You like me, you really like me...

Yes I feel a little bit like Sally Field. AGAIN! It is unfortunate that I rely so heavily on outer sources for my sense of worth. I'm working on it. The timer for my internet quota just went off so priorities call. BPNT! better post next time

should it be easy
to put the pieces in place
make them fit then sew

Molly Wants to Break FREE!

If there was ever a doggy who needed to be sent to training camp ... Actually, she is so sweet! We miss you Molly! They better be nice to you! We'll show them what you can do to that Linon Puppet! Major damage!!

It is nearly a year!

I mentioned to Melissa C. that I wanted to have a party to celebrate the one year anniversary of my brain surgery and she thought it sounded weird. I suppose it does but don't we celebrate the milestones in our life? How about the one year anniversary of the day I could have died but I didn't? Or how about one year ago, a bunch of people helped me make it through a rough time and I want to say thank you by inviting you all to dinner.

I am in a good place right now because even though I am still having problems with my memory, keeping track of time, writing on the board while trying to explain a concept, concentrating, effectively carrying out any plan, or writing a minimal TO-DO list in under 45 minutes, things are looking up. I met Jason C. and he reminded me of the importance of gratitude. My principal is finally beginning to understand that the problems I am experiencing are not as a result of my unrealistically high expectations for myself nor due to some emotional breakdown people perceive me as having. At Melissa C's suggestion, I found a benign brain tumor support group. They laughed as I described my frustrations over the past year, not out of ridicule, but recognition.
"I feel guilty complaining when I am lucky to be alive."
"I do not really want to hear how great I look."
"The over sixties all tell me none of them remember a thing either. And did you lose your memory overnight when you had brain surgery at 44?"
"Why do people think it is reassuring to hear, 'Well, you're still smarter than most people.'"
"Don't you think the pressure is causing those symptoms? I think you are just depressed."

I AM NOT DEPRESSED! I love life! I love laughing and talking with my daughter! I love my husband and family! I love knitting and painting and sewing and math! I love crossword puzzles and fixing things! I love the beach and my dog and cereal and helping kids learn to love math as much as I do! I love looking at beautiful art! I love wearing clothes that are different from what everyone else wears! I love coming up with creative ideas and inventing things!

So I think it is okay to celebrate. I will celebrate life and the gift that we all have to have it!

Tranny Karen

I bought my first dress form on eBay. The seller had no feedback and had found the form somewhere in the garment district lying in a gutter, another victim of the fashion industry tossed aside. She had no stand so I propped her on a stool. Later I bought her a stand from another eBay vendor who sold full dress forms but had one stand with no form. Surprisingly, neither auction had any other bidders so I got both pieces very cheap. Sachi was a little freaked out by the torso when she arrived in a package wrapped in disassembled cardboard boxes and bound with yards of packing tape. When I told her about the eBay transaction, she looked at my account, and looked at me doubtfully.
"You bought a body form on eBay from a seller named 'TrannyKaren'?"
I guess it did seem kind of weird after she put it that way. Images from Silence of the Lambs popped into my head.
"But it was such a bargain..." (The fight song of the eBay addict.)
The name Tranny Karen stuck and even though she has no head, I picture her looking a little like Nathan Lane in The Birdcage before he draws on his eyebrows or puts on his wig. I wonder how these events affected Sachi?

importance-of-having-eyebrows

They always did...

Individuals with a temporal lobe tumor or lesion a
re often said to have a temporal lobe personality.
Aspects of this particular personality are that
they may be more likely to have aggressive outbursts,
overemphasis on trivia, pedantic speech,egocentric...

In addition to aggression, individuals with a tumor or lesion on their left temporal lobe may be more sensitive to slights and even appear mildly paranoid. Unlike people with schizophrenia who can become frankly paranoid, temporal lobe dysfunction often causes a person to think others are talking about them or laughing at them when there is no evidence for it. This sensitivity can cause serious relations and work problems for the individual (www.brain place.com/bp/brain system/temporal.asp).

Reading and language processing problems are also common when a tumor or lesion occurs on the left temporal lobe. Being able to read in an efficient manner, remember what you read and
integrate the new information relies heavily on the dominant temporal lobe. This is an essential skill in the modern-day world and can cause severe distress for individuals who are unable to perform such tasks sufficiently. (www.brainplace.com/bp/brainsystem/temporal.asp).


I was talking to my friend Jon and complaining about how my recovery was affecting my job. "I keep getting in fights. My coworkers hate me." His response: "So what? They always hated you. You never cared before." I had to laugh. I appreciate that he speaks his mind and it does not hurt because I trust that he holds me in high regard. When I spoke to Steven C. at the benefit he said he only remembered three teachers from his years here: Me, Mr. K and MT. Was it the passion for our subjects or the yelling tirades or the inflated egos?

Life Under the Titanium Plate

They cut a hole in my armor
Exposing me for what I am
The guards put down their weapons
Leaving me open and unarmed

I prepare for the onslaught
It is only a matter of time
All the waiting All the fear
And yet the first blow is always mine

In the distance I hear the bombs
The enemy is growing near
How will it feel after all this time
Soft flesh, raw nerves, cowering in fear

I look the same on the outside
My protection was a disguise
But I was the only one who knew
Behind the mask are a child’s eyes

My mom is writing poetry in her sleep

My mom had a dream that we (mom, my sister, me and our husbands) were all watching a poetry show on a big bed. The poet said, She's having a Bad Attitude Day! Let's Give Her Some Latitude Day! My sister was offended because she thought it was about her. My brother-in-law Paul was jumping up and down on the bed roaring with laughter because he thought the poetry was hilarious.

Rashida Jones, are you sure it was Bubbles?

Yesterday on some late night show Leno? Conan? I saw Rashida Jones tell a story about the time she got bit by a monkey. For one terrifying moment I thought she might have been the girl I was babysitting for in the Central Park Zoo twenty-five years ago. Then I realized she was probably not old enough to be that girl. Also she told everyone it was Michael Jackson's monkey Bubbles. The girl I babysat for was visiting her dad in New York. The job was actually for my sis but she couldn't do it. I think the dad was some bigwig in the music business. The kid was in town visiting and hanging out at the record company.

So I went to his office to pick up the girl and he asked me to take her to Central Park, play in the playground, go to the zoo, have lunch, see the animals, and return to the office in around four hours. I was 17 or 18 and the job paid well. These one shot hotel or office babysitting jobs always paid better than my regular gigs so I was pretty psyched. I think I was getting $5 an hour by then but I figured I'd probably get at least $30 this job and the job was a cinch. I did not have to do the entertaining. The environment would be stimulating enough.

She behaved kind of bratty. There was nothing I could say that she was not ready with a snappy comeback.

"Throw the garbage in the trash."
"No! It looks pretty on the ground."

"Hold my hand when we cross the street."
"No! I can fly over the cars if they come."

"Don't throw rocks at the pigeons."
"They like it."

It was exhausting but I was getting paid to do it. I held on to her little hand tightly in dark buildings. She tried to pull away and run. She tried to reach into the cages in the reptile house. I warned her that she might get bit but she said, "I will bite back."

As our visit to the zoo came to an end, we headed for the middle plaza. Back then, it was not the big seal pool. There were some bird cages and a big open space. I let loose her sticky hand and away she ran. Come back, wait for me, I lamely shouted. Where could she go? Into the bird cages?

By the time I caught up to her, it was too late. Like slow motion I remember thinking that there were not supposed to be monkeys in those cages. There were no guard rails so she was able to reach her fingers right into the cage. The nearest monkey grabbed her fingers in both its tiny paws and chomp. I pulled on her arm but I felt substantial resistance so I let go. What if I pulled and her fingers came off?

After what seemed like five minutes the monkey let go. The girl was screaming and blood was seriously spraying out of her fingers like in a Monty Python skit. I didn't know what to do. I had warned her but she didn't listen. Why did I let her run? Why were there monkeys in there? Did I even know that monkeys could bite? Was I wearing anything nice that I would never be able to wear again?

Suddenly we were surrounded by strangers and zoo employees. An ambulance was summoned and while we were waiting, an animal attendant asked if I thought I might be able to identify which monkey had been the biter. No way, they all looked the same. By now my little charge had calmed down considerably. She was humbled but slowly building herself up, gradually restoring the proper power balance. "They're going to arrest that monkey, aren't they? They're going to send him to jail, right?" "Yes, they are," I reassured her. "That was a bad, bad monkey!" We were almost laughing about it by now. I had never been in an ambulance before. Behind my reassuring words was the crushing thought that I had failed in my caretaking job. I also might have sentenced a monkey to death by making a false ID.

I had called her dad before we left the zoo and he met us at the hospital. He asked me if I had enough money to get home and when I said yes, he said goodbye. I waved at the little girl, so small and now so brave telling her dad the story. She smiled and waved back. We had been through a lot together and now I was alone.

I started crying and went to my mom's job. She took one look at me and thought I had been hit by a car. No, I'm okay ...not my blood... the whole story spilling out... and he didn't even pay me for all the time I babysat.

So who was that little girl? I have always wondered. If it was Rashida Jones, it would make sense that I picked her up at a record company. I guess that white guy who met me at the hospital was not her dad. I probably would have remembered the name Rashida though.

But seriously Bubbles? It makes a good story but Bubbles is not a monkey but a chimp. Do chimps live in cages? Do they bite? Maybe like in most families, the truth got stretched and enhanced to make a better story. Ms. Jones, if you are out there, ask your dad if that's the real story. And if it is not, I'm really sorry. I should have done a better job protecting you no matter how strong you thought you were.

If I am a good person, then why do I feel so bad?

I keep falling into the same trap.