Always look on the bright side of life...

Did Monty Python come up with that?  I know that's the song that's going through my head this morning...
(Click here to see that clip from the movie, but please come back to the blog afterwards, okay?)

I fell down the stairs yesterday.

It's not as bad as it sounds.
Well, maybe it's actually worse than it sounds.

My little cat Jinx is dying very sick.  (Stay with me.  There will be a bright side to this.)

In the words of our very good, but not-exactly-a-people-person vet, "he's living on borrowed time."
Jinxy has been a good little cat all these years (11 1/2), or let's say 11 and 1/3.  

I did not name him after the cat from "Meet the Parents." I named him after a bartender I knew in Durham, North  Carolina, named Jenks.  The best story I remember about Jenks is this : It was Christmas Eve, 1983. I took the shift at the bar (why not?) and Jenks was there having his usual...a vodka and coffee. (Redbull had not been invented yet.)  The crowd had died out, it was the regulars and the staff... We were playing the music loud. Suddenly Jenks jumps up and grabs the Christmas garland, drapes it over his shoulders like a feather boa and before I know what's happening : Jenks is strutting his stuff and singing his heart out to "Santa Baby" dancing on my nice clean bar top.  It's been one of my favorite Christmas songs ever since!

Where was I? Oh, Jinxy.

The last month or so he's been getting a bit yucky, as animals do when they are reaching the pre-death stage of decrepitude.  I think this helps making the good-bye a little easier.  I don't mean to sound so callous, but to put it right out there, Jinx has been completely missing the cat box for about 2 months now.  He smells terrible. I could go on, but I think you get the idea already and I'm bumming myself out.

So I've been doing my best to clean up after him BEFORE stepping in his messes, and trying to remember the good times, but he's taken a bad turn.  As of now, he's still drinking water, and eating very expensive, special, canned, gooey, stinky food, into which I have to mash a pill, and stir it with a spoon.  (Of course it has to be me.)

When I got home from work last night, after a very long day, I mixed up this revolting concoction and brought it downstairs, to the cozy little spot he's chosen to spend his remaining days.  But I missed a step on the wood stairs and slipped down five stairs on my back.  Getting his foul-smelling brown slop all over my linen pants and wool sweater.  Landing hard on my butt and wrist onto the tile.  AND, right into the cat's random poop, which was several feet away from the catbox, as usual.  

I did not curse.  There is no singular curse that exists for OUCH-YUCK-SHIT-WOW, REALLY OUCH-GROSS-UGHCH-. and besides, my young,  niece was upstairs, and she's a high school junior.  I didn't want to shock or offend her innocent ears.

So I picked myself up, and gave the cat what was left in the bowl. I pet him and tried to show him a little love, and cleaned myself off.  I changed my clothes and took an Advil with a healthy swallow of a Seabreeze.   I went in to tell my husband what happened, and he had no clue at all that I had fallen down the stairs, and, in fact, forgot that Jinx was sick. 

Jinx, in September of 2013

I hobbled to the couch and put on the tv.  An infomercial was advertising Carol Burnett's DVD. And I thought about how comical this story could seem, telling this story in a few years.  Okay, days. Okay, so I'm telling it now.  Because sometimes you just have to laugh.  Because sitting there, despite my already aching back, sore wrist and smelling like cat food, I remembered that my life doesn't suck. My kids are healthy, so are my parents.   I remembered that the reason my niece was hanging out here is because her other grandmother (my sister-in-law's mom) just had a stroke, and my brother and sister-in-law had to rush up to New Hampshire to be with her. She's doing much better as I type this, but that's the big stuff, and we can pull together as a family to do whatever they need us to do.

We have a roof over our heads and food on the table.  

I have to get to work, but I thought you'd enjoy that little glimpse into a moment in my life.  For a look into the lives of two people who right now are living extraordinary lives, I am sharing the links to two blogs I've been following.  Both will make you feel  grateful for what you have, and both will  might even make you want to do more for others.  At this time of Thanksgiving, I hope you find them meaningful, as I do.

I started both of these stories from the middle, and worked backwards and then forwards.  The are both compelling and both made me cry. They are both a lot bigger than losing a beloved cat and falling down the stairs.  I thank both of these sincere brave women for sharing their personal stories with the world and putting it all out there.

Click here to read about Rabbi Phyllis' story about her son Superman Sam's battle with Cancer
Click here to read about Rabbi Tziona's journey to become a parent.

Stay in touch people.  We all need each other.  When we see each other remember to hug.  (I promise I don't still smell like catfood.)

Update: 12/17/13 :  Jinx is alive and darting around the house.  He's on life #6 or #7 I guess. My bruised derriere is mended, my sister-in-law's mother is doing very well, and life goes on.

Update: 1/10/14 

Jinx died in his sleep last night. He was a good little cat, and I'm much sadder than I thought I'd be. 

I Will Survive

A True Story.  

About being in the prime of your life and learning you have cancer.

My husband has a motto:  Sweat the small stuff.  It's funny, and if you think about it, you may as well, because sometimes the big stuff is just so big that if you think about it you'll just have to crawl under the covers and never come back out.

I went for a mammogram yesterday.  This weekend I'll keep nice and busy and wait for my results Monday or Tuesday.  I'm sure they'll be fine.    I go every year right around now.  At this point, you are probably thinking I am a breast cancer survivor.  I am not.

Here is my story.


It was about twenty-one years ago.  I know a lot of people would remember the exact day they were diagnosed.  I don't, but I know it was in January of 1991.  

I'll back up a little bit.


My second child, a perfect, beautiful daughter, was born on September 18, 1990.   Our first child, a son greeted his baby sister with delight, and relatives glowed to see that a baby girl had finally arrived to the family on the Cantor side... where we had so far only had boys.  We named her for my beloved grandmother, who passed away only two weeks after my Bat Mitzvah and her naming was a joyous affair at my parents' house. 


It took a while for me to get my energy back after this baby though.  In fact, I never did seem to get my energy back.  Unlike after my  first pregnancy, I was lethargic and napped each time the baby napped.  I shed the weight quickly, which I thought was great, but developed a slight cough, and then a skin rash which spread from my knees and elbows to my arms and legs... and then suddenly... everywhere.


I finally dragged myself, upon my mother's insistence, to the dermatologist,who took a look at me and decided I should be hospitalized.


WHAT?


This is one of those life changing moments when you seem to catch up to the others who are seeing things way before you.  It's a skin rash.  I'm just tired.  It's post-partum!  I have a new baby.  I can't go to the hospital.  And, Dr. Fine (his real name and the man who saved my life) wants me at NYU Medical Center.  I live in New Jersey.  We have hospitals here, in fact, my dad works at a great hospital here... I JUST HAD MY BABY THREE MONTHS AGO AT A HOSPITAL HERE!    I didn't seem to have a say, and people around me all had this solemn and serious manner. 


I went, of course.  I don't remember packing. I was placed on the Dermatology floor, since the primary cause for alarm was a skin rash that was, as yet, undiagnosed and spreading like crazy. The next few days were a blur...the itching was unbearable and no amount of creams, or antihistamines brought relief...a lot of tests, a lot of poking and prodding, stronger medication, steroids, that made my face turn into a big round dumpling, and ruined my appetite and my sleep, but also gave me back my energy... and the itching is giving way to blisters and hives.  A week goes by.  I had a few visitors, but mostly I wanted to make sure that my children were being taken care of.  Save your schlep into the City, and help by driving my son to Nursery School and my daughter to my parents' house. 


I kept busy by watching tv, reading, when I could focus, and looking after my elderly roommate.  Mrs. Rosenbloom was a tiny woman, of an undisclosed age, with the nastiest infection on her leg that I have ever since, before or since.  It was gross, and she was feeling pretty bad for herself... and was a bit of a kvetch.  I think she saw my placement in the bed next to her as the arrival (AT LAST) of that private nurse she had been hoping for. I helped her get up and down from bed, change the tv channels, order food, and translate what the doctors were telling her, from "Doc speak" to "Little Old Lady from the Old County" speak. 


Midmorning:
"Are you Kosher, Mrs. Rosenbloom?" 
"No, no. Just tell me what they have." 
"Okay, they have the matza ball soup, the turkey sandwich, the chicken pot pie, or the ham and cheese." 
She looks up suddenly.  
"Oh, is that what you want, the ham and cheese?"
 "NO!" She screams at me. "That's trayfe!*"


It's funny the things you remember.


The tests were endless.  At this point, I'm feeling better, missing my children so badly it feels like a physical ache, and losing my patience for the patient next to me. I have been given a Gameboy (the first one ever made, I believe) by my husband, and I learn to play Doctor Mario.  I see a lot more of Doctor Mario, than any other doctor at NYU Medical Center, and he and I get pretty good at gobbling up germs.  


On one occasion, when my dad, a doctor, was visiting, he heard me coughing, and I guess my cough had worsened by this point.  He asked if I had gotten a chest x-ray.  I hadn't.  With the myriad of tests I had been subject to, a simple x-ray was not one of them.  


On day ten, an x-ray showed a grapefruit-sized tumor in my chest.


I met with a top notch thoracic surgeon who gruffly let me know just how busy he was and how lucky I was he was squeezing me in to perform a biopsy on this "mass."  Yep.  Feeling pretty lucky.  I remember lying there, thinking about his abrupt nature and callous attitude; wishing I could tell him that a person was lying here in this body. This "person" has two babies at home and a huge tumor in her chest and right now her time is way more valuable than his, no matter how famous he might be in the medical world.


That night I dreamed I was shot in the chest. 


The biopsy showed that the mass was indeed cancer, and it is a blur now how we learned that it was Hodgkin's Lymphoma.  A more treatable type.  After several more uncomfortable and invasive tests to see how far this cancer spread, I was finally promised I could leave the hospital.  15 days later.  


I do not remember coming home, or hugging my children that first day.  I don't remember sleeping in my bed that first night.  I remember the sickening feeling of anxiety that would overwhelm me. I went in to NYU Medical Center for more tests to discover if I would need chemotherapy and radiation, or just radiation.  Thanks to the fact the the bone marrow biopsy was clean, I met with the oncologist and he said we could try just radiation for 12 weeks and see if that would work.  If not, then we would have to introduce chemotherapy. I told him about my anxiety and my difficulty sleeping.  He prescribed Valium, and told me it was normal.  He did not say I'd be fine.  He did say my prognosis was good.  I trusted him.


The radiation treatment became my new job.  A really horrible job, where you dread going in,  your co-workers are nice and you feel like puking all day when you are done.  You are never comfortable,  or happy, and there's always someone much worse off than you.  To make sure that you don't get zapped in the wrong spots, you get tiny little tattoo marks on your body so that the machine gets lined up correctly.  


The radiation did burn out the cancer... and while it made me feel bad, the medical marijuana helped a lot during that time.  I'm not getting on the political bandwagon about that right now, but it saved the day, gave me an appetite, and no, I would never have considered smoking it, I could barely swallow from the radiation.  It was a tiny little pill that was legal even then. 


I had to go in to New York every day for 12 weeks.  I took only one day off (which I had to make up at the end) for a dear friend's wedding, and I also remember truckin' up to Buffalo to see the Grateful Dead.  Nothing like a little music therapy to soothe the soul.   I remember my husband and I each took our younger brothers to the concerts and though I didn't have my usual energy, remember feeling wrapped in love that weekend. 


When the treatment was over, it was time to get back to life. Was I cured?  The tumors had shrunk down, and would continue to shrink.  I was to go to the doctor every three months for scans for the next year.  Will I be able to have more children?  I was told no, and not to try, due to the radiation and the damage it likely had done to my ovaries.  And I would not be able to breast feed. 


I got back to work, and enjoyed my children.  We went to Seaside Heights in the summers, and saw the Grateful Dead when they came around.  I went to my doctor appointments and each time got good news.  The cancer was disappearing.  No new signs of cancer were showing up anywhere.  The side effects of the treatment were vanishing. 


After no trace of the lymphoma or other blood disorders for three years, and defying my doctor, we did have another child, a healthy boy.


He was born on Shavuot... this is the Jewish  holiday when we received the law on Mount Sinai... so we gave him the middle name of "N'tanel" which translates to mean "Gift of God."


The little tattoo marks are still there, as my constant reminders that I am Super Woman.  So is my scar from my biopsy.  I don't try to hide it when I wear a v-neck top, I'm proud that I am a survivor.


And most of the time I don't think about it.  Until I do.  Like now, when I am waiting for that phone call that tells me I don't need to go back for a mammogram for another year.






*Yiddish word for not Kosher.

Today's blog is dedicated to all those who are fighting cancer, who love someone who is, or lost someone because of it.




Feb. 29, Leap Day, 2012... got the results of my mammogram today.  This is the one case where I like being told I'm "normal."   Leap day... an extra day in every four years...despite the fact it's somewhat cold and rainy, I'll consider it the gift that it is and gift it back to others today.  


And the healthy baby boy I mentioned above has just gotten in to Tufts, and will be starting there in the fall.  

Someday We'll Look Back on This and it Will All Seem Funny

I live in New Jersey.  I was born here.  I spent a good couple of years putting it down and waiting to get out.  And many more years calling it home again. 


So what's up with New Jersey?


Thanks to TV, the rest of the United States, (and probably a good part of the television viewing world) thinks that we speak with some kind of less-than-articulate accent, that we have big hair, and crave the material things in life.  I've never even watched two of those popular New Jersey shows, but I know the stereotype.  Ironically enough, when my family and I were at the Jersey shore two summers ago, we saw the iconic stars of that famous shore show.  But I think somehow I better not post their pictures in my blog.  


New Jersey used to feel like a an annex to New York.  When I was growing up, I didn't get that NJ had its own shtick.  All we had then was Bruce Springsteen, and we had so much of him, I lost interest.  (I know, that is blasphemy, and I've come around to appreciate him a bit more.)  


I've lived in Boston, North Carolina, Portland Oregon and San Francisco.  I even lived in Israel for part of my Junior year in college.  All of these places had their own personality.  They were all great places to live.  But I was always a visitor.  New Jersey was my home.  My parents were here, and for much of their lives, so were my grandparents. As much as I might like to put this state down, this happened to be my state.


What's up with New Jersey?  Here's what works for me...

This is a dolphin swimming by.  Really.

1. Great Beaches.  Okay, my favorite is and always has been Seaside.  With the honky tonk of the boardwalk of Seaside Heights and the spectacular waves, beaches and (usually) clean ocean of Seaside Park... this is where my family has gone for years.  Everyone has their favorite spot on the Jersey Shore. This year, we saw dolphins swim right past us.  And I have still never had better pizza  than that on the boardwalk at Seaside Heights.  (Not even in Italy.)
2. Great Schools.   I know that NJ cares about education... and although not every single town has outstanding schools, this was definitely a plus when we decided to move back here from San Francisco.
3. Proximity to New York.  Yup.  Like most people I know, my husband and I don't go into NY nearly as often as one would think, and don't take advantage of nearly enough of the cultural options.  But we COULD if we wanted to!  Mostly we go to NY for rock concerts and work related things.  And then we complain about the traffic.  But, it's still there when we want it!
4. Distance from New York.  And here's the perfection of where we live.  In our idyllic little town in Bergen County, you can almost pretend you are back in a simpler time.  Neighbors know one another and stop to chat.  Our worst traffic nightmare here is when school lets out and the crossing guard holds up the cars to let the kids cross. 
5. Happy Kids.   As much as I wanted to get out, my kids seem to have been very happy growing up here.  They loved this little town, and the freedom it afforded them to go out on their own as they got older.  They loved the shore too, and being very close to their NJ grandparents. (Their other grandparents are in Maine, and this was always a very easy drive we made 3 times a year.)
6. Prices.  This is not worth moving here, but our gas prices are lower than the surrounding states, and you never have to pump it yourself.  Also, no tax on clothing.
7. Cory Booker.   Mayor of Newark.  Maybe Governor of NJ someday.  I just wanted to mention him because I think he's all that. 
8. Tomatoes and Corn.  The best when they are in season.  Peaches too.

A few things that could be better?

1. We could do better with our environmental policies and regulations.  In my perfect little town we cannot drink the water because of high levels of arsenic.  Hmm.  
2. The Blue Laws.  Yes, we still have them.  No shopping in Bergen County on Sunday.  Don't get me started.
3. Same Sex Marriage... not here, not yet.  A same sex couple can get married in Iowa, but not in NJ?  WHAT?   DC,  New York, Massachusetts... come on now NJ, it's our turn.

Am I missing anything? 

Yes, Jon Bon Jovi.  Sorry.  I simply have nothing to say about him.  Except this.  Why does he pretend to be a cowboy? 

All We Are Saying...

Today is September 12, 2011.


Yesterday the world stopped to remember a day that we still cannot get our brains around.  


The very anticipation of the Tenth Anniversary of September 11 felt like a slow drumbeat to me. 


It began in July, when I visited the site which is no longer called Ground Zero.  I was invited in to hear strangers' stories, thanks to a program hosted by Facing History and Ourselves and the World Trade Center Tribute Center.  When I arrived at the World Trade Center area I was struck by the intensity of thousands of people, moving in all different directions. People in business suits, and in shorts. Techies, tourists, teachers, analysts, lawyers, financial people, construction workers, security people, and lots of police trying to move human beings and traffic.  It was a Tuesday.  A beautiful Tuesday... just like... don't think like that.... I looked up.  A new skyscraper was being built.  I had no idea.

On that day in July I learned the power of the personal narrative.  I shared mine, and got tears in my eyes as I heard others tell theirs.  


Yesterday, when I watched the survivors' families reading the names of those lost I could not stop thinking that every one of the nearly three thousand lost souls has a story.  Some of the readers shared tiny windows to  their stories with the world yesterday.  A little boy, nearly ten, had never met his father, and thanked him for loving him.  A woman was still in so much pain she could barely pronounce her husband's name.  A father lost his son and daughter-in-law... a whole generation gone. 

Click here to see photos of the Memorial


People my age do not remember Pearl Harbor, and we are a little too young to have been felt the full impact of the weight of the assassinations of John F. Kennedy or Martin Luther King.  But we are the generation that will forever share this.  I know that everyone goes through terrible life-changing crises ... a near death experience, an illness that leaves them changed or scarred, the loss of someone dear to them... but a catastrophe shared by so many on a such a deep level leaves a profound mark on a generation.  


There is a movement to make September 11 a day of service.  A mitzvah day.  Will that keep the haters from hating? Of course not.  Will that bring back the deceased?  Nothing will, but I guess it will honor their memory a lot more than turning to hate.  Every generation must become more loving, more compassionate, more tolerant than the one before it.  That is the only path to peace.  I know that not everyone feels that way.  But it's the only way.


Give peace a chance.

Sometimes a Great Notion

    I could have named today's blog entry "Good-Night Irene" but so many people have used that... I couldn't bear to, despite the fact that it fits perfectly and that I am a fan of Leadbelly's (Huddie Ledbetter's) music. Check out the original by clicking this link: Goodnight Irene.  It's been covered by lots of great people included that great Beach Man himself, Mr. Brian Wilson... but I digress.

  

   So, after all the preparation, how did our little house in suburbia handle the first hurricane since Pretty Boy Floyd came to town in 1999?  Well, for one thing, we did not live in this house back in 1999, but apparently the house didn't do so well back then.  We were very lucky this time around.  The lake overflowed but did not flow into the pool. 

We did get a bit of water into the basement, mostly seeping in from the garage, but thanks to the hard work of putting everything in plastic and up off the floor, nothing was ruined.  We did not lose electricity, clean drinking water, or, God forbid, the Internet.

While I was standing on my front steps, I did see a tree fall right before my eyes.  Its roots must have been so soaked that they just up and dislodged themselves from the ground and it cracked and fell with a soft thud right in the front yard.  

Now, far be it from me to make any kind of sexist remark, but about 25 seconds after that tree was down, there were at least 4 grown men standing around it salivating and bragging about their chainsaws.  After about three hours of good honest work that had us feeling like a small time, East Coast version of the Stampers, we called it a day... leaving the tree looking more like this...

I say "we" because I did my part, dragging branches to the street, piling wood into nice neat stacks, and of course taking pictures.  By 5:30, muddy, scraped up and hungry, I came in, and besides it was cocktail time. 

After checking in with family and friends...and reading peoples' updates on Facebook and Twitter, I knew we fared well this time around.  

And It Surely Looks Like Rain

It's Saturday afternoon, August 27, 2011.  The Hurricane Irene is on her way.  It's all people are talking, tweeting, facebooking and blogging about.  Even me.


We are all "battening down the hatches" or however you spell that, and preparing for this storm of the half- century.  If it's as big as they predict, there's a good chance that we will probably have a flooded basement and lose power.  I don't live near the ocean, but if you have read my earlier blogs, I do live on a small lake which becomes a mighty, well, lake that overflows when we have these types of weather situations. 


Here's how we've prepared so far: 


1.  Eldest child has escaped to his own apartment in Boston, also in the danger zone, but a rental and not his problem.  He's carefree and probably just making sure his laptop, Droid and flashlights are at the ready.  I hope that I've taught him well and he has a stocked fridge and liquor cabinet.


2.  Middle child has also escaped to visit friend in Ann Arbor... she'll enjoy the hurricane from the comfort of the midwest which is scheduled for no weather at all this weekend.


3.  Youngest son did his obligatory 1/2  hour of helping move stuff around the garage and is hanging with his friends before being stuck in the house with his parents.  I believe he's a little put off by the threat of no electricity and having to play Grateful Dead-opoly with Mom and Dad for two days by candle light.


4.  Garage is cleaned out, garbage cans moved in.  The guy actually did arrive and put in a larger drain and pipes to drain the water out of our driveway so hopefully the flooding we usually get will not be so bad.  We do have a few holes in our roof (see "Phase One") so a leak could be in our future.  We have frozen bags of water and are filling up a few coolers of water, just in  case.  We have a full fridge, and of course, a full liquor cabinet.  Also, the great Mayor Corey Booker (Newark) suggests filling up your cars with gas and getting cash today, so that's done too.


Tom Petty said "The Waiting is the Hardest Part."  I think it's the cleaning.  If I could just sit on the couch with a nice cold drink and wait, I mean really, how hard could that possibly be?  But I need to get back to it and get everything off the basement floor and away from the windows.  


Before I go... I changed the set up of this blog so you can post your comments.  (I think.  Try it and let me know.)

And a prize goes to the person who can name this object I found while cleaning the basement!








Stay safe, and enjoy the ride!

Who'll Stop the Rain

Picture a Nicholas Sparks movie adaptation of one of his novels.  (You can't?  Ask your sister / mother / girlfriend/ gay friend.) 


The four kids (mentioned yesterday) are sitting blithely around the pool.  It's tomorrow, so it's sunny, and someone has cleaned the pool.  They are joking and laughing, and having snack and drinks out there (in plastic cups, of course).  Scene cuts to worried Mom (me) inside on the computer, tracking Hurricane Irene. 

Next scene cuts to very uptight father at work.  He's looking at the bank statement online and wildly clicking things to see if he can make money appear where it needs to be.  Viewers are perplexed.


Cut to May of this summer.  No, make that May of six years ago. Yes, that's how they do it in the movies.


The parents look pretty much the same, but the kids of course are six years younger. We come to take a final look at the house we are about to buy.  After at least 5 years of  taking our tiny house on and off the market, debating whether to stay in our  little town in Northern NJ, comparing the value of a decent sized house with a decent sized yard, we have finally sold our place and settled on what basically amounts to a brick raised ranch.  On what is arguably the nicest piece of property in the entire town.  (Did I use arguably correctly here? Read on and let me know what you think.)  As I have said, the house is really just a shoebox, only one room bigger than the one we've just sold, though each room is a little larger (except the master bathroom, which I may get to in another entry).  But then there's the yard.

And here's the funny thing.  We had pretty much decided we didn't care about the yard, as long as we had enough room in the house for our "stuff."  That lasted right up until we saw the yard.  The first thing you notice is that the front door is facing a huge front yard, but is set up away from the street.  It's hard to describe and also harder to find.  Kids on Halloween have a very tough time (guess you could say it's our trick if they want to get their treat). 

The next thing you see is that there's a beautiful pool, shaped like a chipotle pepper.  Of course, we didn't realize it at first.  I mean, of course we knew there was a pool, and that it had a fun shape, but chipotle peppers didn't come into vogue til recently, and we had really not identified it as any specific type of pepper at the time.




 

Pool with people in it.

Kids canoeing on the lake.



But the piece de resistance is the fact that behind the house and the pool flows a small river, or creek, punctuated by two waterfalls. This little pocket of zen surrenity in the midst of suburbia is what our family has called home for six years.  We love our upper lake, our waterfalls, and lower lake.  We love our barely-used canoe and the fact that there are snapping turtles in the middle lake that sometimes need rescuing.  We love that the upper lake has an abundance of fish in it, and on spring and summer nights you can see them jumping out of the water to catch insects. 

We don't love that this summer, for some reason, this lake has begun to overflow into our pool.  Which brings us to this past May.

Pool with mud in it.

The tranquil lake overflowed into the lovely blue pool TWICE, causing thousands of dollars worth of work, mess, and damage to pool, property and flooding into the house.  The pool had to be drained both times and refilled, leaving it with a stained and cracked bottom.  We had a berm built to staunch the flow of the water, and it has been tested already (and will be tested again with the impending Irene and her winds and water).

And our movie cuts back to today.  And our unknowing, naive but happy young adults are enjoying the pool and hammock... not knowing the worry in their parents' hearts.  Will the berm hold up?  Will the redirected water find a different way into the pool or into the thrice-flooded house?  (Yes, the house.  This could be the sequel, or possibly a prequel to this cinematic thriller.)  And, if you've been playing along, you'll recall that we are still not sure if there is a hole in the roof where the tree fell on the house, as the roofing contractor has failed to show at each of our arranged appointments so far.  And while we are on the subject of the money pit we call our home, we are still waiting for a no-show plumber to dig a new drainage system to allow for the water to flow away from our home and into the lawn and lake.

So, maybe it's really not like a Nicholas Sparks' movie at all.  Perhaps it should be more aptly called "Little House in the Suburbs." 

Stay tuned to find out how we fare during Hurricane Irene...