Live blogging PBS Nature, sort of, when I can handle the suspense

Despite having sworn off wildlife documentaries--thanks to Mozu the Snow Monkey and her disability and her living in the snow and her depression sitting listlessly by the freezing river after her baby died and I just can't possibly handle another one ever I KNOW Mozu's peeps took good care of her and accepted her disability and I don't care how good March of the Penguins is I DON'T want to see it or I may die--I watched PBS Nature tonight anyway.

Tonight's episode was called Cloud: Wild Stallion of the Rockies. I watched it while Bubba was falling asleep in my arms (I know! Bad mother! Gosh, he's cute.)

The filmmaker, Ginger Kathrens, happens to be filming the wild stallions when she sees the birth of a rare all-white colt. Well, not really--it's all very respectful as she watches the mare leave the herd for the night, fade to sunset, and then the mare trots back the next day with her trotting little white foal next to her. (Dude--mare? Nice work. I wasn't trotting anywhere the day after I had a baby, and he only weighed eight pounds.)

Ginger names the colt Cloud, because he is lovely and white. She fears for his safety because of his lack of camouflage but is also drawn to him. (Jeff, who was brought up in the mountains, knows something of the harsh realities of nature, UNLIKE ME, and lost many childhood cats to coyotes. So now he calls white cats "coyote marshmallows.") When she returns to the mountain, her worries of Cloud turning into a mountain lion marshmallow have not been realized, yippee! But per wild horse herd society, he has been kicked out of his band by the lead stallion who only keeps mares around. So Cloud has joined a herd of roving bachelors, and they frolic in the woods and do man-things, as near as I can tell. The blush of innocence and youth, I tell you. But don't think I don't see that hawk circling, Ginger, and hear that ominous music! I do!

So much for your adolescent games of kick each other in the head, young Cloud and friends, because then--THEN--the Government sends helicopters to round up the herds, something about keeping the population of wild horses in control. Helicopters scare the horses into running into a trap, and then they I CAN'T WATCH THIS! TURN IT OFF!

When I tune back in, the filmmaker has her own pet wild horse, and Cloud has somehow survived the weeding out and is roaming free once again. He is looking to score himself some mares. He is persistent. He trails one herd for months, hoping to oust the band stallion. They fight. Cloud limps into the sunset. Will he live? Will he ever be able to have his own band of mares? I CAN'T WATCH THIS! TURN IT OFF!

WAIT! I NEED TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS! DOES CLOUD LIVE? Deep breath. Tune back in.

Another spring has come to Arrowhead Mountain. The filmmaker returns, searches for Cloud. He has many battle scars on his now yellowish white coat, but he is bold and majestic as ever. He fights with another stallion. Still in search of his own herd.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the mountain, "another drama is unfolding." A new foal has been born, and it can't get up. Its mother, and even its father the head stallion (!) try gently to get it to trot along up the mountain with them in search of water, but its legs won't work. So another herd comes along and they leave it there. OKAY, I REALLY CAN'T WATCH THIS.

A mare from another herd comes upon the defenseless, disabled foal.

TURN IT OFF! TURN IT OFF!

Now I'm so totally tortured and sick about this poor foal left to die on the side of the mountain that I think I may throw up. And here I was thinking that finally someone has made a nature show where NOBODY DIES. Ha! Is that too much to ask? (I know, it is.) Cloud makes it through all this adversity and then a little foal has to be born that can't walk? (Note: A glance through the interview with the filmmaker reveals that Looking Glass the stallion kills the foal. Oh my heavens, I'm glad I turned it off.) It's not fair. But wait. I still have to see if Cloud lives. Sigh. Tune back in.

So it ends with Cloud and the mare who stayed back to see the dying foal are together and have started a herd. They bonded and have been together ever since.


High drama, murder, polygamy, violence, adversity, pansy women swooning and crying in their homes that don't have much nature in them except the rat that is making off with all our compost--it's all here on Nature. Apparently there is an episode two: Cloud's Legacy: The Wild Stallion Returns. And a third in the works! That's all fine and good except I am never, EVER, watching another wildlife documentary again as long as I live. Ginger, you are a fine filmmaker. You have scored an amazing career. But JEEPERS, Ginger! The foal?

Vandals!

So we have this "tree" in our front yard, a weeping birch. We inherited it from the previous owners, just one of their weird legacies. I'm no gardener but I'm told that some people graft them to standard birches to get a nice tall tree with weeping branches. Our tree is not one of those. Google also tells me that some people prune them to look like an umbrella. Us, not so much of that either. It sure wouldn't be our first choice of tree, but who wants to kill a perfectly healthy tree just because it doesn't know that the sun is UP THERE (yes, yes, who would know where the sun is in Seattle, blah blah)? Every year we talk about killing it and replacing it with a normal cherry tree, maybe a nice Japanese maple, and every year we don't because then it gets these nice little leaves and looks perky, kind of, in its backwards way. The little tree that could.

Now you know how, like, you can make fun of your own partner (when he sets the table he just puts plates down! No forks! I want to scream!) but no one else better? (That's my man you're talking about? I've so never said that out loud.)

That's kind of how I feel about this tree now, after our recent vandalism.

She's kind of charming, no? I think the anonymous chalk peanut gallery just makes her look more dignified.

These shoes were made for graduating

Bubba is steadily improving--I'm touched by your interest in him. And seriously thankful for health insurance, because look:

So besides spending the night in the hospital, guess what else I did? I turned 35! And guess what else I did? I graduated!

I had a great seat, up front in the insecure over-educated section. Our speaker, Quincy Jones, with my very own camera:

But the funnest part, besides walking across the stage and talking with the woman next to me who did her dissertation on prostitutes in Russian literature, was take pictures of shoes. The university lets all, every last one, of its many thousands of undergraduates walk across the stage. Quincy and Russian prostitute experts can only amuse one for so much of that looooong procession, especially since Jeff was not getting my "Does it look like it's almost over yet?" text messages because everyone else was clogging up the airwaves with theirs.

So--here's some shoe photos. And I'm so not a shoe person. I even famously (in certain circles) once said, to much ridicule, that I wish that I only needed one pair of shoes. But this was interesting--and almost makes me understand shoe people. Maybe I'll go back to school and write a dissertation on the sociology of shoes.

Those last ones? The most like mine.
Back next week!

Holy crap

It's okay, baby, we just have to go to the doctor to get a note saying that little rash is nothing and you can go straight back to school. Maybe we'll even make it back by after lunch. Wait, that bruise shouldn't be there. What's that sore in your mouth?

What? Go straight to the children's hospital emergency room? Don't stop home first, and take care not to let go of him because his brain could bleed if he fell?

It's okay, baby, they are sure it's this thing that is serious but will be over soon. Let's just wait for the doctor. Here, a sticker with a loader on it! You are so lucky! A LOADER! On your SHIRT!

What? You suspect it's this thing that will be over soon but you will check for cancer just the same? Okay. I'll sit here alone and think about that for a few hours and entertain my baby. I don't have any food for him, or diapers or toys, can you help? Some string cheese and apple juice, that's great. OK, I'll take care that he doesn't fall down.

It's okay, baby. I know you just fell asleep but they need to get some of your blood. It will be over soon. A B C D E F G.... The wheels on the bus go round and round...Look! It's a doctor! Where is her nose? There it is!

What? The first blood you took wasn't enough so you need some more?

It's okay, baby. They need to stick your other hand. It will be yucky but it will be over soon. I'll hold you the whole time. I'll be strong so you can cry. Tell the nice lady how we saw a garbage truck, and the guy waved to you and said bye bye? Wasn't that fun?

What? No cancer? Great. But 100,000 is considered low and his is less than 5,000, the lowest your test can detect? And you need to keep him overnight and give him an infusion while he sleeps? That's okay, I know you can't give me Tylenol for my splitting headache because I'm not the patient. Maybe we can go to the gift shop and buy some while we wait for the doctor? Yes, I'll take care not to let him fall.

Look, baby! Daddy and Grandma and Grandpa are here! They love you so much! Show them your red bandage! I don't have a red bandage. Daddy doesn't have a red bandage. Only YOU have a red bandage! Yippee!


What? I should keep him awake a little longer because you're not ready to start yet? OK. We'll read some more stories. Can you hurry? It's 11pm. Wow, that's a lot of wires you're hooking up to him. He's supposed to sleep like that?

It's okay, baby. Say goodnight to Daddy! Say goodnight to Grandma and Grandpa! Bye bye! Look, they brought us a big bed so we can snuggle. They'll check you every 15 minutes for a few hours but maybe you'll sleep through most of it. I'll be here. Night night, my love. Twinkle twinkle little star...

He is home safe tonight, and they expect a full recovery. His doctors and nurses all have bubbas of their own at home and were away from them so they could take care of mine.

Sleep is for the weak

I know that people are supposed to know a lot about each other before they marry. What are our spending and saving goals? How ambitious are we both? Is he nice to waitresses? Did he have to do chores as a child? Et cetera.

But nobody told me to ask if you have complementary sleeping habits. Take me, for instance. My sainted father just, sort of, doesn't. He was awake when I got up, awake when I went to sleep, and even if he looked asleep he would talk to you. I myself have a touch of The Insomnia during times of stress. I'm refreshed after seven hours and enjoy a nice afternoon nap every couple weeks, and can go for a long time on less and be reasonably high functioning. No big deal. Not just that, but if I did sleep 9 hours a night I really think I wouldn't feel well.

So imagine my surprise at finding myself married to a serious sleeper. I have met people like this before, old roommates and such, who need 9 or 10 hours a night. And for all of them I shrug it off and just chalk it up to It Takes All Kinds. They must just need sleep, right?

But in my own husband? Ha. There have been stages on my way to acceptance. First, the panic--how would I deal with the loneliness of the sleep widow? How would he protect and provide for me if he was sleeping NINE hours a night? How, I ask you? HOW?????? Surely if he reeeeeally loved me as much as my father does he would sleep as much as my father does, right? (See the math there? I'm very smart.)

Then there was the Changing Him phase--see, all he was missing all these years was someone to WAKE HIM UP. Guess how that went? And don't you wish you were married to me?

Then there was Changing Him, Deluxe Passive Aggressive Version--if I stomp around and vacuum and turn up the music really loud he will see what he is missing in all these hours spent sleeping, wake up, and do the vacuuming himself and then lovingly kiss my forehead and wonder what he had done without me. No dice. Off to another nap (seriously! another one!) he would trundle.

Then there was Acceptance, 1.0--I no longer saw him as a freak of nature whose need for sleep (and I finally did see it as a need) does not make him a bad husband, nor me a poor wretch with a sleeping albatross around my neck for LIFE.

Most recently, Acceptance, 2.0--I slowly started to see that if he gets the sleep he needs then life is better for both of us. And--are you ready?-- he might actually be the one to know how much sleep he needs. And all in all I probably sleep a little more myself just from the good influence, surely not a bad thing. So what if I'm the one to hear the bumps in the night? I know karate. And I often have some nice Nora time in the evenings.

I calmly and meditatively, with open heart, await Acceptance 3.0, also known as Acceptance 2.0 with Patch For Acceptance of Hibernation Sleep Levels During The Common Cold. The upgrade has also, I hear, removed the Get Over It It's a Darn Cold For Heaven's Sake and Do You Really Have To Swallow So Loud bugs. When I'm there, I'll be all, you need three naps a day and to sleep all night? Of course you do, my dearest, dearest love of my life! May I offer you some chicken soup? A fresh trash bag for your gorgeously damp and creatively balled up tissues? A cookie? No, you're right, this is the worst cold EVER. Ever. No one, not even you during your last cold, which was really bad, has ever had it like this.

And I'll mean it, right down to my toenails. Ohm.

Barista, chapter 3

So I go to the coffee bar today, and he says, would you watch your own surgery? And I'm all, no WAY, are you crazy? And he's all, I've been asking people all morning and most women are like, yeah sure, or, what the heck, or I've done it. And most men are like, NO WAY, are you crazy?

And then he's all, I've concluded from my experiment here and from watching my mom raise four boys, that women are tougher than men. And I'm all, bite your tongue Nora, don't say anything reverse-sexist like well it took you long enough or tell me something I don't know. And the woman behind me in line says something along these lines with her out-loud voice. And he's all (to her) would YOU watch your own surgery? She's all, maybe, sure, why not. And he's all (to her) I can tell you are a mom.

?

Do all mothers like to watch their own surgeries? Did I not get the newsletter?
Am I not a card-carrying mother because I want to swoon just thinking about surgery?
And what's the deal with surgery, anyway? There's some veiled assumptions about c-sections in there, I suspect, that I'm not bright enough to grasp.

Celebrity boyfriend: tall man with Tide pen

I have not written too much about my celebrity boyfriends here. Of course, I mainly want to maintain my squeaky clean image so that when the letter from Queen Elizabeth arrives with an offer of an arranged marriage to one of her grandsons I am ready. There is that. But there is also that I don't have strong feelings about my celebrity boyfriends. I often forget who they are, or if I am asked about them I have to think for a minute (is it Kevin Spacey? Is he my favorite? I know there was another one...). And once I do remember, my mind usually wanders quickly. I usually hear that the ones I like are short, anyway. Which is FINE, but I'm tall so the fantasy record usually comes to a screeching halt. Jeff Goldblum is tall, so he's on the list when I remember him. But I digress. (See? I can't even focus long enough to explain how I can't focus.)

There is also that my eye tends toward the folks in the background. The bass player (I married one of those). The accompanist. The roadie. You know. The wind beneath the wings types. Flyyyyyyyyyy, flyyyyyy, so hiiiiiiigh against the skyyyy, so high I almost reach the sky, thank you, thank God for you blah blah.

I am happy to see that Ashley Parker of the New York Times may be with me on this. Because look who she (he?) did a story on, prompting me to break my silence and claim a new celebrity boyfriend: Barack Obama's "body man," Reggie Love. Sorry, Your Majesty, but look!


Reggie does everything for Senator Obama. He "Takes. Care. Of. Stuff." He plays basketball with him, brings him cheeseburgers, anticipates needs. According to my new friend Ashley Parker (or should I say new rival for Reggie's affections):

"Young, eager campaign aides are stock characters in movies and on television, but few have quite the élan of Mr. Love, who, at 6-foot-5, is about three inches taller than the tall candidate, fitter than the fit candidate (he can bench press more than 350 pounds) and cooler than the cool candidate.

“There’s no doubt that Reggie is cooler than I am,” Mr. Obama said, laughing, in a phone interview. “I am living vicariously through Reggie.”

(élan, by the way, is "vigorous spirit or enthusiasm." I just looked it up.)

Ashley Parker continues:

When Mr. Obama dropped food on his tie while eating in the car between stops, Mr. Love was ready with a Tide pen. He always carries one, along with ballpoint pens, and has turned himself into a walking dispensary of Sharpies, stationery, protein bars, throat lozenges, water, tea, Advil, Tylenol, Purell and emergency Nicorette, not to mention his ever-present iPhone, BlackBerry and Canon Rebel XT digital camera. (Mr. Love keeps a photo journal of the campaign, and has more than 10,000 pictures so far.)

(Yes, Nicorette. My hopes for America's salvation lie with a smoker, yall. Don't worry--Michelle is on it.)


I didn't even notice him as a Duke athlete. Not that I am an avid fan of Duke athletics, but as a UNC alum I have some sort of passing interest. But now that he is the wind beneath the wings of you know who, he shines to folks like Ashley and me (and Bette Midler, I dare say, especially if Reggie was her wing man--it must have been cold there in my shadow, indeed.)

Source