Easter round-up: Springsteen, peeps, Pens & Portland pee

(955 words)

• I checked and unless I’m mistaken it’ll be one year exactly Thursday since I’ve done one of these lazy blog round-ups. That’s where I can’t think of a single central idea strong enough to carry me through 750 or so words so I just riff on a bunch of stories. Why I’m reluctant to do more I don’t know. The numbers go up when I post one and people tell me they’re a nice, breezy read. But it always feels like cheating to me. And what’s the point of maintaining a four-to-five day a week blog that doesn’t pay squat if you can’t do everything in your power to make it a real pain in the ass?

• Did you have a great Easter? I hope so. We did. Val, our church organist, played both morning services, so it was a typically hectic Sunday, but she plays so well I think the services aren’t the same when she’s not there. Of course, I’m never there when she’s not so how the hell would I know?

• We’d picked up my Mom the day before so she was home with us all morning doing her crossword puzzles. We encourage these because the experts say the mental activity helps stave off dementia. Whether this is true or not, I do not know, but I do know that I’ll never see another four-letter word for marshmallow Easter treat without thinking of this Easter. Because every time I walked into the room she’d say, “What’s a four-letter word for marshmallow Easter treat?” It must have happened six times. So once again an activity intended to be beneficial to her mental health becomes detrimental to mine.

• I was kidding about blogging being a real pain in the ass. I love writing the blog, but I do know some readers hold me to a very high standard and I feel compelled to try and live up to those expectations. Thank you for that. And that I do mean.

• I was leaning towards writing about the Portland vandal who peed in the reservoir and caused authorities to flush the entire 38 million gallon contents. Some say they’re being prudent; some say wasteful. Me, I have a bunch of questions: Like exactly how big was this guy’s bladder? And did tests reveal there was something particularly hazardous about his urine? Did it contain some alien extract that if anyone took even one sip it would make them pregnant — even the fellas! — with flesh-devouring extra-terrestrials who were sure to destroy humanity? Of course, that’s unlikely so it seems like a huge waste. I imagine the contents of a single glass of water after the scoundrel peed in the reservoir was something like one part urine per about 988 million parts ordinary water. I’d drink that. Heck, it sounds like the same proportion of ingredients in Miller Lite Beer and people pay good money for that stuff.

• My buddy came up with face value tickets for me to take Josie to her first hockey game Saturday. We went to Pizza Milano before the game and the place was so packed they made us sit at a four-top table with two total strangers. Josie was horrified. We’d have to make conversation with people we didn’t know! But the guys couldn’t have been nicer. They were beer-drinking Penguin fans. I’m not saying I thought about ditching my daughter for their company, but it was nice to be reminded there’s always friendly options in case someone gets surly.

• Many of you might be wondering how can I afford two playoff tickets to a Penguins game when I’m always so broke. Well, I’ve booked a lot of speaking engagements for the next few months and am anticipating that income avenue is about to blossom. And Josie said she really wanted to see a game. I love hockey and, man, I really love Josie. My buddy was kind enough to kick us some tickets at face value. I figure in 10 years Josie’s not going to remember me staying up at night worrying about money, but in 10 years she is going to remember the night Daddy took her to her first Penguin game.

• And, yeah, a friend of mine talked me into going to the Springsteen concert with him on Tuesday. Now, that’s extravagant. I guess you can consider me buying tickets for that show a sign of my confidence in the future. But even if things don’t work out the way I hope I’ll still have gotten to see Springsteen and that’s an eminently fair trade.

• If it makes you feel any better, I’ve yet to splurge on single a round of golf this year. Responsibility rocks!

• For a guy who’s become famous singing, “Born to Run” I’ll bet Bruce Springsteen doesn’t even own a single pair or track shoes. 

• Oh, and I have two spare tickets for the Tuesday show. They’re section 226. That’s behind the stage, but they’re in the balcony row A. They’re face value $68 each, but I’ll welcome the eruption of an insane bidding war.

• Nothing detonates my diet like having a spiral cut ham in the frig. It’s delicious. It’s there. Every time I walk past I pull open the door and tear off a fistful and shove it into my mouth. Yes, whenever there’s good ham around I just can’t help but make a pig out of myself.

• I’m a writer. I write. I know bankers who bank and bakers who bake. I’m familiar with miners who mine and cooks who cook. But can anyone tell me what exactly an usher does?

• Oh! One last thing: Anyone know a four-letter word for a marshmallow Easter treat?

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Mom's hip nipples & Breast Cancer Awareness

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Me and the girls were coming home from seeing Pittsburgh’s giant rubber duckie when Nana told us the story of her migrating nipples.

It was a very surreal day.

I had trouble believing something that consequential could move around so easily.

And I’m talking about her nipples, not the great big duck, which I understand can be moved with a tug boat and steel cables.

So many conversations with my dear mother -- she’ll be 81 in December -- are surreal these days. It’s a running soundtrack of our hour-long drives from her home in Pittsburgh’s South Hills to visit in our Latrobe home. 

I ought to podcast them.

I drive a 2007 Saturn Vue, but when she’s in the car it feels like we’re motoring down the Parkway East in that psychedelic boat the Gene Wilder character skippered in the first and still-superior Willie Wonka movie from 1971.

I have trouble separating hallucination from reality.

She has dementia, but it’s a sly sort. She’s at a stage where she’ll sometimes do and say things that will have you conclude, yep, she’s lost it. Then in the very next sentence she’ll make perfect sense.

The combination disorients and I find myself spending the next few days trying to reconstruct the bizarre conversations.

That’s why today, four days later, I can’t get her nipples off my mind.

Odd, because I swear I remember her telling me I was a bottle baby.

All the pink fountains are to blame. It’s Breast Cancer Awareness Month and many of the city fountains are splashing pink. My car mate daughters, ages 13 and 7, thought that was very cool.

“Why are the fountains pink?” Mom asked.

I explained to her the symbolism. As she lost both her breasts to cancer in 1982, I thought it might be good for her granddaughters to hear about her experience.

Now I’m not so sure.

Because the thrust of Nana’s story didn’t deal with the gravity of this killer disease, prevention or how lifestyle choices can impact women’s health. It dealt instead with migratory nipples.

“I don’t remember the operation,” she said. “All I remember is looking down and seeing my nipples on my hips.”

The recollection enlivened Josie and Lucy.

“Your nipples were on your hips?” asked Josie.

She explained when the doctors told her they were removing her breasts, they said the could save the nipples by temporarily transplanting them to her hips where they’d be nurtured until they could be put back where they belonged.

I hadn’t heard this story. Or maybe I had. I was about 20 when it happened. I was very self-centered at the time and, I’m sure, pre-occupied with the quest for finding handy access to female nipples that weren’t attached to my mother.

Now, I wanted to know all about her hip nipples.

Where they comfortable? Did she have to be careful when she put her keys in her pockets? Could Dad have taken one -- or two -- for the team and had them put on him just below his own?

I looked into the rear view mirror and saw Lucy, the youngest, had zipped down her top and was looking back and forth on her chest like she was observing a volley at a tennis match.

“I remember a lot of discussion with the doctors,” she said. “They said we didn’t have to to save them, but most women did for cosmetic reasons. So when they removed my breasts they took the nipples off and sewed them into my hips.

“A few months later, after the reconstructive surgery, they put the nipples back where they belonged. I don’t think anyone’s seen them ever since.”

We spent much of the remainder of the drive discussing where else Nana’s nipples could have gone with, inevitably, our stupid dog playing a donor role.

It seemed to me like a lost opportunity.

I had hoped my Mom would explain the danger and difficulties associated with surviving breast cancer; that maybe the girls would glean some worldly sympathy for the sisterhood, something their mother and I strongly encourage.

And I was hoping this post would have some heartfelt gravity about how men can support the women in our lives and encourage them to fight this cruel disease.

Instead, in the end it’s just a little piece about nipple mobility.

I guess it’s something I just had to get off my chest.

Related . . .

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