Le Monde de Fromage de Kate

One might think I’d not had a mishap since the Ides of March, and I might choose to let them go on in blissful ignorance of the fact that I still manage, on a recurring basis, to damage myself in various tumbles and collisions galore. For instance, in the space of less than a month, I twisted the same ankle four (five?) times (impressively, I managed to continue damaging it even though I was wearing a brace on it during all but the original incident). First, I fell down the stairs with two heavy bags (prompting me to say many quite spicy cuss/swear-type words at the First Unitarian Church – though I acknowledge that if you’re going to let a blue streak fly in any house of worship that’s undoubtedly the best place to do it). In my defense, I was trying to discern whether a refuse can at the bottom was for garbage or recycling – let’s just say that in my concentration on the damn rubbish container I seriously misjudged WHERE the bottom of the stairs were. A week or so later I fell up some concrete porch stairs (thank you for keeping the snickering tacit, Grettir, and managing to express concern while gracefully smothering what I must admit would have been well-deserved laughter). Then, one of my favorite tall clogs inexplicably broke causing me to crash into a wood pile outside a grocery store. I claim amnesia or the Fifth or something concerning the rest of the wrenchings.

I guess the point is that I don’t want my penchant for inadvertent personal abuse to become tedious or mundane. So I’ll just share the calamities that have some interesting aspect to them. For instance, today I was walking out of a room with one of my kitten children (Ms. Fiona Maura MacArthur) and I fell down (okay – for no apparent reason) and flung the medium-wee cat in the air. She, naturally, landed soundly on all four feet (paws). I landed on my well-padded… ah hell – I should just call it my “landing pad.” The kitten child and I were both unhurt, but she did look at me very quizzically, as if to say, “You’re supposed to land on your PAWS!”

Wow. I’ve already learned something else this year. Not in any way as important, obviously, as:

In other words, if you haven’t already, please read that entry first. Click right HERE if you are scroll-impaired.

But it’s slightly interesting, nonetheless. My Mother got in an itsy-bitsy accident in my 2003 Honda Civic Hybrid. She bumped into a Ute Cab very gently. I won’t go into all the details for the accident (some amusing, some infuriating), but I CAN tell you that the only damage to my little car was some tire rub and the tiniest bit of chipped paint on the door trim bumper thing (isn’t that the technical term?). The cab driver, though, thought it was a good opportunity to get all the damage on his 1993 van taken care of so that it would pass an upcoming inspection in order to qualify for a commercial insurance renewal. My insurance said no to most of his claims, but they did pay him for damage to the area of impact, because there was really no way to absolutely PROVE that it wasn’t caused by a wee Civic moving from complete stop at an ENORMOUS old dinged-up van that was driving in a COMPLETELY MANIACAL FASHION. Well, I hope he’s happy with his $863 as he BURNS IN HELL. Perhaps that’s a little strong. It’s just that, not only was he a treat and a half, Ute Cab has a local reputation for some pretty horrendous driving (and I know from personal experience that at least one of their cabbies carries a really, REALLY large knife – but that’s definitely a story for another time).

Anyway, we’ve driven the car around with tire rub for a long time in case the insurance company wanted to see the “damage” while they processed the claim. They did not, in the end, care to look at it.

My Mother and I suspected from the beginning that a little Mr. Clean™ Magic Eraser™ would take the tire rub right off. Fear not – you might remember my Sharpie® and Mr. Clean™ Magic Eraser™ fiasco and the whole TACKY FAUVIST BIOHAZARD incident. But the car’s Opal Silver Blue Metallic finish (especially with the hand-waxing job I paid for about a week before the accident) is, thankfully, much hardier than a poster paper version of Vue De La Fenetre Tanger by Henri Matisse.

So tonight I proved our theory. Mr. Clean™ Magic Eraser™ DOES remove tire rub. Thank you, Mom. Thank you, science. Thank you. Mr. Clean.

Please Wear Yellow with Lance! Buy a Live Strong Wristband benefiting the Lance Armstrong Foundation and show your support for cancer survivors, cancer education and cancer research.

I wear yellow; the Live Strong wristband was my very best gift this Christmas.

Young, YOUNG Dad

My father survived “cancer-free” for 14 years after second stage prostate cancer (and after a radical prostatectomy when he was only in his 40’s). But that cancer has suddenly returned and has inundated his bones. “Opportunistic Cells,” they call them. Indeed – they are absolutely everywhere.

So, I wear yellow. I wear it in fond memory of Helen Pawlowski and Joan Koralewski, other dear mothers of my growing up, who died too, too soon of merciless organ cancers. I wear yellow for Pamela and Janae (and their families) – my “brat pack” sisters forever and always. I never take the time to tell them how much I love them.

Simon Craig Vodosek
May 17, 1997 – August 6, 2004

I wear yellow in memory of Simon Vodosek, an 8-year-old boy who spent half of his short life with neuroblastoma and still managed to teach and enrich the lives of everyone he met (and continues to do so with his legacy). I wear yellow for Mary, Markus and Miriam, Simon’s family. They are truly “survivors.” Mary sent emails to ME during the time Simon was dying, concerned about how I was doing.

The Gorgeous Bride and Her Father

I wear yellow in memory of Laurie Walker, mother to my sister-in-law, who made every single one of her only daughter’s wedding invitations by hand and helped choose the gorgeous crimson wedding dress – yet she could not be at the wedding because of her disease. Nevertheless, her presence touched everyone there; the officiant (okay – me) only got through one line of the service before crying. Laurie died on September 17, 2004, almost exactly a month after the wedding, having survived eight long years of leukemia/lymphoma. I wear yellow for Ashley and her family, who managed to celebrate and grieve, simultaneously, with such dignity. I CAN wear yellow because of Ashley. Thank you for the bracelet, Ashley.

And, yes, I wear yellow in memory of Mister Rogers, the most gentle, honest and kind icon of my childhood, who died on February 27, 2003 after battling stomach cancer. “Mister” Fred Rogers supported my creativity, my whimsy and my love of music. Most importantly, Fred Rogers taught everyone, by perfect example, and best said in his own words, “I feel the greatest gift we can give to anybody is the gift of our honest self.”

This Logo Goes On T-Shirts Every Christmas
(Hopefully with more discovered genes added)

I wear yellow, also, in hope and support of Dr. Lisa Cannon-Albright, director of Genetic Epidemiology at the University of Utah and former director of the now defunct Genetic Research (where I worked for five years). She was one of the key players in the discovery of the two first breast cancer genes (BRCA1 and BRCA2), a prostate cancer gene (p16) and several others. Now, in what could be the ultimate definition of irony, she suffers from breast cancer herself. And I wear yellow to support the work that she and her colleagues around the world (some of them my dear friends) do every day to decipher the mysteries of cancer and other diseases.

But mostly, and foremost, with all my heart, I wear yellow in support and love of my father and in the hope that he survives enough of the future to do all the things he cares for most.

My Father Doing What He Loves Best

(Being The World’s Best Grandpa)

Last week, much to my surprise, in my email I found an invoice and a “Winning Notice” from eBay® saying that I had contracted with the “Buy it Now” option to purchase “1968 HOT WHEELS DEALERS SHOWROOM STORE DISPLAY RARE – Item #6938765626.” Since I’m not much of a Hot Wheels® aficionado, I decided I’d better investigate. One of the first alarming things I found was the price of this item. The “1968 HOT WHEELS DEALERS SHOWROOM STORE DISPLAY RARE – Item #6938765626” costs $25,000. Yes, $25,000. That is more than I paid a couple of years ago for the brand new 2003 Honda Civic Hybrid (a PEOPLE-SIZED 2003 Honda Civic Hybrid in luscious Opal Silver Blue Metallic). For those of you not acquainted with eBay® transactions, a “Buy it Now” purchase is considered a binding contract. In a live chat with the eBay® Security Center I found out that a “Third Party” accessed my account (by untraceable means) and contracted me to buy this item. I’m in the process of attempting to contact the seller (yes – it is a real seller) so that they can re-list this item and sell it to someone who has a Hot Wheels® fetish. But just in case any of you are Hot Wheels® fanatics, just give me the $25,000 and the cars are YOURS (shipping is FREE).

Here They Are…

BeBe has Eye Herpes (it does have a more scientific-sounding technically appropriate name – Rhinotracheitis, but “Eye Herpes” just gets straight to the point). The poor cat has already been through more medical trauma this year than any feline deserves. There was a long and extended spay reaction resulting in one additional emergency surgery and another emergency overnight stay and steroids and antibiotics and, what cats LOVE the best, special outfits. Suffice it to say I’d take her to the vet at that point and they’d say, “It could either be A or B,” and then it would be A and B. She had to have a tumor taken out at the same time and had the pleasure of having that needle aspirated previously – I think you get the point. I have pitiful pictures somewhere; I’ll try to locate and add them for the complete pathos they evoke.

Anyhoo, she has Eye Herpes. One eye got all goopy (very technical term) and increasingly swollen. She tried to clean it out, poor thing, and I tried to periodically cleanse it as well so she could keep her eye open as it became increasingly swollen. So I took her to the vet. They performed the absolutely COOLEST procedure I have ever seen at a vet. Mind you, I have seen the birth of wee puppy dogs and other darling animals and interesting medical procedures in person, and any number of really impressive surgeries on Emergency Vets, but this was the COOLEST thing I’d ever seen. After the rectal temperature and the weighing and special drops to numb her eye (she’s such a good girl!) he took a little slip of special paper (looked like one of those pH testing strips) and put it against her inside eyelid for a moment. It turned all her eye juice (another highly technical term) bright green!!! This way they can easily determine if the cornea is scratched (as the dye will concentrate in a scratched area). Have I mentioned how COOL it was? Apparently the vet uses these strips himself on Halloween – to great effect, no doubt.

But as patient as BeBe is with most veterinary procedures, she was really freaked out at the idea of having someone pull her eye open to take a close look and would not keep her eye open. Here’s where I need some real help – both the vet and eye both thought we saw something in her eye. He said, “It looks like a piece of “____________.” It is a botanical item with which I am familiar, but I can’t, for the life of me remember the name of it. Eventually they took BeBe in the back to give her a little gas to more easily extricate the any item that was there or make a further diagnosis. While I was in the waiting room I chatted with a couple whose very handsome Labrador had a paw wound from the very same plant. Horse weed? Cheeky grass? Wound plant? Chick grass? Pig plant? It’s been driving me crazy. If anyone has any guesses as to what the substance is, please submit them.

Anyhoo, it wasn’t “cow plant” or “Horsetail” (Horsetail? Is that it?) causing the problem; it was Eye Herpes. Ah, good ol’ Eye Herpes. It’s fun to say “Eye Herpes.” The EYE HERPES spread promptly to the other eye, but the drops are working wonderfully and BeBe’s eyes are almost as gorgeous as ever.

Sleepy Beatrice

My cat, BeBe (that’s “Ms. Beatrice Gatto”to BMG Music Services, thank you very much), grew up with the companionship of her uncle, Bagheera (he was usually referred to as “Kitten” which made BeBe “Small Kitten” when she joined the household). She has been lacking his company for a number of months now and is lonely for feline companionship.* Since she can be a little bit of a diva, I thought it best that she be introduced to a younger cat (so she could boss it around to her hearts content).* So I picked up wee Fiona last week at the Humane Society.

Wee Fiona

Unfortunately, she has a respiratory infection and must be in QUARANTINE (I believe that QUARANTINE is a foreboding word that should always be spelled with all caps). She’s had the appropriate meds, and even when she could only breathe in a most snorfly manner (that’s the technical veterinary term) she frolicked about like there was no tomorrow. This made it VERY difficult to get a photo, especially on a camera phone. But here she is blurrily frolicking.

Peeking

Pouncing

Preparing to Scratch

Sideways

Walking About

Yes, I saved the best for last. This amazing kitten, a mere two months old, can WALK! She’s a leaping, sauntering, frolicking prodigy. I am so proud.

*NO ANTHROPOMORPHIC PROJECTING HERE, NO SIR.

Someone (NOT ME!!!!) managed to make a large greasy mark on the purplish (technical term, forgive me) art paper border of my poster/print of Vue De La Fenetre Tanger by Henri Matisse. It could also be a large saliva mark. It was on the living room floor so the glue could dry (and it could be shut off from the animals), and my nephew sometimes practices trombone in there. I wouldn’t put it past him to have thoughtlessly emptied the contents of his spit valve in such a random fashion as to have left the aforementioned mark. He does have a little container into which he is supposed to empty his spit, but he’s at an awkward adolescent stage and easily could have missed (I’m being generous and not saying, “he usually misses”).

But don’t even get me started about the thoughtless nature of brass players and the copious amounts of saliva that they feel free to toss willy-nilly on the ground, usually DURING performances! I speak of professionals and students training to become professionals. Not only do they get to do warm-ups and tune RIGHT ON STAGE, right before they start AND in between movements, but they feel no compunction whatsoever about dripping their bodily fluids wantonly on the surface nearest to them.

As a singer, not only would people think it was BIZZARE if you did warm-ups on stage at any point before or during a performance, but if you hawked up a bit mucus glob and spat all over the floor they would consider it a major faux pas to say the least. Never mind that the enormous loogy of death might be impeding what would otherwise be transcendent performance; you simply can’t do anything but try to swallow it. Who, in the history of performance practice thought that it would be entirely too complicated for the horn players to have to empty their disgusting juices into a proper container (I’m sure that Tupperware® already makes something perfectly appropriate)???

It was certainly not someone who has had to walk in a poised manner onto a highly-buffed wooden stage in high heels right after a French horn quintet has played. Unbelievably, I DID NOT FALL DOWN, but I was tempted to throw those shoes away into a biohazard container. It was simply REVOLTING – I know not only from the aftermath but because I had to watch them before I went on – you’d think they had some sort of freakin’ salivary disorder. OR, the more likely scenario, they are simply belligerent and uncouth.

But I digress (just the teensiest bit).

To try and camouflage a bit of the Sharpie® and Mr. Clean™ Magic Eraser™ fiasco and to cover up the mysterious greasy/spitty mark, I decided to put a narrow border of contrasting textured paper around the print. I was getting a fairly good result (cutting and laying out the pieces and so forth) until the spray glue became involved. They sell it everywhere, they make it sound as easy as pie, I’ve never heard an expert say, “don’t try this at home,” but spray glue and I are a match made in HELL. I will not take the time to confess all of my indiscretions with this substance, but remember that my previously mentioned “art” learning experience started when I attempted to remove my gluey fingerprints that were impeding the view of the lovely Tangiers sky.

Today I have learned, though I had partially assimilated the embryonic form of this knowledge a few days ago, a few gluey fingerprints in a Matisse “Tanger” sky are much less noticeable than any well-meaning but misguided attempt to repair them. Now, all over the specially textured “bone” coloured border there are gluey, bloody fingerprints. I don’t even want to try to explain. Here it is as a simple equation. I’m sure you can figure out the rest.

ME + SPRAY GLUE + ART + TINY UNNOTICED PAPERCUT = TACKY FAUVIST BIOHAZARD

I have learned many, many things over the past couple years. Trivial things, earth-shattering things, silly things, purple things – you name it. I have learned so many things that I must have a new blog category just to begin speaking of them. Let’s start with ART. I can’t think of anything more a propos as a subject for the original entry in this category. This is what I learned about art today:

If one is trying to use spray glue to fasten an inexpensive poster/print of Vue De La Fenetre Tanger by Henri Matisse onto an art paper background which is glued onto the backboard of a VERY cheap frame, and one manages to leave wee gluey fingerprints at the top of the picture, one should NOT attempt to remove the glue with a Mr. Clean™ Magic Eraser™.

Vue De La Fenetre Tanger by Henri Matisse

Mr. Clean™ Magic Eraser™

Indeed, this is a fine product; I’d go as far as proclaim the Mr. Clean™ Magic Eraser™ one of the finest scientific marvels of the twenty-first century. I worship at the feet of the Mr. Clean™ and heap lauds and honours on his shining, hairless cranium. A Mr. Clean™ Magic Eraser™ will even remove what one might think is permanent evidence of an especially festive Valentine’s Day party that took place while one was out of the country (ask Bronwen about the “Makeout List” – it’s rather amusing). Unfortunately, a Mr. Clean™ Magic Eraser™ will also remove the coloured top layer of an inexpensive poster/print of Vue De La Fenetre Tanger by Henri Matisse – it’s so very thorough, indeed. Oh, I learned this today.

I also learned that one should not attempt to repair the resultant damage from the Mr. Clean™ Magic Eraser™ debacle with a blue Sharpie® and a purple Sharpie®.

Blue Sharpie®

Purple Sharpie®

These are also fine innovations of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. But, I learned today that perhaps Henri Matisse was using pigments in more subtle hues and variations of tone than a blue Sharpie® and a purple Sharpie®. Just because he was a Fauvist doesn’t necessarily indicate he lacked refinement altogether.

I have learned, then, in summary: 1) Don’t be a gluey slob with your huge sausage fingers, 2) a Mr. Clean™ Magic Eraser™ is a mighty implement – a powerful force that must be respected, and 3) blue and purple have a myriad of delicate variations than are not necessarily embodied in a Sharpie® – we must wait still for the Sharpie® that embodies the exotic hues and tones of Tangiers.

Simon died earlier today (yesterday, technically). What a very brave boy.
Simon Craig Vodosek

May 17, 1997 – August 6, 2004

Below is a picture from December, 2001 at the time he was diagnosed with neuroblastoma. Having only met him in 2003 – 2004, I hadn’t known he’d ever had such wonderfully brown, wild curly hair (like the rest of his family). I love it.

Here is Simon’s Obituary and a
follow-up article from the Salt Lake Tribune.

Today was also my third, tenth and last wedding anniversary, depending on how you look at it.

I am not brave.

This is Miriam (forgive the camera phone picture – she is ever so much cuter than that – and less fuzzy). She is four and “three quarters” years old. She’s holding a sticky note upon which she learned in about two seconds to write my name. I’ve been acquainted with her family for a year or so now. Read about her family and her brother Simon. Therein lies the perspective.

Simon’s Place