Seeing A Beatle Because He's In Town? No, I'm Seeing Sir Paul Before One of Us Dies! (And I'm not all sure it will be McCartney who goes first any more)

Hello Fellow Travelers!

Patient Spouse is shopping for commemorative Beatle gear I might like. He seemed genuinely surprised how fast I said, "Yes!" , to seeing Sir Paul.  I did not ask where or for how long or how much?  (Polo Fields, the entire day and way too much).  Patient Spouse is very excited to the point where he made arrangements to ship our son off to his Aunt and Uncle's in Chico.  I don't have the heart to tell him that the main reason I acquiesced to going with so little fanfare is there are only two Beatles left, arguably one important one. There is no telling when I'll get to London and the "C" word (cancer) could get somebody else. It got George and Linda. It tried o get me. Who knows who will fall next or when. So, San Francisco will have to do. 

I am writing on a new device, and for some reason I keep not saving my efforts, and they disappear into that great void called cyberspace. This is my third and final attempt.  What I've been trying to convey is that 7/21 marked the 2.5 year mark since a huge (think russet potato) tumor was removed from my brain.   Every six months I calculate my progress down the long, dark, road to recovery.  In August I'll have another round of doctor visits where my doctors appear to be surprised that I'm still above ground.  They really say that!  No kidding! I'm a freakin' medical miracle!  According to my best friend, I am the least self-aware person she's ever met (and she's met a lot of people).  So, this self-assessment every six months or so seems in order.  Neuro plasticity is your brain's ability to make new connections around the damaged areas.  Marking my progress in this new frontier seems Imperative.

What progress?  I don't see any.  That's the short answer.  Two and a half years of no balance and double vision.  I came out of surgery unable to walk, talk or see.  I have a sneaking suspicion that there is something huge and fundamentally wrong since the surgery and only something else surgical will fix it. 

The last two years I feel like I was sentenced to Solitary Confinement with only words to keep me company. I measured and played with the words for ages before I felt confident enough to use them.  Thanks in large part to my awesome Mother-in-law, (and in much smaller part surgery) I found a device I can express myself through. Thank Steve Jobs for the new technology's because I can't write the old-fashioned way.

Another seismic shift in my physiology has been an incessant need for dark brown sugar and desserts made with Kahlua.  I've always been the salty/snacky type and never thought about desserts.  Now, 

I think of nothing else.  I've watched "Cupcake Wars" for the cupcakes!  Who does that?  I've also viewed the Legalzoom website more than I should not for legal expertise but to see the toffee Elaine makes and where I can buy it.  This Month's cover story in Nat Geo?  Sugar and why it's bad for you!  It's really bad!  I want a cookie!  "C" is for "Cookie" that's good enough for me! - the C-monster himself!

The last change that appears to be permanent in my perpetually spinning world (think Dorothy in the spinning house) is that I feel great!  Every day I wake up to a day full of possibilitiesi.  I laugh all the time.  I can 't  wait to conquer my daily goals, pass them and reset them.   I feel pretty great all the time!  It's an odd feeling for me, but very much in line with my new outlook. Everything makes sense to me now.  I care a lot about people and who they are and what they want.  I don't care at all about objects or petty grievances anymore.  I can focus like a laser on what I need to, I don't see doorways or halls or food as anything other than obstacles to get through on the way to somewhere and inconvenient fuel.  I've stopped comparing myself to the mighty cockroach  and now draw upon the Wild Tearose for longevity likenesses.  Like both,  I am hard to kill and can thrive just about anywhere.

So, heck yeah, I'll go see Paul McCartney! The Grim Reaper has been breathing down the back of my neck, who  knows when I'll get another opportunity?  Who cares? 

Words? I Know Words! And There Are Plenty I Don't Ever Use!

There are two words in the English language that should never be used: the "N-word" and the "C-word."  If you really want to test this social law, just try saying the "C-word" to a group of females and watch them snarl. They are very bad words, and I never used either one. Never felt the need or inclination. One is masogynist, and one is racist. Two words out of an entire language should easy to avoid. They are unpleasant anyway. Every child after the age of three knows not to use these words. These are bad words. Anyone who does, runs the risk of being publicly demonized, privately scourged, or both.

I myself don't have an empire, but I know someone who does. This person did not build her empire on anything as fleeting as the public's goodwill. Empires that I've seen that are still standing are built on the foundations of hard work and really good ideas. You know the old saying,"She who lives by the butter stick, dies by the butter knife," or something like that. Paula Deen lost her empire because she used the" N-word" 30 years ago. Then she appeared with Matt Lauer and demanded that we all throw rocks at her. Instead of feeling sorry for her, I felt compelled to start hunting through my rock collection for nice round stones. If you're going to build an empire on butter, Crisco, or gravy it's going to invariably fall apart. My rapscallion niece and her Facebook cronies use the" N-word" with each other to make themselves sound tough. They have no right to use this word, but I don't waste any time correcting the" kids." They have to figure it out for themselves. Dropping an F-bomb with the C-word doesn't make you edgy, it just makes you gross. Using the N-word just makes you ignorant and gross. And no, "cracker" isn't in the same game. 

I have enough problems with the real "C-word"... Cancer. If a celebrity chef loses her empire because she used the "N-word" 30 years ago, then she probably doesn't deserve an empire to begin with. If she admits to using it once who's to say that she didn't have it in her lexicon and used it all the time? We on the West Coast just don't get it-we don't. Right is right,  ignorance is ignorance, and Paula Deen is what she is. I guess if I want empire building women to look up to, I can always turn to Oprah or Martha Stewart. Last time I checked, you could still buy their crap online if I wanted to buy. Martha did a stretching the Big House, but she still knows her way around a biscuit. You wouldn't catch Oprah or Martha crying for sympathy on TV. If there's one thing America loves more than takedown, it's a come back. I hope she doesn't. 

Fifteen, Beauutiful, Rich, and Suicidal? I've got a plan for you.

Hello fellow travelers!

I saw Michael Jackson's daughter, Paris. Paris Jackson is 15 and gorgeous. Ms. Jackson was in the hospital after attempting suicide. I wondered what would make a pretty girl with more money than she'll ever spend be so sad. I would have told her to put on her big girl panties and buck up. Then I listened to her. She broke my heart. She was a normal girl who missed her dad. Michael Jackson was a good dad after all! 

Michael Jackson got on board the crazy train for me many years ago. Somewhere between dangling that baby and his nose falling off in court, I stopped keeping track of him. His kids were relegated to being hidden behind strange masks and blankets. 

And their names, Lord their names. I mean, who names their kid blanket?  Who in the hell wants to be known as blanket? They're all grown now; all beautiful. When that little girl spoke from her hospital bed, she spoke from her heart. She touched my heart. Paris' life has been in a tailspin apparently since her father died. Missing my own dad, I can totally relate. The difference being I will see my dad and she won't. What struck me about all three of the Jackson kids is how normal they are. How heartbreakingly normal. I would tell Ms. Jackson the same thing I've told my young nieces, that she will change every three years like clockwork until she's about 30. Has she ever heard of Cheyenne and Christian Brando? Of course not! Have you? Of course not! They're dead and no one cares. If Cheyenne had been told and if she believed that she would be a different person soon, she might have really thought her options. Because after you commit suicide you have no options. So hang on Ms. Jackson, hang on. You'll be different soon.

PS

I know I was pretty hard on Paula Deen. I didn't compare her to Hitler. I have no idea how Hitler cooked or with what.