mushy ankle lumps.
The foot doctor gave me a shot of novocaine and then tried to suck whatever was in there, out. She said it was a ganglion like this was good news. She was able to get a lot of stuff out of it that looked like that old LePage's glue (see picture...mucilage... ick) that came in a glass bottle with the rubber top. It was gross but interesting. Tiffany would have loved it. She always had a strange fascination with injuries.
So, now I have a thing on my left ankle that looks like I forgot to wear a sock on my right foot. It's a pressure sock like the astronauts wear. Under it is something the foot doctor says is excess skin that will suck back into the general skin overage and I hope she's right.
And since I had a good thing going, I told her about the plantar fasciitis on my right foot so I have a big pad taped to the bottom of that foot. I'm a medical miracle. Both of my feet feel so damn good tonight that I made burgers on the George Foreman grill and butternut squash in the oven and I baked the last rack of ribs WITHOUT GETTING CRANKY. Regis would agree...a miracle.
I have been sort of over-attentive to my medical issues lately. It's not typical and I'm sure it will pass.
I went for a 1.5 mile walk this morning at 6 a.m., in the dark, by myself. Ta da!
Tom Brokaw was on The Daily Show. He said he misses Tim Russert and feels he needs to be a part of this election because Tim's gone. Sad.
Fawlty Towers is a good distraction from the ugly world of politics. Try it.