Author Archives: kzmclain

Nana’s Back

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My granddaughter Kaiya, who is 10 years old, is a faithful reader of Nana’s Whimsies. She doesn’t want to miss it because it could be about her! Hi, Kaiya…..

At any rate, this past Saturday, Kaiya told me, “Nana, on Wednesday morning I went onto your blog and saw that you said you were out of commission for a few days. I knew right away that you were in the hospital.”

Love that girl. And yes, indeed, that was the case. Another infernal bowel obstruction. Not the first. (In fact, it is the fourth.) And not the last. The doctors pretty much assured me that would be the case. I hope they aren’t expecting an invitation to the Thanksgiving table. Oh, I know. I know. It’s not their fault. In point of fact, it’s no one’s fault. I had colon surgery in 2011, and abdominal surgical scars lead to bowel obstructions. Period. Children: don’t have abdominal surgery. Eat your fiber. Take your vitamins.

I have a lot of stomach issues. It runs in my family, on both sides, really. So my tummy does a lot of talking back at me. Every once in a while, it gets darnright angry. I almost always know when my intestines have decided to put a death grip onto the surgical scars.

Up until now, all of my small bowel obstructions have been in AZ. I must admit to having a large bowel obstruction in Denver, but that was mostly unrelated to my surgery and related to, well, never mind. Take my word for it.

But just as I had decided to blame it on AZ water following my March hospitalization: ileum, meet surgical scars. It appears hard water can’t really be blamed for much more than leaving a residue on your glassware.

If you will recall, my last experience with a hospital was highly unpleasant. In that instance, I went to a Level 3 Mesa trauma hospital at 2 o’clock in the morning. I was treated with utter disrespect, and despite having told them I had a history of bowel obstruction and suspected that was the case again, it was a full two hours before I had a CT scan or saw a doctor or PA. Once diagonosed, they gave me no choice about whether or not to have an NG tube inserted (though at the end of the day, insertion failed). They assumed — and acted as such — that I was simply looking for pain meds to feed an addiction.

I vowed I would do things differently next time, and I did. A lot of the decisions I made regarding this most recent event was a result of this Washington Post article that a friend had sent me.

First of all, I didn’t go to the hospital in the middle of the night. Instead — and potentially foolishly — I waited until 6 o’clock in the morning to awaken Bill and have him haul me to the ER. I say potentially foolishly because my pain started the night before at 8:30. It always takes me a number of hours to figure out that my pain might be a bowel obstruction because see above: I have lots of stomach issues. Nevertheless, I believe it was worth the risk.

Second, I truly gave consideration to what I would wear. I recognize that opioid addicts aren’t limited to a specific population; still, I felt like wearing nice blue jeans and a clean shirt might be better than wearing saggy and worn leggings and a large t-shirt. I assure you the latter would have been more comfortable, and pulling on blue jeans was quite unpleasant given my aching belly. My nod to lipstick and high heels (see Washington Post article link above).

I’m not sure if any of that made the slightest difference, but I will tell you that the way I was treated compared to the way I was treated the last time was like day and night. From the time I entered the ER until I was situated in my hospital room, post-diagnosis, I was treated with respect. It’s true that the ER didn’t give me a narcotic pain-killer, but they gave me something for pain, and got me upstairs to a regular room post-haste, where the dilaudid cocktails began. I’m thankful I only needed pain meds for a very short time as the pain was alleviated quickly.

As for the dreaded — DREADED — nasal gastric tube, the doctor in the ER responded kindly and considerately to my abject panic regarding the notion. He assured me that unless and until I vomited, they would not insert the tube. Once I got upstairs, the hospitalists and surgeons with whom I met (and there were many, many), concurred with that decision. Let me tell you, Ladies and Gentlemen, I would have done just about anything to avoid vomiting.

So now I’m back in the saddle, having avoided both the NG tube and more surgery. In the meantime, I will resume my low-fiber/low-soluble diet, continue making my monthly payments to one hospital or the other, and keep my fingers crossed.

Saturday Smile: What Time is It?

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The other night, around 1:30 in the morning, my daughter-in-law Alyx noticed that the light was on in their living room downstairs. She is always the last one to bed, and she was certain she turned all the lights off. I’m envisioning that she awakened Court and he — being a lot like his mother — told her something like “I’m certain no burglar would turn on a light, so you head on down there and check it out. I’m here for ya. Call me if you need me.”

When she went downstairs, what should she see but 8-year-old Mylee sitting on the couch, happily eating a frozen fruit juice bar, and playing a game on her iPad, or perhaps looking at Kids YouTube.

What are you doing down here, she asked Mylee. It’s 1:30 in the morning.

Mylee was totally surprised. She woke up and — in predictable Mylee-fashion — didn’t bother to look at the clock. After all, it’s now dark when she wakes up at her more reasonable time of 6 o’clock. What’s time, after all? Just a number.

She finished up her fruit popsicle and went back to bed. Thankfully, she fell back asleep.

Oh Mylee. You always make me smile…..

Have a great weekend.

Desert Island Without Street Tacos

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We’ve all been asked that age-old question: What food would you bring to a desert island if it was the only thing you could eat?

(The other age-old question, by the way, is: Why do firefighters have to stand together in a pack of five or six at the meat department and try to figure out what to cook for dinner tonight, thereby blocking other people from picking up their pound of ground beef? Yes, they are admittedly good-looking and buff, but I don’t understand why they don’t simply do what homemakers since the time of Cleopatra have done: make a grocery list.)

But, back to the desert island question. It’s a stupid question, of course. Because after two months of eating nothing but In-And-Out burgers — double double animal style — you would want to kill the next cow you see. Assuming that’s what you chose to take to a desert island.

As for me, I always answer that question the same. I would take a chicken-and-bean burrito smothered with green chili so spicy that I would break out in a sweat. Except sometimes I say spaghetti carbonara. But mostly the burrito.

I love Mexican food. When Bill and I traveled in Europe for three months back in 2008, we loved the food — especially the food in Italy. We had pasta every day in every part of the boot. But I will tell you that after that much time eating that much pasta, the thing I craved most was Mexican food. That’s why when we got to Paris — which was our last stop before heading back to the United States — we ate our first meal at a Tex-Mex restaurant near our hotel. Yes, it’s true. We chose that over a typical Parisian restaurant. Let me assure you of two things: the food was neither Tex nor Mex, and we ate the rest of our meals at French restaurants.

I’m not extraordinarily fussy about my Mexican food, except for the fact that I like it spicy. And I can tell you right away if the food will be good by tasting the salsa that accompanies the ubiquitous tortilla chips.

Yesterday Bill and I took Light Rail downtown, for a couple of reasons. 1) We are tired of smelling paint, since our painter has been working his way throughout our house for two weeks; 2) there is a brand new Target store right on the 16th Street Mall, in the center of downtown Denver, and I have been dying to see what it was like; and 3) as long as we were downtown and two blocks away from Court’s office, we took him out to lunch. When I asked him where he wanted to go, he immediately said there was a Mexican restaurant that had recently opened on the mall across from Target that he was interested in trying. Boom. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

When we walked in the door, my heart sank. It was fancy, my friends, and I don’t want my Mexican food prepared or served at a fancy restaurant. Mexican restaurants should be family-owned, smell like frying corn chips, and be called something along the lines of Los Dos Santa Maria Guadalupe. I frankly can’t remember the name of the restaurant at which we dined. It was something along the lines of Esta Ova (though that sounds a little too much like female hormonal replacement medication so it probably wasn’t that).

The menu emphasized street tacos, most with cilantro lime crema. Nope. I like cilantro. I like limes. I like crema, especially ice crema. I don’t want it on my tacos. I want jalapenos and cilantro and onions.

And the cost of the lunch for three was $55, including tip, but not including cerveza or margarita because we all drank soda. What? And the biggest blow of all was the disappointing salsa, which we decided consisted of someone opening a can of pureed tomatoes and dumping it in a little bowl.

This is what my Mexican food should look like…..

As we made our way to the light rail station, Bill admitted sadly, “I just can’t get excited about street tacos.”

We heard the millenials surrounding us gasp in horror. No matter. I’ll take a fiery burrito and salsa that has flavor any time.

The Most Beautiful Music

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Both Bill and I grew up in the Midwest where winters are cold and snowy. You would think, therefore, that we would be used to bone-chilling temperatures and shoveling snow. Alas, we both hate it, Bill even more than I. Hence, a house in AZ. Unfortunately, we didn’t get there soon enough.

A few weeks ago, my sister Jen and I planned our annual trip to Rocky Mountain National Park to listen to the haunting and beautiful sound of the male elks bugling for their mate. Well, MATES, actually, since they don’t seem happy unless they have a whole herd. Greedy little devils. When we made our plans, the sun was shining and the temperature was in the mid-70s.

About a week ago, it became abundantly clear that fall was making itself known, and winter was just around the corner. Our lovely weekend was threatened by the forecast of snow and cold temperatures. I know I’ve been whining for a week now about the cold, but the forecast was for truly COLD temperatures — highs in the teens.

We considered canceling. After all, part of the fun is sitting on the car at dusk and listening to the beautiful mating calls, then returning to the Deercrest Inn, lighting up the firepit, and drinking a cuppa hot chocolate spiked with Fireball whiskey. All of that would be considerably less fun if the temperature was 12 degrees.

We didn’t actually make a final decision until Friday, when the forecasters were telling us that Saturday would be in the 60s, and wouldn’t turn cold until around dusk. Snow, they promised, would soon follow, the amount of which they are always vague. Very vague.

We decided to risk it. With the help of a rental SUV that had solidly good tires and all wheel drive, Bill and I drove to Estes Park, where we met up with Jen. After a quick trip to purchase the essential taffy, we returned to the Deercrest Resort and enjoyed the warm(ish) fall temperatures, with the help of some wine and (as the temperatures began to drop) the firepit…..

It is never unusual to see a lot of elk this time of year, as they come down from the high mountains to the more clement weather to graze and hook up. This big bull elk was hanging out all by himself at the Deercrest. He was clearly old and fairly crippled, so I think he was glad to get away from the youngsters’ shenanigans and enjoy some peace and quiet. All that bugling and testosterone, doncha know. It wears on one’s nerves…..

We made it into the park and though it took a bit of hunting and the help of a park ranger, we were able to locate a herd of elk. In addition to the mating calls, we were just a few feet away from a battle between two young bull elks…..

And Sunday morning, we woke up to a temperature of 12 and this…..

We all made it home safely, with another year of elk bugling under our belt. It’s the most wonderful time of the year.

I could live forever without the snow, however.

Saturday Smile: Friday Night Lights

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Last night I did something that I hadn’t done for literally YEARS. Bill and I went to a high school football game. Truly, I believe the last time I went to a high school football game was when Court had his short-lived football career at Littleton High School back in the 90s. But our eldest grandchild goes to Thomas Jefferson High School, and their team was undefeated. So why not? I recently wrote a blog post about my high school football experiences (I was a Pep Club lettergirl and proudly sported the letter G as in GO SHAMROCKS.

We had a grand time watching the Spartans…..

….even if they suffered their first loss of the season, 39-22. But I’m crazy about one certain TJ Spartan student…..

Have a great weekend.

Friday Book Whimsy: The Masterpiece

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I love books that provide me with a historical perspective. I especially love when I can learn something new from a novel. I realize a reader has to take care to remember that it is a novel; still, I always hope that the author has done enough research to make a reasonable attempt to educate their audience accurately.

Author Fiona Davis has written two previous historical novesl: the first — The Dollhouse — provided the reader with a clear picture of the famous Barbizon Hotel in NYC, where young women trying to become models or actresses or secretaries could live and feel safe. Her second novel — The Address — used the famous (or infamous) Dakota Apartment on NYC’s upper west side as its location. I liked that book a bit less than the author’s first. Still, I loved what I learned about perhaps the most well-known apartments in New York.

Fiona Davis takes the reader on an artistic journey with her third novel, The Masterpiece. The star of this novel is a real-life art school that existed in the 20s and 30s in Grand Central Terminal — The Grand Central School of Art. In the late 20s, Clara Darden teaches at the school. She is the lone female teacher, and struggles to maintain respect simply because she is a woman. Fifty years later, divorced Virginia takes a job — her first following her divorce — at Grand Central Terminal in the information booth. This leads to that, and she discovers a hidden painting by Clara Darden.

The reader is taken on a journey of two women becoming independent in different ways. The Masterpiece is also the story of Grand Central Terminal, and the art school that lived within. It was the work of some committed people that prevented Grand Central from being torn down and made into condos. Sound familiar?

I liked The Masterpiece a lot better than The Address. I felt the characters were much more realistic and the back stories were more interesting. It provided a history lesson while reading a book with interesting characters.

Here is a link to the book.

Thursday Thoughts

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No Griping Zone
I promise that today I won’t do any complaining about the cold weather. It is October in Colorado. The temperatures are about what they should be, after all. And my hair stylist broke it to me the other day that it is supposed to be an El Nino year, meaning lots of snow. I, however, will be in AZ for most of it.

Snuggle Up
Having promised I won’t complain about the snow, I will restrict myself only to telling you about the most wonderful winter item I sell on my Etsy page……

These wonderful blankets are made out of the softest, warmest chenille blanket yarn that you can imagine. They are lap-sized, perfect for covering up as you watch television or read a book. The blankets are 48 inches long and 39 inches wide. The assortment of yarn colors is large. I sell them for $65. If you’re interested, see the link above to my Nana’s Whimsies Shop.

A Different Color
Our seemingly endless construction project continues. We have a painter who is working diligently on painting most of our ceilings and walls. You know, those walls that I said I couldn’t live with 26 years ago when we moved into our Denver house. The man is amazing, and bit by bit, the house is looking better. At the same time, Bill is doing some of the finishing touches such as baseboards. I am seeing a light at the end of the construction tunnel.

Smile, You’re On Candid Camera
The grandkids’ school photos are dribbling into Nana. Kaiya and Mylee always take a good photo…..

Cole’s photo makes me laugh. He looks like he’s grimacing, but I am assured that the look on his face is simply his version of saying cheese!…..

And perhaps cutest of all is this photo of Micah. I know he’s saying cheese, but there is enough mischief in his eyes to know that it was all he could do to sit still…..

Keep those school photos coming, Family. I love them most of all.

Ciao!

Cold Feet

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The weather is still cold, and I’m still crabby. I can practically hear you all now collectively saying, “Oh, for the love of all that is holy and good, will the woman get over the fact that the nighttime temperatures dropped into the 30s.” But I finally figured out that the reason I’m crabby actually has little to do with the weather. I’m crabby because, well, I’m simply a grouch. I’m getting a head start on the Get-Off-My-Lawn-Old-Person Crabbiness. And I’m pretty good at it. I learned everything I know from my brother who can do grumpiness better than anyone, especially for a pretty pleasant guy. It’s a gift.

As I pondered my crabbiness as it relates to cold weather, I realized that while Bill dislikes cold weather even more than I, he has a valid reason. Cold weather exacerbates his PD symptoms. In cold weather, his hands get so cold, they could cool down a pitcher of warm lemonade.

I, on the other hand, dislike cold weather primarily for two reasons: coats and shoes.

I’ve never been a big fan of shoes. Most of my grandkids are the same way. They deposit their shoes in the entryway as soon as they come in the house. They would leave them off until they go home except for the fact that if their visit involves outdoor activities, I insist they wear shoes outside because we have lots of wasp visitors. Wasps as in the mean-spirited stinging insects, not wasps as in Princeton grads who summer in the Hamptons.

My grandmother used to tell me a story about the time she took me to the five and dime store a couple of blocks from the bakery when I was 5 or 6 years old. When we left her apartment above the bakery, I was wearing shoes. When we returned, I was not. We trudged back to the store and went aisle by aisle, finally finding the shoes which I had apparently discarded. I have no recollection of that day, but I also have no doubt that the story is true. I still often wish I could discard my shoes while shopping.

Take yesterday’s trip to Target. I was forced to wear regular close-toed, rubber-bottomed shoes as there were snow flurries on and off all day long. Rubber-bottomed shoes and I don’t get along. After a couple of episodes of my shoes sticking to the floor as I walked, nearly sending me flying, I finally began carefully lifting my feet as I took a step. I resembled a dressage horse…..

Alas, the weather required me to wear something other than my flip flops.

As for coats, I hate them. HATE them. Winter coats truly make me feel as though I’m in a strait jacket. Trying to get in and out of the car is bad enough, but the simple act of putting on a seat belt is like wrestling Hulk Hogan. So frankly, I mostly don’t wear a coat except under the most dire conditions. Like 10 degrees below zero.

It won’t be long before we leave for AZ, where I still often don’t wear shoes. There’s no snow, but there’s scorpions! They make me even crankier than cold weather.

Stand By Me

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It’s not tipping I believe in. It’s overtipping. – Steve Martin, My Blue Heaven

I must start by reminding you that I warned you yesterday that the cold weather was liable to make me grumpy. This perhaps explains — no, justfies — why I’m taking a stand.

Yesterday, Bill and I went to Tokyo Joe’s for lunch. We haven’t been for a while, but their chicken and rice bowl sounded good on a chilly day. I placed my order and handed the cashier my credit card. The setup was all fancy-dancy, you know, where you sign your name with your finger on an iPad. But before you do that, there’s a spot where you are to add your tip.

And that’s the point where I took my stand. I didn’t tip. I didn’t overtip. I didn’t undertip. I simply didn’t tip. Because all she did was take my order, and frankly, didn’t smile even once as she did that.

Now is the point where I will tell you that I am a good tipper. While the fact that customers have to subsidize restaurant servers’ wages via tipping annoys me, I’m also aware that if that practice went away, restaurant owners would be required to pay their servers better and that cost would be passed on to consumers. So I tip. And frankly, no matter the service, I almost always tip at least 20 percent. But that’s when a human being is taking my order, placing the order with the kitchen, bringing me my food, filling and refilling my water glass, listening to my complaints if necessary, and so forth.

Not just standing at a counter, punching in my order, and taking my payment.

So I’m taking a stand: no more tipping counter help. Haters, don’t hate.

The practice of tipping counter help sort of snuck up on consumers. A few months ago I was at a bakery near our house that specializes in cinnamon rolls. There a sign on the counter that said: If you think we did a good job, leave us a tip.

No. Nope. Nein. Your paycheck requires that you do a good job.

I grew up working at my dad’s bakery. I gave every person really exceptional service. I would take their order, place it in a bag, ring up the order, take the money, and give the necessary change, all with a smile and concluding with a thank you. I didn’t have to move from behind the counter. I didn’t have to refill coffee cups. I simply put donuts in a bag. No tip.

Restaurant servers get paid terribly low wages because they earn tips. I didn’t ask the cashier about her paycheck, but I’m pretty sure it is more than the base salary of the server that works at the Village Inn down the street.

Wow. Now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, I feel a lot better. I’ll just wait to hear from all of my family members and friends in the food service business. Probably no birthday gifts this year.

Oh, and by the way: I also have stopped contributing money at places where the cashier asks, “Would you like to donate money to the Give a Kid a Break Fund?” Why? Because I would rather give money directly to a nonprofit instead of giving Target or Whole Foods or Walmart the tax break and the decision about where the money goes, thereby allowing them to boast “Benny’s Big Box donated a million dollars last year to charity.”

Have a nice day. And you’d better hope that the weather warms up.