What You're Not Told

No one tells you when you're about to do something for the last time. There's no official notice just before the last time you breast feed your baby. They don't let you know that after a certain day, your daughter will be too big to cradle in your arms. The last bottle, the last jar of baby food, crawling, dressing your kid. It's all in your rear view mirror before you realize the last time is already complete. At least with Keira, it's only bittersweet. For each thing she stops doing, it's because she's now doing something new, and you get to celebrate all those new things. 

Yesterday, my Godmother passed away. The last time I saw her, I didn't know it would be the last time I saw her. I feel like I wish I'd known, but I don't know what I would have done, or said, differently. I don't know if that would have tainted the last visit. 

We were up to see my parents this fall and went over for a visit. Several of us went out on a quick boat ride. I remember watching her walking away from the dock as we set off, and thinking that I was glad she was there because she'd had a rough bout with cancer. Before we left, she gave me a quick tour around their house, which I'd not yet seen. I remember seeing a dressing table heavily adorned with wigs and hoping that she was almost ready to give them up. I gave her a big hug before we left. No one lets you know that it's the last one. 

You Know You Work for a Publishing Company...

when instead of this:
"There's a gold car in the back lot with the lights on."

The PA system announces:

"In the South-eastern parking lot, there is a champagne-colored, newer, Nissan Altima with the lights still on."

Email As Therapy

The photo, which is entirely unrelated to the email below, is one that I found months ago and have been looking for an excuse to share. The fact that I named this file hummingbird exam may explain why I felt that it belonged with this email.

It's been one of those days - no, make that weeks - wait, it's really been more like one of those months. You get the picture. Last week (if that tells you how long it's taken me to pull this post together) I got a handful of emails, all on the same day, that I just found therapeutic and I thought I would share the best bits.

From a NY Times book review:

That said, the many semi-clothed pictures of Borat and various friends, relatives and sex workers make this scabrous and occasionally hilarious book challenging to read in public. The captions don’t help. (One for a full-page picture of a shirtless, pantless Borat in a lime green scrotal sling reads, “For protection against sunburning I make rub squirrel cheese on my skins.”)

Any NY Times review that includes the words scrotal sling is inherently grin-inducing.

Next came a signature buried in an email forward I got. I know the person who sent the forward, but don't know the person who used this awful signature line - which greatly reduces the guilt I feel in mocking it senseless. Here's the surely well-meant signature line:

"But Thou, Oh Lord, Art A Shield For Me; My Glory, And The Lifter Of My Head!!"

Now, call me sacrilegious, but I'm not certain that I've ever required divine intervention to lift my own head. Possibly, it's just me.

Next, I was delighted to find that graft was still a publicly-sanctioned road to social change. In my neighborhood newsletter I read that:

This may bring to an end a series of efforts that began nearly six years ago. In 2002, the City of Indianapolis placed Indy East Motel on probation requiring the motel to submit to additional requirements. According to City officials, during the next five years, police had made over 900 runs including arrests for drugs and prostitution.

Your presents in the courtroom Friday would help illustrate that Irvington is serious about closing this business. We hope to see you Friday.