Come here sister.....Papa's in the swing
He ain't too hip...about that new breed thing
He ain't no drag
Papa's got a brand new bag
Come here mama....and dig this crazy scene
He's not too fancy....but his mind is might clean
He ain't no drag.
Papa's got a brand new bag
"Papa's Got a Brand New Bag" -James Brown
Okay....I'll admit it! I've sucked massive amounts of wind, lately, as a blog author. I'm worse than Stephen King's review of Stephenie Meyer (who I actually like - a whole bunch, Mr. King!). I'm worse than the author who came to old recruiter Dina looking for a job and brought along the "book" he just published (he also did the illustrations, if that gives you any idea. I am saving that book. Not necessarily because I think it's going to be a big hit one day, but you remember how the media hounded that entire town after the unibomber was discovered? Some hot shot news persona might want to interview me if this dude who wrote the book is ever discovered to be a serial killer! I refuse to miss out on my 15 minutes of fame!). Anyway, I'm back (guess who's back?). Tell a friend. Shady's back...
I have to ease into this writing thing now. It is like riding a bicycle, true, but my bicycle right now looks like the one Pee Wee lost in his big adventure. You know, the one where he figured out that the Alamo doesn't have a basement? So...hang onto your girlie bicycle basket! I'm going to blog in list format today.
I had a fantastic weekend. Lots of football, courtesy of the world's greatest 9 year old phenom, Carter Moon. Did mucho, mucho house cleaning, too. Used enough WalMart sacks to possibly - if they could all be adhered to each other - make sails for both the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria. Which leads me to my blog topic. One can do amazing things with a WalMart sack! Yes, I know, I know, we should bring our own bags (& I do), but still, the little plastic sacks are like ants...they creep into your house in the night and multiply! Here's a master list of things I did with a WalMart sack in the last month. Enjoy - feel free to comment on some other grand WalMart sack escapades!
1. Rain bonnet - because I can NEVER find that umbrella & the disco fro must be restrained!
2. Galoshes - because no one wants to step in soggy dog poo when you're walking dogs at work!
3. Great place to hold the cat litter clumps hostage
4. Bathroom trashcan liner (my bathroom trashcans are somehow little hostels for spit cups??)
5. Master holder for other WalMart sacks
6. Car trash bag
7. Posh "door storage" (as in..."honey, look in that WalMart sack hanging on the back of the door")
8. Floor mats for the car
9. Lunch bags, though Chynna REFUSED to be seen with a WalMart sack at school - what's up with that?
10. Toothbrush holders on trips - keeps your toothbrush and your dirty underwear a very safe distance from each other
11. Great for picking up dog poo at the park - your dog only, of course
12. Makes a fantastic glove for mixing up hamburger meat with your hands (I'm a vegan, but I still have to make the occasional hamburger)
13. Great for tossing veggies in batter
14. After a ginormous blow-out in church, once I realized I had absolutely ZERO diapers in the car, I made a diaper out of an old t-shirt and....you guessed it! A WalMart sack!!! That's just pure genius!
15. Rub a bunch of sacks together to REALLY irritate my cousin, Jennifer. She's allergic to them, I think!
and....the one that started this whole idea.
16. Last night, in a desperate attempt to make Kevin a chocolate pie, I disassembled a WalMart sack and used it in lieu of wax paper to roll out the pie crust!
And that, my friends, is probably how fire was made? Talk about necessity being the mother of invention. Thank you for joining me in this blog adventure. You can unbuckle your seatbelts now. Feel free to move about the cabin!
Monday, November 9, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Tumbling After
If you could read my mind love,
what a tale my thoughts could tell.
Just like an old time movie
about a ghost from a wishing well.
In a castle dark or a fortress strong
with chains upon my feet.
You know that ghost is me
and I will never be set free
as long as I'm a ghost that you can see.
If I could read your mind love,
what a tale your thoughts could tell.
Just like a paperback novel,
the kind the drugstore sells.
When you reach the part where the heartaches
come the hero would be me.
Heroes often fail.
And you won't read that book again
because the endings just to hard to take.
"If You Could Read My Mind" - Gordon Lightfoot
Fairy tales are supposed to get happy endings, right? The prince rescues his princess, the dish runs away with the spoon, there's a wedding, woodland creatures rejoice, Jill finally catches up with Jack....and they all live happily ever after...correct? So, I try and pretend like there wasn't a you - you were never here to begin with. I try and erase you and forget you and pretend like there was never a daughter. Never a third child. Never a princess in my castle. Then, maybe I will get a happy ending too? Is that so selfish?
But, then, inevitably, someone mentions your name. And, I remember. I remember the way you smelled the day you were born. I remember your gorgeous green eyes that turned brown. I watched you dance. I measured your height every year. I remember your hair that was black, then turned blond, then turned back. I remember how you loved someone. Who was it? Wait....it was me, wasn't it? Didn't you love me? Didn't we love each other? Weren't you my little princess?
Yes - I do remember you. I do. I really, really, really do. Sleep tight, angel. We will get our happy ending one of these days.
what a tale my thoughts could tell.
Just like an old time movie
about a ghost from a wishing well.
In a castle dark or a fortress strong
with chains upon my feet.
You know that ghost is me
and I will never be set free
as long as I'm a ghost that you can see.
If I could read your mind love,
what a tale your thoughts could tell.
Just like a paperback novel,
the kind the drugstore sells.
When you reach the part where the heartaches
come the hero would be me.
Heroes often fail.
And you won't read that book again
because the endings just to hard to take.
"If You Could Read My Mind" - Gordon Lightfoot
Fairy tales are supposed to get happy endings, right? The prince rescues his princess, the dish runs away with the spoon, there's a wedding, woodland creatures rejoice, Jill finally catches up with Jack....and they all live happily ever after...correct? So, I try and pretend like there wasn't a you - you were never here to begin with. I try and erase you and forget you and pretend like there was never a daughter. Never a third child. Never a princess in my castle. Then, maybe I will get a happy ending too? Is that so selfish?
But, then, inevitably, someone mentions your name. And, I remember. I remember the way you smelled the day you were born. I remember your gorgeous green eyes that turned brown. I watched you dance. I measured your height every year. I remember your hair that was black, then turned blond, then turned back. I remember how you loved someone. Who was it? Wait....it was me, wasn't it? Didn't you love me? Didn't we love each other? Weren't you my little princess?
Yes - I do remember you. I do. I really, really, really do. Sleep tight, angel. We will get our happy ending one of these days.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Any night I can quote Shakespeare is a good night...
Hey, did you happen to see the most beautiful girl in the world?
And if you did, was she crying, crying?
Hey, if you happen to see the most beautiful girl that walked out on me
Tell her, "I'm sorry."
Tell her, "I need my baby."
Oh.... Won't you tell her that I love her?
I woke up this morning and realized what I had done
I stood alone in the cold gray dawn
I knew I'd lost my morning sun
I lost my head and I said some things
Now come the heartaches that morning brings
I know I'm wrong and I couldn't see
I let my world slip away from me
"The Most Beautiful Girl in the World" - Charlie Rich
Oh, Chynna... How do I miss thee? I cannot even count the ways. Have you ever wondered what it would feel like to storm the beach at Normandy, only to be riveted by bullets, with limbs and entrails flying every-which-a-away? Maybe you've wondered how a body responds to a plane crash: oxygen masks dangling from the suddenly irrelevant reading light thingy, stomach up in your nostrils, plummeting into a sub-stratosphere....yeah,I think it's a little like that, this losing a child deal. Humans are mysterious,intense, complicated & yet single-celled-simple all at the same time beings, aren't we? We don't know. We just don't know. Until we know.
How do I miss you, Chinks? Well, for starters....wait. Disclaimer time! For all you Moms out there. You know who you are. I was you. Pretty girl. Handsome boy. Elizabethan tragedy encroaching. Mustn't let them too close to each other. Mustn't allow them any unsupervised courtin' time. Well, get this. Turns out, that's something I miss. I miss my daughter and her first love. I miss her talking about him incessantly. I miss her wishing she could spend every waking moment with him. I miss her begging for that extra 15 minutes on Sunday night at his parent's house so she could talk more with his uber-awesome mom. Yes, I miss taking a back seat to someone else in my daughter's life. I see so clearly now. It's crystal clear, baby girl. All those times you told me that he was the one? I believe you now. I'm so sorry I doubted you. He's off at college now. He has a life to carve. He has obligations. He has intentions. He has horrible-sweet memories of you. I am so glad that I'm not where he is, baby. Please, please watch over him. I don't know how he stands it, this aftermath of ours.
So, back to the ways that I miss you....I digress, as I always do. But, here it is. I miss you these ways: I miss your dimple (it was an AWESOME dimple). I miss your mole - right above your lip. I miss your smell - it was like cotton candy and wilted roses. I miss your chubby toes that looked like tiny little sausages. I miss your gorgeous eyes that started out looking just like your father's and winded up looking just like mine. I miss your fiery temper. I miss your strong will. I miss your faith. I miss your convictions, so much stronger than mine. I miss the fact that you never once in your entire life admitted that you were wrong. I miss shopping with you on Saturday afternoons. I miss you wearing all my clothes to church on Sunday morning. I miss your messy room. I miss your super-clean car (at least you FINALLY kept something organized!). I miss your good grades. I miss your brilliant mind. I miss the things you did. I miss the things you didn't quite get to do. I miss your arguments with your father, the ones that always sent you running to me. I miss your arguments with me, the ones that always sent you running into my arms exactly three hours later. I miss our laughs. I miss our cries. I miss us. I miss you. I miss the me that I used to be...when I had you.
I spend all of my time telling people that I'm OK. I can do this. I can sleep. I can eat. I can go back to work. I can do the things that I need to do to appear normal. I can hold it together. I can, too. But, then, some days you walk through life and you see people going through the motions and you realize...hey! My daughter did this one day, and then the next day she disappeared. She never went back to Wal-Mart. She never went back to church. Or to school. Or home. Or anywhere. It just makes you think, doesn't it? She was here! She was right here. And, now she's nowhere...but she's still my daughter. And, isn't a rose by any other name just as sweet? I think so, especially the wilted ones.
And if you did, was she crying, crying?
Hey, if you happen to see the most beautiful girl that walked out on me
Tell her, "I'm sorry."
Tell her, "I need my baby."
Oh.... Won't you tell her that I love her?
I woke up this morning and realized what I had done
I stood alone in the cold gray dawn
I knew I'd lost my morning sun
I lost my head and I said some things
Now come the heartaches that morning brings
I know I'm wrong and I couldn't see
I let my world slip away from me
"The Most Beautiful Girl in the World" - Charlie Rich
Oh, Chynna... How do I miss thee? I cannot even count the ways. Have you ever wondered what it would feel like to storm the beach at Normandy, only to be riveted by bullets, with limbs and entrails flying every-which-a-away? Maybe you've wondered how a body responds to a plane crash: oxygen masks dangling from the suddenly irrelevant reading light thingy, stomach up in your nostrils, plummeting into a sub-stratosphere....yeah,I think it's a little like that, this losing a child deal. Humans are mysterious,intense, complicated & yet single-celled-simple all at the same time beings, aren't we? We don't know. We just don't know. Until we know.
How do I miss you, Chinks? Well, for starters....wait. Disclaimer time! For all you Moms out there. You know who you are. I was you. Pretty girl. Handsome boy. Elizabethan tragedy encroaching. Mustn't let them too close to each other. Mustn't allow them any unsupervised courtin' time. Well, get this. Turns out, that's something I miss. I miss my daughter and her first love. I miss her talking about him incessantly. I miss her wishing she could spend every waking moment with him. I miss her begging for that extra 15 minutes on Sunday night at his parent's house so she could talk more with his uber-awesome mom. Yes, I miss taking a back seat to someone else in my daughter's life. I see so clearly now. It's crystal clear, baby girl. All those times you told me that he was the one? I believe you now. I'm so sorry I doubted you. He's off at college now. He has a life to carve. He has obligations. He has intentions. He has horrible-sweet memories of you. I am so glad that I'm not where he is, baby. Please, please watch over him. I don't know how he stands it, this aftermath of ours.
So, back to the ways that I miss you....I digress, as I always do. But, here it is. I miss you these ways: I miss your dimple (it was an AWESOME dimple). I miss your mole - right above your lip. I miss your smell - it was like cotton candy and wilted roses. I miss your chubby toes that looked like tiny little sausages. I miss your gorgeous eyes that started out looking just like your father's and winded up looking just like mine. I miss your fiery temper. I miss your strong will. I miss your faith. I miss your convictions, so much stronger than mine. I miss the fact that you never once in your entire life admitted that you were wrong. I miss shopping with you on Saturday afternoons. I miss you wearing all my clothes to church on Sunday morning. I miss your messy room. I miss your super-clean car (at least you FINALLY kept something organized!). I miss your good grades. I miss your brilliant mind. I miss the things you did. I miss the things you didn't quite get to do. I miss your arguments with your father, the ones that always sent you running to me. I miss your arguments with me, the ones that always sent you running into my arms exactly three hours later. I miss our laughs. I miss our cries. I miss us. I miss you. I miss the me that I used to be...when I had you.
I spend all of my time telling people that I'm OK. I can do this. I can sleep. I can eat. I can go back to work. I can do the things that I need to do to appear normal. I can hold it together. I can, too. But, then, some days you walk through life and you see people going through the motions and you realize...hey! My daughter did this one day, and then the next day she disappeared. She never went back to Wal-Mart. She never went back to church. Or to school. Or home. Or anywhere. It just makes you think, doesn't it? She was here! She was right here. And, now she's nowhere...but she's still my daughter. And, isn't a rose by any other name just as sweet? I think so, especially the wilted ones.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Dina Moon - Human Glow Stick
Wake up and see the places
It's all you got and all you take
You don't have to fall to pieces
You have to prove it
Make up your pretty face it's a lovely trip - a lovely place
You got one life here to make it
For the movies
Do you feel singled out
Do you feel less than all the rest
You know it's interchangeable
That spotlight and the pain
I want to get on top of this
I want to build that trust again
And if I give it all I got I'm sure
You'd do the same
"For the Movies" - Buckcherry
Good early mornin' people! Yep, it's just shy of 6 am on this lovely Tuesday - course, I've been awake since 3:30 am. Yep, it was me who had the bright idea to fall asleep at 9:45 last night, barely 15 minutes into "The Way We Were", only to grind my teeth ALL NIGHT LONG (I'm surprised I don't have those little pointy pygmy teeth)& awaken with a nasty headache....but why, you ask - what am I worried about? Well, if I didn't know better, I'd think it might be time for another.....BOOBDATE!
Extra, extra, read all about it! Woman with uncooperative boob takes experimental meds! Now she's growing horns, or dew claws, or several other boobs - just kidding. Here's the good news - drain removed (whelrkj#$:O*$%&&^#O!!!!!!!!!!...and that's a REALLY, REALLY BAD WORD), no more gigantic boob pimples that cause leaky fluid (thus far, at least), AND now sporting the super sensual sports bra! That's not even a joke, either. Every time I had to put on that surgical bra I craved hair nets and chanted "gravy on those potatoes"? I feel GREAT - mostly. I've even managed to start cleaning my house again - sort of. Have I hopped on the hot tamale train to super boobdom??? I think it's a bit premature to assume everything is hunky dory just yet, especially when you hear the other news.
Bad girl, right boob! Very, very bad girl! Apparently, she does not enjoy being all hot and supple. No...she would prefer to run around all knotty and lumpy, so we grow excess scar tissue at a rate that slightly exceeds the speed of light (think of that meteor grass that grew all over Steven King in "Creepshow"). Scar tissue pushes on implant, fluids collect, trouble ensues. So, what is a girl to do? Usher in the age of medicine....how about brand new medicine that just came onto the market? How about medicine that is so new that you can't even Google it (yes, I Googled)? Yikes, Doc! Are you sure about this??? Apparently yes, since I'm picking up said experimental meds this morning for a two month trial run.
Fast forward 2 weeks....will I glow in the dark? Turn into a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle? Have super-powers? Attract hot vampires? Guess we'll have to wait and see. In the meantime, we'll keep on keepin' on. Kevin is doing a GREAT job with the other medical prescription - the boob massage. He doesn't seem to mind at all!
It's all you got and all you take
You don't have to fall to pieces
You have to prove it
Make up your pretty face it's a lovely trip - a lovely place
You got one life here to make it
For the movies
Do you feel singled out
Do you feel less than all the rest
You know it's interchangeable
That spotlight and the pain
I want to get on top of this
I want to build that trust again
And if I give it all I got I'm sure
You'd do the same
"For the Movies" - Buckcherry
Good early mornin' people! Yep, it's just shy of 6 am on this lovely Tuesday - course, I've been awake since 3:30 am. Yep, it was me who had the bright idea to fall asleep at 9:45 last night, barely 15 minutes into "The Way We Were", only to grind my teeth ALL NIGHT LONG (I'm surprised I don't have those little pointy pygmy teeth)& awaken with a nasty headache....but why, you ask - what am I worried about? Well, if I didn't know better, I'd think it might be time for another.....BOOBDATE!
Extra, extra, read all about it! Woman with uncooperative boob takes experimental meds! Now she's growing horns, or dew claws, or several other boobs - just kidding. Here's the good news - drain removed (whelrkj#$:O*$%&&^#O!!!!!!!!!!...and that's a REALLY, REALLY BAD WORD), no more gigantic boob pimples that cause leaky fluid (thus far, at least), AND now sporting the super sensual sports bra! That's not even a joke, either. Every time I had to put on that surgical bra I craved hair nets and chanted "gravy on those potatoes"? I feel GREAT - mostly. I've even managed to start cleaning my house again - sort of. Have I hopped on the hot tamale train to super boobdom??? I think it's a bit premature to assume everything is hunky dory just yet, especially when you hear the other news.
Bad girl, right boob! Very, very bad girl! Apparently, she does not enjoy being all hot and supple. No...she would prefer to run around all knotty and lumpy, so we grow excess scar tissue at a rate that slightly exceeds the speed of light (think of that meteor grass that grew all over Steven King in "Creepshow"). Scar tissue pushes on implant, fluids collect, trouble ensues. So, what is a girl to do? Usher in the age of medicine....how about brand new medicine that just came onto the market? How about medicine that is so new that you can't even Google it (yes, I Googled)? Yikes, Doc! Are you sure about this??? Apparently yes, since I'm picking up said experimental meds this morning for a two month trial run.
Fast forward 2 weeks....will I glow in the dark? Turn into a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle? Have super-powers? Attract hot vampires? Guess we'll have to wait and see. In the meantime, we'll keep on keepin' on. Kevin is doing a GREAT job with the other medical prescription - the boob massage. He doesn't seem to mind at all!
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Anything but the Argentinian Tango, please
Oh very young, what will you leave us this time
There'll never be a better chance to change your mind
And if you want this world to see a better day
Will you carry the words of love with you
Will you ride the great white bird into heaven
And though you want to last forever
You know you never will
You know you never will
And the goodbye makes the journey harder still.
"Oh Very Young" - Cat Stevens
There are days, and then there are days. And then, my friends, there are days. I wonder, do hearts break because the mind says it must be so - or does the heart break of it's own accord, & the mind comes tumbling after... like a nursery rhyme? I guess it doesn't really matter. The brain and the heart go hand in hand. I think they take turns leading like two little girls trying to dance together. Maybe my brain accidentally stepped on my heart's toes?
I woke up today and it was raining. I was so happy! The gift of time is a wonderful thing - no rushing, no mayhem, no foolishness - just time today. Time for me. Time for some good nesting. Time for coffee & deep breaths. Time for making biscuits from scratch, drizzled with real butter and honey. Time to think. It's that thinking part that gets me every time.
Do you lie? Ever? Even to yourself? I do. I tell myself that I don't miss her all that much. I tell myself that she's better off where she is - without me. I busy myself with this day and the next one, and the next - until weeks, until months, until years have flown by insignificantly. I tell myself that the world is still an important place, without her. And, then I remember. It's time to think about today. It's time to think about her. The world is not a better place without her. I think, now, for once, that this is not ok. Or fair. Or anything. And, I realize, today is a 12th. Any day that's a 12th is a bad day - it's her day. Her 17th month day. I think she wants me to miss her today - and I do. Brain - it's time for you to lead us off this 12th day dance floor, please. Anyway, I think my heart has two left feet.
There'll never be a better chance to change your mind
And if you want this world to see a better day
Will you carry the words of love with you
Will you ride the great white bird into heaven
And though you want to last forever
You know you never will
You know you never will
And the goodbye makes the journey harder still.
"Oh Very Young" - Cat Stevens
There are days, and then there are days. And then, my friends, there are days. I wonder, do hearts break because the mind says it must be so - or does the heart break of it's own accord, & the mind comes tumbling after... like a nursery rhyme? I guess it doesn't really matter. The brain and the heart go hand in hand. I think they take turns leading like two little girls trying to dance together. Maybe my brain accidentally stepped on my heart's toes?
I woke up today and it was raining. I was so happy! The gift of time is a wonderful thing - no rushing, no mayhem, no foolishness - just time today. Time for me. Time for some good nesting. Time for coffee & deep breaths. Time for making biscuits from scratch, drizzled with real butter and honey. Time to think. It's that thinking part that gets me every time.
Do you lie? Ever? Even to yourself? I do. I tell myself that I don't miss her all that much. I tell myself that she's better off where she is - without me. I busy myself with this day and the next one, and the next - until weeks, until months, until years have flown by insignificantly. I tell myself that the world is still an important place, without her. And, then I remember. It's time to think about today. It's time to think about her. The world is not a better place without her. I think, now, for once, that this is not ok. Or fair. Or anything. And, I realize, today is a 12th. Any day that's a 12th is a bad day - it's her day. Her 17th month day. I think she wants me to miss her today - and I do. Brain - it's time for you to lead us off this 12th day dance floor, please. Anyway, I think my heart has two left feet.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Well, I did have lift off, at least?
I went to a garden party to reminisce with my old friends
A chance to share old memories and play our songs again
When I got to the garden party, they all knew my name
No one recognized me, I didn't look the same
But it's all right now, I learned my lesson well.
You see, ya can't please everyone, so ya got to please yourself
"Garden Party" - words & music by Ricky Nelson
You have been cordially invited! Consider this your official "save the date". The honor of your presence has been requested at this magnificent event. RSVP is not even necessary! Wanna come to my pity party today? We can have the oreo/cream cheese dessert my bff dropped off last night, unless I manage to eat it all before you get here. I have milk - there's even some lemonade mix in the pantry if you're feeling adventurous. If not, don't worry. I'm good at commiserating alone...usually.
I don't do this often, but I'm waaaay overdue for a no holds barred, lock the door, not gonna take a bath today, don't care if my lips are chapped, sleepy boogers in both eyes, full on woe is me extravaganza. Do you ever feel like your life just stinks sometimes? Do you ever get the hunch that the stars are stacked against you? Do you ever wonder what the rush is - why are you even trying anymore? I'm there, folks! Of course, I got there in unique Dina fashion. Why, just thinking back....(cue the dreamy music and wavy "under the water" special effects, like when Gilligan used to morph into his dreams about headhunters and how he was crushing on Ginger).....think back.....back....back....(30 minutes ago, at least!)
I woke up. Tummy rumbles ensued. Tried to roll over - egad! I'm being attacked by some sort of transparent, mutant, skinny, 5 foot long snake with a HUGE clear head! Oh - yeah, forgot - I have that lovely drain sticking out of my side. Somehow I managed to roll onto the tubing and I'm accidentally surgically removing most of it all by myself! Let's sit up, shall we? Maybe not - I feel like I've been shanked during the night. Not to worry, a pain pill will remedy that - just give me about 15 minutes and I'll be hip-hop dancing across the bedroom floor. After I eat, that is! All this Tamoxifen, Keflex, & Vicodin has turned my gastrointestinal organs into a science experiment. I'm either growing an ulcer, or I may have managed to artificially inseminate myself with Bella & Edward's next baby. So...eat I will do, then I can self-medicate....then I can hip-hop dance... Ain't nothin' better than a good game plan.
Here we go! Upright - deep cleansing breaths. Don't ever let anyone tell you that getting shanked doesn't hurt! Feet over the side, and HEAVE HO! Houston, we have no problems! I'm standing up! Now, need pajama pants...hmmm. There they are, in the floor. Can't bend over, or else the plastic snake will attack my feet....I know! I'll use my toes to pick up my pants and ease my legs into them one piggie at a time. That's just the sort of mentality that allowed me to graduate 5th in my class, ya'll! Fast forward - 20 minutes later I finally have pants on and have taken enough 2 " steps to get me to the stair case. Now...turn to the side, face the stair wall, and step down, one foot at a time, balancing both feet on one step before moving on. Suddenly I feel like Liza Minelli trying to dance to "New York, New York" after hip replacement surgery #10. Quick, someone toss me a top hat! Fast foward 2 weeks....I'm finally downstairs! Yea! Now....it's time to negotiate (scary music...dum dum DUMMMMMMMMMM).....the dreaded baby gate. Can't go around it. Can't go under it. Don't have enough upper body strength to disengage it.....Someone cover me. I'm goin' over.
I'm short. I have about a 27" inseam and I'm so not even joking. In order to scale this baby gate (it's for the dogs, ya'll - the little pissers are not allowed upstairs), I have to lift one of my legs perpendicular to my waist, extend said leg over the top of the gate, and straddle it somehow. Is there a gun in your pocket, or are you just my baby gate? All this is going on while I am trying to convince my right arm NOT to move one single centimeter away from my body lest the skin in my side will split open and my new boob will wind up in my kitchen, if not across the street in my neighbor's driveway. After several aborted attempts, a few guttural screams, and 15 minutes non-stop of the "Scream" face. I finally wind up on the other side of the gate! I feel like when Dorothy and the gang FINALLY made it to Emerald City and smooth-talked their way past the gate keeper! Woo hoo! Partay time! It is at this time that I fall victim to my own over-confidence. I decide that, due to my superior physical dexterity, I deserve......dessert for breakfast. Darn the arrogance!
Fast forward 20 more minutes. I'm back at the gate. I have milk. I have a spoon. I have a HUGE bowl of cream cheese oreo dessert. I am woman. Here me roar. Well, sort of mew like a kitten, at least. Over confidence is the bane of my existence. It'll get you every time. Especially when you're trying to hip-hop dance with a clear, plastic snake after you've been shanked. I was doing so well. I coulda been a contender! Then, I got cocky. In one horrific moment, my foot slipped, I dropped my milk, my dessert/breakfast landed gooey chocolate side down on the carpeted half of the stair landing, the snake bit me in the side - HARD, and I'm left with bile in the back of my throat - straddling a baby gate with tears in my eyes - holding a spoon. Quick, it's time for a recitation of the Serenity Prayer! This is definitely something I can't change - I just need the wisdom to know the difference.
I won't even go into the part where I pitifully had to try and clean up the chocolate mess using only my left hand. Nor will I talk about how I went to put the dirty towel in the laundry room and found that an attack had been launched at me from the Planet of the Ants. I won't even burden you with the gory details of this dried, scaly patch on my cheek - I refuse to look in the mirror, but I think it's either snot or chocolate - or perhaps a combination of the two. I would, however, like to thank you for coming to my party. You've been a gracious guest. Let me know if you ever need a letter of recommendation. Until next time.....au revoir!
A chance to share old memories and play our songs again
When I got to the garden party, they all knew my name
No one recognized me, I didn't look the same
But it's all right now, I learned my lesson well.
You see, ya can't please everyone, so ya got to please yourself
"Garden Party" - words & music by Ricky Nelson
You have been cordially invited! Consider this your official "save the date". The honor of your presence has been requested at this magnificent event. RSVP is not even necessary! Wanna come to my pity party today? We can have the oreo/cream cheese dessert my bff dropped off last night, unless I manage to eat it all before you get here. I have milk - there's even some lemonade mix in the pantry if you're feeling adventurous. If not, don't worry. I'm good at commiserating alone...usually.
I don't do this often, but I'm waaaay overdue for a no holds barred, lock the door, not gonna take a bath today, don't care if my lips are chapped, sleepy boogers in both eyes, full on woe is me extravaganza. Do you ever feel like your life just stinks sometimes? Do you ever get the hunch that the stars are stacked against you? Do you ever wonder what the rush is - why are you even trying anymore? I'm there, folks! Of course, I got there in unique Dina fashion. Why, just thinking back....(cue the dreamy music and wavy "under the water" special effects, like when Gilligan used to morph into his dreams about headhunters and how he was crushing on Ginger).....think back.....back....back....(30 minutes ago, at least!)
I woke up. Tummy rumbles ensued. Tried to roll over - egad! I'm being attacked by some sort of transparent, mutant, skinny, 5 foot long snake with a HUGE clear head! Oh - yeah, forgot - I have that lovely drain sticking out of my side. Somehow I managed to roll onto the tubing and I'm accidentally surgically removing most of it all by myself! Let's sit up, shall we? Maybe not - I feel like I've been shanked during the night. Not to worry, a pain pill will remedy that - just give me about 15 minutes and I'll be hip-hop dancing across the bedroom floor. After I eat, that is! All this Tamoxifen, Keflex, & Vicodin has turned my gastrointestinal organs into a science experiment. I'm either growing an ulcer, or I may have managed to artificially inseminate myself with Bella & Edward's next baby. So...eat I will do, then I can self-medicate....then I can hip-hop dance... Ain't nothin' better than a good game plan.
Here we go! Upright - deep cleansing breaths. Don't ever let anyone tell you that getting shanked doesn't hurt! Feet over the side, and HEAVE HO! Houston, we have no problems! I'm standing up! Now, need pajama pants...hmmm. There they are, in the floor. Can't bend over, or else the plastic snake will attack my feet....I know! I'll use my toes to pick up my pants and ease my legs into them one piggie at a time. That's just the sort of mentality that allowed me to graduate 5th in my class, ya'll! Fast forward - 20 minutes later I finally have pants on and have taken enough 2 " steps to get me to the stair case. Now...turn to the side, face the stair wall, and step down, one foot at a time, balancing both feet on one step before moving on. Suddenly I feel like Liza Minelli trying to dance to "New York, New York" after hip replacement surgery #10. Quick, someone toss me a top hat! Fast foward 2 weeks....I'm finally downstairs! Yea! Now....it's time to negotiate (scary music...dum dum DUMMMMMMMMMM).....the dreaded baby gate. Can't go around it. Can't go under it. Don't have enough upper body strength to disengage it.....Someone cover me. I'm goin' over.
I'm short. I have about a 27" inseam and I'm so not even joking. In order to scale this baby gate (it's for the dogs, ya'll - the little pissers are not allowed upstairs), I have to lift one of my legs perpendicular to my waist, extend said leg over the top of the gate, and straddle it somehow. Is there a gun in your pocket, or are you just my baby gate? All this is going on while I am trying to convince my right arm NOT to move one single centimeter away from my body lest the skin in my side will split open and my new boob will wind up in my kitchen, if not across the street in my neighbor's driveway. After several aborted attempts, a few guttural screams, and 15 minutes non-stop of the "Scream" face. I finally wind up on the other side of the gate! I feel like when Dorothy and the gang FINALLY made it to Emerald City and smooth-talked their way past the gate keeper! Woo hoo! Partay time! It is at this time that I fall victim to my own over-confidence. I decide that, due to my superior physical dexterity, I deserve......dessert for breakfast. Darn the arrogance!
Fast forward 20 more minutes. I'm back at the gate. I have milk. I have a spoon. I have a HUGE bowl of cream cheese oreo dessert. I am woman. Here me roar. Well, sort of mew like a kitten, at least. Over confidence is the bane of my existence. It'll get you every time. Especially when you're trying to hip-hop dance with a clear, plastic snake after you've been shanked. I was doing so well. I coulda been a contender! Then, I got cocky. In one horrific moment, my foot slipped, I dropped my milk, my dessert/breakfast landed gooey chocolate side down on the carpeted half of the stair landing, the snake bit me in the side - HARD, and I'm left with bile in the back of my throat - straddling a baby gate with tears in my eyes - holding a spoon. Quick, it's time for a recitation of the Serenity Prayer! This is definitely something I can't change - I just need the wisdom to know the difference.
I won't even go into the part where I pitifully had to try and clean up the chocolate mess using only my left hand. Nor will I talk about how I went to put the dirty towel in the laundry room and found that an attack had been launched at me from the Planet of the Ants. I won't even burden you with the gory details of this dried, scaly patch on my cheek - I refuse to look in the mirror, but I think it's either snot or chocolate - or perhaps a combination of the two. I would, however, like to thank you for coming to my party. You've been a gracious guest. Let me know if you ever need a letter of recommendation. Until next time.....au revoir!
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Hey, Doc, Buy Me a Drink Before You Do That!
Brother bought a coconut, he bought it for a dime
His sister had another one, she paid it for a lime.
She put the lime in the coconut, she drank them both up
She put the lime in the coconut, she drank them both up
She put the lime in the coconut, she drank them both up
She put the lime in the coconut, she called the doctor, woke him up,
And said, "Doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take,
I say, Doctor, to relieve this belly ache?
I say, Doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take,
I say, Doctor, to relieve this belly ache?"
"Now let me get this straight ",
Put the lime in the coconut, you drank them both up
Put the lime in the coconut, you drank them both up
Put the lime in the coconut, you drank them both up
Put the lime in the coconut, you called your doctor, woke him up,
And say, 'Doctor, ain't there nothing I can take,
I say, Doctor, to relieve this belly ache?
I say, Doctor, doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take,
I say, Doctor, dooooctor, to relieve this belly ache?'
Put the lime in the coconut, drink them both together,
Put the lime in the coconut, then you feel better,
Put the lime in the coconut, drink them both up,
Put the lime in the coconut, and call me in the morning
"Coconut" - Harry Nillson
Boobdate! I know you've all been on pins and needles lately, wanting to see how things were going. Well, here's the deal: it's been worse, but I sure hope it gets better! Here's the Reader's Digest version:
Went to the Doctor. I said, "Doctor, help me." He said, "Here, let me lance your boob open and re-stitch it." Apparently (though this is purely hearsay as I was running a high fever and don't recall this moment), I said, "Sure, that sounds great!" At this time, he lanced, pushed, drained, stitched, gauzed, and taped - and proclaimed me cured, at least until such a time when he could remove the stitches.
10 days later....
Went back to the Doctor. I said,"Doctor, help me." He said, "Yikes - you again with the boob." He looks. He says, "I see you're still all about collecting the fluid in the boob. What is your obsession with collecting fluid?" I said, "Dude, tell me about it. I used to collect old buttons and music boxes. Now it's boob fluid. I need an intervention." He said, "Here, let me do another surgery on the boob. I have THE BEST idea! We'll put in a new implant and we'll scrape all around the old incision. Then...and this is the best part....we'll send you home with a drain hanging out of the side of your body so that you can squirt out the blood and fluids and measure them at various points during the day." Apparently (again, I was ravaged by pain and don't actually recall vocalizing these words), I said, "Sure, that sounds great!"
2 days later...
I will never feel the same about the word "scrape". It is a vile, evil word! No matter what I wear, it looks like I have a gigantic worm living under my right arm. I have just now managed to negotiate the stairs without extreme nausea, dark spots in front of my eyes, and a funny buzzing sound in my head. I have eaten one bowl of soup, 2 jello cups, and a bowl of ice cream in the last 4 days. I think my shoulder is dislocated and I'm seriously wondering if perhaps my mother is right - I guess, on occasion, they do drop people on the floor of the OR when they're trying to move them back into the bed...hmmm?
Anywho, here's to hoping, right? Here's to hoping that I end up with pretty boobies once and for all. Here's to hoping that Kevin wasn't really that upset after losing his appetite for breakfast today when it took me 1 1/2 hours to get ready! (I was hurrying! It's tough when you can only take 3 inch steps!) Here's to hoping that all of this medicine will kick in by Tuesday so I can go back to work. Here's to hoping that this chapter of my life (I am tentatively titling it "I Drove My Chevy to the Levy, but My Daughter was Gone and I Had Cancer")can be officially closed. Here's to hoping that I will have the strength and the willingness to move on. In the face of adversity. In the face of good things. In the face of bad things. Just, in the face, I guess.
His sister had another one, she paid it for a lime.
She put the lime in the coconut, she drank them both up
She put the lime in the coconut, she drank them both up
She put the lime in the coconut, she drank them both up
She put the lime in the coconut, she called the doctor, woke him up,
And said, "Doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take,
I say, Doctor, to relieve this belly ache?
I say, Doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take,
I say, Doctor, to relieve this belly ache?"
"Now let me get this straight ",
Put the lime in the coconut, you drank them both up
Put the lime in the coconut, you drank them both up
Put the lime in the coconut, you drank them both up
Put the lime in the coconut, you called your doctor, woke him up,
And say, 'Doctor, ain't there nothing I can take,
I say, Doctor, to relieve this belly ache?
I say, Doctor, doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take,
I say, Doctor, dooooctor, to relieve this belly ache?'
Put the lime in the coconut, drink them both together,
Put the lime in the coconut, then you feel better,
Put the lime in the coconut, drink them both up,
Put the lime in the coconut, and call me in the morning
"Coconut" - Harry Nillson
Boobdate! I know you've all been on pins and needles lately, wanting to see how things were going. Well, here's the deal: it's been worse, but I sure hope it gets better! Here's the Reader's Digest version:
Went to the Doctor. I said, "Doctor, help me." He said, "Here, let me lance your boob open and re-stitch it." Apparently (though this is purely hearsay as I was running a high fever and don't recall this moment), I said, "Sure, that sounds great!" At this time, he lanced, pushed, drained, stitched, gauzed, and taped - and proclaimed me cured, at least until such a time when he could remove the stitches.
10 days later....
Went back to the Doctor. I said,"Doctor, help me." He said, "Yikes - you again with the boob." He looks. He says, "I see you're still all about collecting the fluid in the boob. What is your obsession with collecting fluid?" I said, "Dude, tell me about it. I used to collect old buttons and music boxes. Now it's boob fluid. I need an intervention." He said, "Here, let me do another surgery on the boob. I have THE BEST idea! We'll put in a new implant and we'll scrape all around the old incision. Then...and this is the best part....we'll send you home with a drain hanging out of the side of your body so that you can squirt out the blood and fluids and measure them at various points during the day." Apparently (again, I was ravaged by pain and don't actually recall vocalizing these words), I said, "Sure, that sounds great!"
2 days later...
I will never feel the same about the word "scrape". It is a vile, evil word! No matter what I wear, it looks like I have a gigantic worm living under my right arm. I have just now managed to negotiate the stairs without extreme nausea, dark spots in front of my eyes, and a funny buzzing sound in my head. I have eaten one bowl of soup, 2 jello cups, and a bowl of ice cream in the last 4 days. I think my shoulder is dislocated and I'm seriously wondering if perhaps my mother is right - I guess, on occasion, they do drop people on the floor of the OR when they're trying to move them back into the bed...hmmm?
Anywho, here's to hoping, right? Here's to hoping that I end up with pretty boobies once and for all. Here's to hoping that Kevin wasn't really that upset after losing his appetite for breakfast today when it took me 1 1/2 hours to get ready! (I was hurrying! It's tough when you can only take 3 inch steps!) Here's to hoping that all of this medicine will kick in by Tuesday so I can go back to work. Here's to hoping that this chapter of my life (I am tentatively titling it "I Drove My Chevy to the Levy, but My Daughter was Gone and I Had Cancer")can be officially closed. Here's to hoping that I will have the strength and the willingness to move on. In the face of adversity. In the face of good things. In the face of bad things. Just, in the face, I guess.
Thinking Inconsequential Thoughts
I occupy my mind with the most pointless drivel,
With things that are at best trivial,
The things that no one else knows
Except we who learned about quiet and evil...
So, we are haunted in the night.
You are so inconsequential,
But your memories rain torrential,
And, as they blow across my mind
Once again you become essential...
So, I am haunted on this night.
See, I do not need you anymore
Need you not do I now, nor ever did before.
Inconsequential, or don't you remember?
Except for when I breathe, or cry, and in the hours before the morn...
For I was haunted on that night, too.
With things that are at best trivial,
The things that no one else knows
Except we who learned about quiet and evil...
So, we are haunted in the night.
You are so inconsequential,
But your memories rain torrential,
And, as they blow across my mind
Once again you become essential...
So, I am haunted on this night.
See, I do not need you anymore
Need you not do I now, nor ever did before.
Inconsequential, or don't you remember?
Except for when I breathe, or cry, and in the hours before the morn...
For I was haunted on that night, too.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
The Doodle That Can't Be Undid
I hurt myself today
To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real
The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting
Try to kill it all away
But I remember everything
What have I become
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end
And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt
I wear this crown of thorns
Upon my liar's chair
Full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair
Beneath the stains of time
The feelings disappear
You are someone else
I am still right here
What have I become
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end
And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt
If I could start again
A million miles away
I will keep myself
I would find a way
"Hurt" - Johnny Cash
Dear God, what has become of me???? I started a new job, that's what! I cannot blog about it. I read Dooce's blog and blogging about work was the ruination of her, so I learned her lesson. Still, going back to work is not without it's challenges, esp after you've been sitting around on your cancerous, grieving, non-working a-hole for over a year. But, that will have to wait, partially because I stumbled upon the WORLD'S GREATEST JOB & THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOSSES (sorry Ron - you are still world's greatest boss 1B & only because you're so darn far away!!!!!!)....and partially because I owe you all an update.
I've never blogged about the nitty gritty cancer stuff. I can't really do that now, since I don't have "the cancer" anymore. Not that I know of, anyway. I think it's hilarious when people ask me if I'm "cancer free".....my normal response? "I don't know, are you?" C'mon! I didn't know I had cancer before. I don't think I still have it, but then again, how does one know for sure? It's not like I can Juno my way down to Food Fast with a gallon of Sunny D and ask Rain for a EPT Home Cancer Test. Anyway, I digress. I am having some complications. Negligible? Life threatening? Don't know yet. Probably somewhere in the middle. Inquiring minds wanna know, you say? OK...but don't say I didn't warn you. I have had a little issue for 48 hours. At times I think it's nothing at all. Then, I get an overwhelming urge to "Google" necrosis of the boobie. Then, I go vomit. My third eye (blind) tells me it's somewhere in between the two extremes....
There's a hole on a bump on a log in the bottom of the sea? Actually, there's a hole in the 6 week old incision in the fold of my right boobie that seems to be leaking some sort of yellow(ish)fluid onto my stomach. Gross. Gag. I just threw up in my mouth a little. Did you? Seriously, it was fine 2 days ago. Every night I take a bath (whether I need it or not). Every night I look at my incredibly beautiful new boobies as I exit the tub. Every night I affectionately dip my index finger into the tube o' Mederma (as directed by my physician), pick up the so darn cute little 34D appendage, and apply briskly by rubbing into said scar for approx 15 seconds. Works like a charm....until 48 hours ago when I noticed something dripping down my tummy. Lift boob. See scar. Notice scar is double the size of the other one. Notice tiny pinhead hole in center of formerly healed incision. Freak out. Cry. Scream. Writhe on the floor like a fish. Throw a tantrum. Call Dr. Rico Suave. Cry some more.
Do me a favor. DO NOT Google necrosis and breast in the same sentence. You don't want to go there. Who cares, right? Dr. McHottie is meeting me at the hospital on Monday morning. He didn't seem overly concerned when he told me to pack 'er up with antibiotic ointment and gauze and avoid water. His voice wasn't shaking when he suggested I monitor my temperature and try not to exert myself for the weekend. Then again, he didn't offer to call my awesome bosses for me, either. Nope - had to do that one all by myself! "Hey, awesome bosses! I know I've only been working for you for one week, but would you mind if I took the morning off to let my doctor plug the hole in my dam???" So to speak?
On the upside....my husband actually suggested that I start looking for a new car!!! Hmmmm....leaky boobie, new car. I guess I drove my Chevy to the levy but the levy wasn't quite dry????
To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real
The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting
Try to kill it all away
But I remember everything
What have I become
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end
And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt
I wear this crown of thorns
Upon my liar's chair
Full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair
Beneath the stains of time
The feelings disappear
You are someone else
I am still right here
What have I become
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end
And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt
If I could start again
A million miles away
I will keep myself
I would find a way
"Hurt" - Johnny Cash
Dear God, what has become of me???? I started a new job, that's what! I cannot blog about it. I read Dooce's blog and blogging about work was the ruination of her, so I learned her lesson. Still, going back to work is not without it's challenges, esp after you've been sitting around on your cancerous, grieving, non-working a-hole for over a year. But, that will have to wait, partially because I stumbled upon the WORLD'S GREATEST JOB & THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOSSES (sorry Ron - you are still world's greatest boss 1B & only because you're so darn far away!!!!!!)....and partially because I owe you all an update.
I've never blogged about the nitty gritty cancer stuff. I can't really do that now, since I don't have "the cancer" anymore. Not that I know of, anyway. I think it's hilarious when people ask me if I'm "cancer free".....my normal response? "I don't know, are you?" C'mon! I didn't know I had cancer before. I don't think I still have it, but then again, how does one know for sure? It's not like I can Juno my way down to Food Fast with a gallon of Sunny D and ask Rain for a EPT Home Cancer Test. Anyway, I digress. I am having some complications. Negligible? Life threatening? Don't know yet. Probably somewhere in the middle. Inquiring minds wanna know, you say? OK...but don't say I didn't warn you. I have had a little issue for 48 hours. At times I think it's nothing at all. Then, I get an overwhelming urge to "Google" necrosis of the boobie. Then, I go vomit. My third eye (blind) tells me it's somewhere in between the two extremes....
There's a hole on a bump on a log in the bottom of the sea? Actually, there's a hole in the 6 week old incision in the fold of my right boobie that seems to be leaking some sort of yellow(ish)fluid onto my stomach. Gross. Gag. I just threw up in my mouth a little. Did you? Seriously, it was fine 2 days ago. Every night I take a bath (whether I need it or not). Every night I look at my incredibly beautiful new boobies as I exit the tub. Every night I affectionately dip my index finger into the tube o' Mederma (as directed by my physician), pick up the so darn cute little 34D appendage, and apply briskly by rubbing into said scar for approx 15 seconds. Works like a charm....until 48 hours ago when I noticed something dripping down my tummy. Lift boob. See scar. Notice scar is double the size of the other one. Notice tiny pinhead hole in center of formerly healed incision. Freak out. Cry. Scream. Writhe on the floor like a fish. Throw a tantrum. Call Dr. Rico Suave. Cry some more.
Do me a favor. DO NOT Google necrosis and breast in the same sentence. You don't want to go there. Who cares, right? Dr. McHottie is meeting me at the hospital on Monday morning. He didn't seem overly concerned when he told me to pack 'er up with antibiotic ointment and gauze and avoid water. His voice wasn't shaking when he suggested I monitor my temperature and try not to exert myself for the weekend. Then again, he didn't offer to call my awesome bosses for me, either. Nope - had to do that one all by myself! "Hey, awesome bosses! I know I've only been working for you for one week, but would you mind if I took the morning off to let my doctor plug the hole in my dam???" So to speak?
On the upside....my husband actually suggested that I start looking for a new car!!! Hmmmm....leaky boobie, new car. I guess I drove my Chevy to the levy but the levy wasn't quite dry????
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Bad Guys & Good Girls
If you had not've fallen
Then I would not've found you
Angel flying too close to the ground
And I patched up your broken wing and hung around awhile
Trying to keep your spirits up and your fever down
I knew someday that you would fly away
For love's the greatest healer to be found
So leave me if you need to
I will still remember
Angel flying too close to the ground
Fly on fly on past the speed of sound
I'd rather see you up than see you down
So leave me if you need to
I will still remember
Angel flying too close to the ground
"Angel Flying too Close to the Ground" - Willie Nelson
I dream. Vividly. In Technicolor. My dreams are like huge, mega-monster, blockbuster movies that run waaaay too long. Sort of like "Gone With the Wind" only the acting isn't quite as good. The graphics, however, are amazing. My husband dreams, too. I call his dreams "Bruce Willis" dreams. He's always saving the world by drilling holes in meteors or dealing with impending doom by just being a bad a*@. We love to wake up and compare dreams. I had a doozy the other night....
I was shot by a bad guy. Actually, in my dream, Kevin and I were walking down the street at night with no one else around. Bad sign, already! Folks, for future reference, don't walk down unpopulated city streets in the middle of the night. Just don't. So, anyway, we round this corner and see "bad guy" shoot some other guy in the forehead, execution style. Of course, I scream, he sees me, and I immediately take two bullets in the upper torso - one in the right side of my chest (poor, poor John Wayne....she needed much more than an eye patch after that one!)and a through 'n through in my right shoulder (what can I say, too much Dr. G!). The pain was impossible to describe, so I won't even try - who are we kidding, of course I'll try. That has to be what it feels like to be shot. Nausea, shooting fire, intense sweat, inability to talk or breathe or even cry.....it was unreal.
Fast forward: We're at the hospital. Kevin has me propped up in a chair in the waiting room while he's haggling with the ER desk. Apparently, there was a rash of shootings and I didn't make the cut with triage. So....I'm bleeding out all over the lobby's mauve colored chairs, when my maternal grandfather shows up. He's been dead for 22 years (I was pregnant with Dillan when he passed, so it's easy to track the time.) He was wearing the only clothes that he ever wears in my thoughts: a blue and white plaid short-sleeved pearl snap with two pockets, gray pants, black steel-toe shoes - untied, of course, and his black horn-rimmed glasses. My grandfather was an imposing man. Well over six feet. Broad shouldered. Loud. Quick to anger. And....the biggest teddy bear you've ever seen. In my dream, he picks me up, sort of. Or hugs me up. He smells like Brut and Prince Albert in a can. I tell him I've missed him so much. He tells me not to worry. He has everything under control and I should just stay quiet and calm. And, he's gone.
Fast forward: Yea! I made it to OR! If you've ever had any sort of surgery, you'll understand this part. There is sometimes a point where a well-meaning doctor or nurse will say, "OK - now we're going to need to move you from this nice, comfy soft bed onto this rock-hard little teeny bed that's only about 10 inches wide....and you're going to have to help us, ok? This might hurt just a little." Not good. My policy is....heck to the no! Do you have any idea how much this is going to wind up costing me? I refuse to lift one muscle! There are plenty of you here in this room - put your back in it and let's see some lifting! Back to the dream, though, cause we're getting to the good part. They tell me it's going to hurt, but then she's there. Chynna's there. No one else can see her, but our noses are touching and she puts her hands on each of my shoulders. They are telling me it's going to hurt while she's making one of her goofy faces and she whispers, "No, it won't hurt. Don't worry." And, she's right. Then she lays down next to me on the tiny 10 inch table and tells me that she's going to stay with me until it's over. I ask her, "Where have you been? I haven't felt you around lately." I hear her giggle. She says, "Scoot over, you're hogging all the covers." She smells so good.
Such are the dreams of a heart-broken mother.
Then I would not've found you
Angel flying too close to the ground
And I patched up your broken wing and hung around awhile
Trying to keep your spirits up and your fever down
I knew someday that you would fly away
For love's the greatest healer to be found
So leave me if you need to
I will still remember
Angel flying too close to the ground
Fly on fly on past the speed of sound
I'd rather see you up than see you down
So leave me if you need to
I will still remember
Angel flying too close to the ground
"Angel Flying too Close to the Ground" - Willie Nelson
I dream. Vividly. In Technicolor. My dreams are like huge, mega-monster, blockbuster movies that run waaaay too long. Sort of like "Gone With the Wind" only the acting isn't quite as good. The graphics, however, are amazing. My husband dreams, too. I call his dreams "Bruce Willis" dreams. He's always saving the world by drilling holes in meteors or dealing with impending doom by just being a bad a*@. We love to wake up and compare dreams. I had a doozy the other night....
I was shot by a bad guy. Actually, in my dream, Kevin and I were walking down the street at night with no one else around. Bad sign, already! Folks, for future reference, don't walk down unpopulated city streets in the middle of the night. Just don't. So, anyway, we round this corner and see "bad guy" shoot some other guy in the forehead, execution style. Of course, I scream, he sees me, and I immediately take two bullets in the upper torso - one in the right side of my chest (poor, poor John Wayne....she needed much more than an eye patch after that one!)and a through 'n through in my right shoulder (what can I say, too much Dr. G!). The pain was impossible to describe, so I won't even try - who are we kidding, of course I'll try. That has to be what it feels like to be shot. Nausea, shooting fire, intense sweat, inability to talk or breathe or even cry.....it was unreal.
Fast forward: We're at the hospital. Kevin has me propped up in a chair in the waiting room while he's haggling with the ER desk. Apparently, there was a rash of shootings and I didn't make the cut with triage. So....I'm bleeding out all over the lobby's mauve colored chairs, when my maternal grandfather shows up. He's been dead for 22 years (I was pregnant with Dillan when he passed, so it's easy to track the time.) He was wearing the only clothes that he ever wears in my thoughts: a blue and white plaid short-sleeved pearl snap with two pockets, gray pants, black steel-toe shoes - untied, of course, and his black horn-rimmed glasses. My grandfather was an imposing man. Well over six feet. Broad shouldered. Loud. Quick to anger. And....the biggest teddy bear you've ever seen. In my dream, he picks me up, sort of. Or hugs me up. He smells like Brut and Prince Albert in a can. I tell him I've missed him so much. He tells me not to worry. He has everything under control and I should just stay quiet and calm. And, he's gone.
Fast forward: Yea! I made it to OR! If you've ever had any sort of surgery, you'll understand this part. There is sometimes a point where a well-meaning doctor or nurse will say, "OK - now we're going to need to move you from this nice, comfy soft bed onto this rock-hard little teeny bed that's only about 10 inches wide....and you're going to have to help us, ok? This might hurt just a little." Not good. My policy is....heck to the no! Do you have any idea how much this is going to wind up costing me? I refuse to lift one muscle! There are plenty of you here in this room - put your back in it and let's see some lifting! Back to the dream, though, cause we're getting to the good part. They tell me it's going to hurt, but then she's there. Chynna's there. No one else can see her, but our noses are touching and she puts her hands on each of my shoulders. They are telling me it's going to hurt while she's making one of her goofy faces and she whispers, "No, it won't hurt. Don't worry." And, she's right. Then she lays down next to me on the tiny 10 inch table and tells me that she's going to stay with me until it's over. I ask her, "Where have you been? I haven't felt you around lately." I hear her giggle. She says, "Scoot over, you're hogging all the covers." She smells so good.
Such are the dreams of a heart-broken mother.
Monday, August 10, 2009
When Chocolate Milk Mustaches Won't Wash Off...
In ev'ry job that must be done
There is an element of fun
You find the fun and snap!
The job's a game....
Ev'ry task you undertake
Becomes a piece of cake
A lark!
A spree!
It's very clear to see...that a
Spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down
The medicine go down
The medicine go down
Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down
In a most delightful way!
"A Spoonful of Sugar" - from Disney's "Mary Poppins"
Do you know what the biggest difference is in waking up to your adorable, chubby-faced four year old son on a Saturday morning vs. waking up to your grouchy, stubbly twenty year old son on a Saturday morning? ABSOLUTELY NOTHING! Why, with the world evolving faster than you can say "everyone and their dog wants to be a vampire" isn't it refreshing to see that some things never change? Don't believe me? C'mon, would I lie to you? Exactly! Read on......
Act 1, Scene 1...and....ACTION! The year is 1993. Little, tiny Daniel enters the kitchen where his beloved and adored mother is washing dishes, darning socks, churning butter, or some other random, altruistic deed. He approaches. "Momma....Momma....Moooooooooooooooma! Diwwan, Momma! Diwwan! I at da wadda and da PeeGee man in da wadda. Momma, PEEGEE MAN IN DA WADDA TOOOOOOO! WAAAAAAAAH! WAAAAAAAAAH! EH WUH DIWWWWWWAAAAAAAAN!" (Subtitles translate: "Mother, I know that Dillan and I are NOT supposed to be down at the pond alone at our young ages, but....ok we did go down to the pond unsupervised after all and somehow, my evil older brother DARED me to throw my beloved Penguin Batman action figure into the water.....and he sunk to the bottom to a depth of approximately 15 feet. Mother, I desperately need you to intervene, rescue my action figure that you just bought me yesterday at Wal-Mart, and punish the evil Dillan for talking me into this tomfoolery in the first place. Please?")
Act 1, Scene 2....and.....ACTION! The year is 2009. A distraught, much larger Daniel enters the kitchen where his beloved and adored mother is washing dishes, still darning socks, stomping grapes, or some other random, altruistic deed. He approaches. "Momma, what are you doin' tonight? Is it ok if I just sort of hang around here all night and eat and play video games? It is? Great.....what's for dinner? Oh..Momma, can I use your phone? I can? Thanks. Can I, like, ya know, carry it around the house with me, maybe in my pocket or something? Cool? Great....alrighty then." (Subtitles translate: "Mom, I know it's not considered responsible to be going to wild parties on the weekends, but...ok, I did go to one of those evil parties last night and - Momma, you're not going to believe this - I lost my new LG Vu touch screen that I just bought - or, someone COULD have even STOLEN it - and now I don't have a phone. Will you please help me figure out who I'm supposed to call about this and sit next to me so you can force me to take care of this, guide me through three phone calls from three distictly different call centers in three distinctly different countries, and make me stay calm and patient? Please?")
So many parrallels, so little time! Here is what I think. #1 - Moms are exactly like Mary Poppins - practically perfect in every way. #2 - Men are helpless at any age.
#3 - No matter how viciously life beats you up, Mom's homemade baked potato salad helps the bitter pills go down much easier.
There is an element of fun
You find the fun and snap!
The job's a game....
Ev'ry task you undertake
Becomes a piece of cake
A lark!
A spree!
It's very clear to see...that a
Spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down
The medicine go down
The medicine go down
Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down
In a most delightful way!
"A Spoonful of Sugar" - from Disney's "Mary Poppins"
Do you know what the biggest difference is in waking up to your adorable, chubby-faced four year old son on a Saturday morning vs. waking up to your grouchy, stubbly twenty year old son on a Saturday morning? ABSOLUTELY NOTHING! Why, with the world evolving faster than you can say "everyone and their dog wants to be a vampire" isn't it refreshing to see that some things never change? Don't believe me? C'mon, would I lie to you? Exactly! Read on......
Act 1, Scene 1...and....ACTION! The year is 1993. Little, tiny Daniel enters the kitchen where his beloved and adored mother is washing dishes, darning socks, churning butter, or some other random, altruistic deed. He approaches. "Momma....Momma....Moooooooooooooooma! Diwwan, Momma! Diwwan! I at da wadda and da PeeGee man in da wadda. Momma, PEEGEE MAN IN DA WADDA TOOOOOOO! WAAAAAAAAH! WAAAAAAAAAH! EH WUH DIWWWWWWAAAAAAAAN!" (Subtitles translate: "Mother, I know that Dillan and I are NOT supposed to be down at the pond alone at our young ages, but....ok we did go down to the pond unsupervised after all and somehow, my evil older brother DARED me to throw my beloved Penguin Batman action figure into the water.....and he sunk to the bottom to a depth of approximately 15 feet. Mother, I desperately need you to intervene, rescue my action figure that you just bought me yesterday at Wal-Mart, and punish the evil Dillan for talking me into this tomfoolery in the first place. Please?")
Act 1, Scene 2....and.....ACTION! The year is 2009. A distraught, much larger Daniel enters the kitchen where his beloved and adored mother is washing dishes, still darning socks, stomping grapes, or some other random, altruistic deed. He approaches. "Momma, what are you doin' tonight? Is it ok if I just sort of hang around here all night and eat and play video games? It is? Great.....what's for dinner? Oh..Momma, can I use your phone? I can? Thanks. Can I, like, ya know, carry it around the house with me, maybe in my pocket or something? Cool? Great....alrighty then." (Subtitles translate: "Mom, I know it's not considered responsible to be going to wild parties on the weekends, but...ok, I did go to one of those evil parties last night and - Momma, you're not going to believe this - I lost my new LG Vu touch screen that I just bought - or, someone COULD have even STOLEN it - and now I don't have a phone. Will you please help me figure out who I'm supposed to call about this and sit next to me so you can force me to take care of this, guide me through three phone calls from three distictly different call centers in three distinctly different countries, and make me stay calm and patient? Please?")
So many parrallels, so little time! Here is what I think. #1 - Moms are exactly like Mary Poppins - practically perfect in every way. #2 - Men are helpless at any age.
#3 - No matter how viciously life beats you up, Mom's homemade baked potato salad helps the bitter pills go down much easier.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Leaping Buildings in a Single Bound...Whatev
Never win first place, I don't support the team
I can't take direction, and my socks are never clean
Teachers dated me, my parents hated me
I was always in a fight cuz I can't do nothin' right
Everyday I fight a war against the mirror
I can't take the person starin' back at me
I'm a hazard to myself
Don't let me get me
I'm my own worst enemy
Its bad when you annoy yourself
So irritating
Don't wanna be my friend no more
I wanna be somebody else
"Don't Let Me Get Me" - Pink
Newsflash! I am changing my super-hero name. Yep, Worst Case Scenario Woman no more! From now on, you'll know me as......Procrastinator Girl! Yes sir, tradin' in my varsity WCSW jersey for a cute Lycra suit with a big ole capital "P". It all boils down to one thing.......nothing.
I had quite an impressive list of things I was going to accomplish this Summer. I was going to make a dress. It's pinned to the pattern (on material I bought for a different dress at least one husband ago!!), but the sewing machine still snuggles in the bottom of my cedar chest like a mechanical Sleeping Beauty. Then, I was going to start making bread from scratch once a week. I stalled out on that one right after buying the yeast (soon to expire). Oh, but we're not finished yet! I was going to teach myself how to play the guitar and surprise my husband with a brilliant rendition of "You Belong to Me" complete with a Carla Bruni accent. I quit this one after recording my faux Italian-ese and realizing that a) I don't have a throaty, sultry voice, and b)I sounded more like the Lucky Charms leprechaun. Then, I was going to save money by cancelling my tanning membership and doing some old school laying out in the backyard. This was going to require teaching all my animals not to wee-wee on the large, bumpy object on the lawn (moi), so that was an immediate failure. And, finally, we have the dreaded garage sale - thus far a heinous, dismal shortcoming. I have talked about it. I have recruited helpers. I have covertly taken random neighborhood polls to predict attendance. Mentally, I see this AMAZING garage sale complete with one of a kind banners, refreshments, and Frank Sinatra music. So far, I've only managed to divide the garage into "like" and "hate" piles. Woe is me!
There is always a method to my madness, a reason behind my demise. It's too hot. It's too busy. I'm too tired. Maybe I should've chosen Captain Flimsy Excuses, instead?
I can't take direction, and my socks are never clean
Teachers dated me, my parents hated me
I was always in a fight cuz I can't do nothin' right
Everyday I fight a war against the mirror
I can't take the person starin' back at me
I'm a hazard to myself
Don't let me get me
I'm my own worst enemy
Its bad when you annoy yourself
So irritating
Don't wanna be my friend no more
I wanna be somebody else
"Don't Let Me Get Me" - Pink
Newsflash! I am changing my super-hero name. Yep, Worst Case Scenario Woman no more! From now on, you'll know me as......Procrastinator Girl! Yes sir, tradin' in my varsity WCSW jersey for a cute Lycra suit with a big ole capital "P". It all boils down to one thing.......nothing.
I had quite an impressive list of things I was going to accomplish this Summer. I was going to make a dress. It's pinned to the pattern (on material I bought for a different dress at least one husband ago!!), but the sewing machine still snuggles in the bottom of my cedar chest like a mechanical Sleeping Beauty. Then, I was going to start making bread from scratch once a week. I stalled out on that one right after buying the yeast (soon to expire). Oh, but we're not finished yet! I was going to teach myself how to play the guitar and surprise my husband with a brilliant rendition of "You Belong to Me" complete with a Carla Bruni accent. I quit this one after recording my faux Italian-ese and realizing that a) I don't have a throaty, sultry voice, and b)I sounded more like the Lucky Charms leprechaun. Then, I was going to save money by cancelling my tanning membership and doing some old school laying out in the backyard. This was going to require teaching all my animals not to wee-wee on the large, bumpy object on the lawn (moi), so that was an immediate failure. And, finally, we have the dreaded garage sale - thus far a heinous, dismal shortcoming. I have talked about it. I have recruited helpers. I have covertly taken random neighborhood polls to predict attendance. Mentally, I see this AMAZING garage sale complete with one of a kind banners, refreshments, and Frank Sinatra music. So far, I've only managed to divide the garage into "like" and "hate" piles. Woe is me!
There is always a method to my madness, a reason behind my demise. It's too hot. It's too busy. I'm too tired. Maybe I should've chosen Captain Flimsy Excuses, instead?
Thursday, August 6, 2009
We're Waiting in the Lobby
Now it's happened once or twice
Someone couldn't pay the price
And I'm afraid I had to rake 'em 'cross the coals
Yes, I've had the odd complaint
But on the whole I've been a saint
To those poor unfortunate souls
Come on, you poor unfortunate soul
Go ahead!
Make your choice!
I'm a very busy woman
And I haven't got all day
It won't cost much
Just your voice!
You poor unfortunate soul
It's sad
But true
If you want to cross a bridge, my sweet
You've got to pay the toll
Take a gulp and take a breath
And go ahead and sign the scroll!
Flotsam, Jetsam, now I've got her, boys
The boss is on a roll
This poor unfortunate soul
"Poor Unfortunate Souls" - The Little Mermaid Soundtrack
Kathy Bates enters the room. She takes a seat in a lovely, impeccably upholstered chintz sofa, circa 1980-something. It's a beautiful sofa with American Beauty Red colored cabbage roses and shiny vines of asparagus green leaves. As the camera pans the room, we notice Jessica Tandy, a lonely octogenarian, sitting near the window. The sun highlights her amazingly long silver hair, firmly knotted at the base of her neck. She wears face powder and a classic mauve tinted lip balm. Her nails are polished with Revlon's "Teddy Bear". She smells of Estee' Lauder's "Youth Dew"....or maybe Clinique's "Aromatics Elixir"...or "Tea Rose" (who made Tea Rose, anyway?). As the afternoon progresses, the two women become acquainted with each other, share a candy bar, and relive a life well lived by telling each other humorous anecdotes. That is how we are led to believe one's last days will be lived. But that, my friends, is not reality. There are no "Fried Green Tomatoes" in a nursing home, folks.
Yesterday, I took my step-son, Carter, to the nursing home. My husband, Kevin, is fortunate enough to have 3 grandparents still alive and doing seemingly well. I must admit, I'm a little jealous. I'd lost all of my grandparents by the time I was 30. I miss them, especially my maternal grandmother, namely because she was the last to go and because I have rooms upon rooms upon rooms in my mind full of amazing memories she and I created together. I never saw any of my grandparents in a nursing home, though I believe one was in such a facility briefly. Anyway, back to yesterday. All of Kevin's grandparents are in the same nursing home! First we have his paternal grandparents - yep! Still together & in the same room, no less! They get to see each other every day. They still get to share a "good morning", a "sleep well", and even an "I love you". One floor up, however, you have Kevin's maternal grandmother who was transferred here temporarily for physical therapy after taking a bad fall and breaking her hip recently. She is slated to return to her beloved home in about 3 months, or as soon as she is deemed as healed and as mobile/independent as possible. Still, a visit was appropriate, as much for us as for them. It's very difficult, though this was not Carter's first visit and certainly not his last, to prepare a child for the alternate universe they are about to enter.
It's a lovely facility. I hear it's very, very expensive and difficult to get into. The grounds look more like an Ivy League college campus, what with all of the towering Live Oak trees, hundreds of years old, that bend and touch, forming shaded canopies to meander through on lazy, summer afternoons. It is, however, still a home for the elderly. It is for those who still walk - and those who will never walk again. It is for those who speak - and those who cannot, or whose words are no longer are intelligible. We talk, Carter and I, as we pull into the parking lot. I remind Carter that a woman tried to touch him last time, pulling and clawing at his arm as he walked by her in the hallway. He assures me that he understands. Why, he tells me, she probably thought he was her grandson, son, younger brother, first boyfriend, or such. Maybe she even thought he was an angel - he with the blond hair highlighted by a summer's worth of chlorine and sun, he with the huge green eyes and a sprinkling of freckles. He assures me, too, that he isn't scared to deal with this sudden onset of the realization of one's mortality. Those were not his young words, of course, but he knows. He knows this is how we all end up. He knows that we enter this world helpless and leave this world helpless. He senses that it is beyond our control. I sense something, too - he is far, far wiser than his 9 years.
We are lucky! Mamaw, Papaw, and Gee Gee are talkative. There is no Alzheimer's lying in wait inside any of them. They are all much more mobile that you could imagine. They have the ability and the desire to get up every morning, dress up, wear perfume, cologne, suspenders, necklaces, and the like. They do this everyday....and then sit there. Just in case someone comes to visit. Just in case something out of the ordinary were to happen. Just in case. As we enter, though, I realize I forgot to warn Carter about one important factor. I have forgotten to remind him of the smells. As we push through the entrance doors and walk back toward the elevators, it hits us like a freight train. It has the consistency of honey, thick and sticky, the aroma of liniments, human excrement, and disinfectant. Carter looks up at me and takes my hand. "Oh, DD, I forgot about the smell!" he says. "I know, baby - I did too." That is all I can think to say.
Have you seen Disney's "Little Mermaid?" Do you know the part where Ariel goes to see Ursula and all those lost souls are writhing around with oval mouths frozen in a horrible scream, except Ursula stole all their voices so they only have silent screams? That is what nursing homes are like, on the surface, at least. They are sitting in seats, in wheelchairs, on couches. Heads down, heads up, heads lolling to one side or the other. Cloudy eyes, clear eyes. Silent or moaning. Tears of happiness or tears of despair. Frozen smiles or open-mouthed with rivulets of drool that drip like a faulty kitchen faucet. Who are these lobby people, I always wonder? Are they the ones who never get company, or hugs, or conversation? Do the nurses park them in this hallway so they can at least pretend that all the visitors who walk these halls everyday are there for them? Do they sense me? Do I smell good, or have they so adjusted to this environment that my carefully chosen "Lady Primrose" perfume smells like a tragic chemical mistake to them? Do they know it's Wednesday? Do they remember the day to day happenings I have trudged through just to get there and spend a few, paltry minutes? These are some of the things I wonder.
As we leave the building, 1 hour and 20 minutes after our entrance (instead of the 15minutes per room I allotted), Carter tells me the same thing he told me on our last visit. He says," You know, D (sometimes I'm DD and sometimes I'm just D!), I always feel like a better person when we leave here. I'm always so glad we came. We're all they have." And, I always think to myself, "We're all any of them have, Cart." I'm thinking we should adopt a few more grandparents. And sit on a chintz couch. And listen to some stories. And bring candy. And learn to like the smells.
Someone couldn't pay the price
And I'm afraid I had to rake 'em 'cross the coals
Yes, I've had the odd complaint
But on the whole I've been a saint
To those poor unfortunate souls
Come on, you poor unfortunate soul
Go ahead!
Make your choice!
I'm a very busy woman
And I haven't got all day
It won't cost much
Just your voice!
You poor unfortunate soul
It's sad
But true
If you want to cross a bridge, my sweet
You've got to pay the toll
Take a gulp and take a breath
And go ahead and sign the scroll!
Flotsam, Jetsam, now I've got her, boys
The boss is on a roll
This poor unfortunate soul
"Poor Unfortunate Souls" - The Little Mermaid Soundtrack
Kathy Bates enters the room. She takes a seat in a lovely, impeccably upholstered chintz sofa, circa 1980-something. It's a beautiful sofa with American Beauty Red colored cabbage roses and shiny vines of asparagus green leaves. As the camera pans the room, we notice Jessica Tandy, a lonely octogenarian, sitting near the window. The sun highlights her amazingly long silver hair, firmly knotted at the base of her neck. She wears face powder and a classic mauve tinted lip balm. Her nails are polished with Revlon's "Teddy Bear". She smells of Estee' Lauder's "Youth Dew"....or maybe Clinique's "Aromatics Elixir"...or "Tea Rose" (who made Tea Rose, anyway?). As the afternoon progresses, the two women become acquainted with each other, share a candy bar, and relive a life well lived by telling each other humorous anecdotes. That is how we are led to believe one's last days will be lived. But that, my friends, is not reality. There are no "Fried Green Tomatoes" in a nursing home, folks.
Yesterday, I took my step-son, Carter, to the nursing home. My husband, Kevin, is fortunate enough to have 3 grandparents still alive and doing seemingly well. I must admit, I'm a little jealous. I'd lost all of my grandparents by the time I was 30. I miss them, especially my maternal grandmother, namely because she was the last to go and because I have rooms upon rooms upon rooms in my mind full of amazing memories she and I created together. I never saw any of my grandparents in a nursing home, though I believe one was in such a facility briefly. Anyway, back to yesterday. All of Kevin's grandparents are in the same nursing home! First we have his paternal grandparents - yep! Still together & in the same room, no less! They get to see each other every day. They still get to share a "good morning", a "sleep well", and even an "I love you". One floor up, however, you have Kevin's maternal grandmother who was transferred here temporarily for physical therapy after taking a bad fall and breaking her hip recently. She is slated to return to her beloved home in about 3 months, or as soon as she is deemed as healed and as mobile/independent as possible. Still, a visit was appropriate, as much for us as for them. It's very difficult, though this was not Carter's first visit and certainly not his last, to prepare a child for the alternate universe they are about to enter.
It's a lovely facility. I hear it's very, very expensive and difficult to get into. The grounds look more like an Ivy League college campus, what with all of the towering Live Oak trees, hundreds of years old, that bend and touch, forming shaded canopies to meander through on lazy, summer afternoons. It is, however, still a home for the elderly. It is for those who still walk - and those who will never walk again. It is for those who speak - and those who cannot, or whose words are no longer are intelligible. We talk, Carter and I, as we pull into the parking lot. I remind Carter that a woman tried to touch him last time, pulling and clawing at his arm as he walked by her in the hallway. He assures me that he understands. Why, he tells me, she probably thought he was her grandson, son, younger brother, first boyfriend, or such. Maybe she even thought he was an angel - he with the blond hair highlighted by a summer's worth of chlorine and sun, he with the huge green eyes and a sprinkling of freckles. He assures me, too, that he isn't scared to deal with this sudden onset of the realization of one's mortality. Those were not his young words, of course, but he knows. He knows this is how we all end up. He knows that we enter this world helpless and leave this world helpless. He senses that it is beyond our control. I sense something, too - he is far, far wiser than his 9 years.
We are lucky! Mamaw, Papaw, and Gee Gee are talkative. There is no Alzheimer's lying in wait inside any of them. They are all much more mobile that you could imagine. They have the ability and the desire to get up every morning, dress up, wear perfume, cologne, suspenders, necklaces, and the like. They do this everyday....and then sit there. Just in case someone comes to visit. Just in case something out of the ordinary were to happen. Just in case. As we enter, though, I realize I forgot to warn Carter about one important factor. I have forgotten to remind him of the smells. As we push through the entrance doors and walk back toward the elevators, it hits us like a freight train. It has the consistency of honey, thick and sticky, the aroma of liniments, human excrement, and disinfectant. Carter looks up at me and takes my hand. "Oh, DD, I forgot about the smell!" he says. "I know, baby - I did too." That is all I can think to say.
Have you seen Disney's "Little Mermaid?" Do you know the part where Ariel goes to see Ursula and all those lost souls are writhing around with oval mouths frozen in a horrible scream, except Ursula stole all their voices so they only have silent screams? That is what nursing homes are like, on the surface, at least. They are sitting in seats, in wheelchairs, on couches. Heads down, heads up, heads lolling to one side or the other. Cloudy eyes, clear eyes. Silent or moaning. Tears of happiness or tears of despair. Frozen smiles or open-mouthed with rivulets of drool that drip like a faulty kitchen faucet. Who are these lobby people, I always wonder? Are they the ones who never get company, or hugs, or conversation? Do the nurses park them in this hallway so they can at least pretend that all the visitors who walk these halls everyday are there for them? Do they sense me? Do I smell good, or have they so adjusted to this environment that my carefully chosen "Lady Primrose" perfume smells like a tragic chemical mistake to them? Do they know it's Wednesday? Do they remember the day to day happenings I have trudged through just to get there and spend a few, paltry minutes? These are some of the things I wonder.
As we leave the building, 1 hour and 20 minutes after our entrance (instead of the 15minutes per room I allotted), Carter tells me the same thing he told me on our last visit. He says," You know, D (sometimes I'm DD and sometimes I'm just D!), I always feel like a better person when we leave here. I'm always so glad we came. We're all they have." And, I always think to myself, "We're all any of them have, Cart." I'm thinking we should adopt a few more grandparents. And sit on a chintz couch. And listen to some stories. And bring candy. And learn to like the smells.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Eyes...windows to the soul or stairways to Heaven?
Welcome to the Hotel California
Such a lovely Place (such a lovely face)
They livin' it up at the Hotel California
What a nice surprise, bring your alibis
Mirrors on the ceiling, the pink champagne on ice
And she said 'We are all just prisoners here, of our own device'
And in the master's chambers, they gathered for the feast
They stab it with their steely knives, but they just can't kill the beast
Last thing I remember, I was running for the door
I had to find the passage back to the place I was before
'Relax' said the nightman, We are programed to receive.
You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave
"Hotel California" - The Eagles
Hey! Remember me? Me, the gal who swore on a stack of Jodi Picoult novels that she was going to start blogging everyday after getting a RETURN EMAIL FROM A NATIONALLY ACCLAIMED AUTHOR whose sole advice was to write every day no matter what! Yep, sent off an email on a lark and actually got a response on my "I'm sure you get letters like this all the time (letters? Suddenly I'm one of the Bronte sisters with stationary and wax seals and stuff...actually I do have stationary...and a wax seal...but this was actually an email) but I, too, long to be a successful writer lauded the world over, and what - oh what - ever shall I do?" Yep, said author replied - write every single day. Write a book, write a column, write a freakin' grocery list...but just write. Now, here we sit, after approximately one week of unrelenting dedication...and exactly three days of approximately NADA! Time to get back up on that literary horse and get to trottin'. Warning - I'm issuing a soft absorbent tissue alert. Have one handy. Or two.
This morning I was doing my daily walk. Daily walk it's become, because I had the long awaited "I'm Bringin' Boobies Back" surgery and can't start running again until said boobas can be safely ensconsed in a supportive sporty sport sports bra....in 2 more weeks. So, I walk. It's not as bad as I thought. Sure, it's regressive to a point, but plain ole walking does have it's advantadges. You can concentrate on the music a little better. You can really focus on all your neighbor's landscaping. Sure, there are yards that really make you feel like you live in Shrek's shack in the bog, but there are plenty that make your house look like the enchanted forest, too. On the other hand, you do have to do that dorky "granny goes to town" mall walk thing. Still - I've actually lost 2 lbs during a time that I assumed I would gain, I don't know - like 50 - from my non-running, so it's not so bad. This morning my only goal was to come up with a blog topic and walk 4 miles within 45 minutes. I was sort of successful on both counts. I keep focusing on this one idea. I keep telling myself that I can't handle it, but it won't go away. It haunts my dreams. So, I must purge. All names will be changed to protect the innocent. And, away we go.
There is a little girl. A sick little girl. We are all praying. I wonder, sometimes, is this how everyone prayed for Chynna? Did everyone send little messages back and forth proclaiming that God would surely save my daughter, too? Were there email chains - how far did they make it, I wonder? Michigan? Canada? Portugal? I'm sure they did. I look at the situation so, so differently. I wonder what will happen. Whether today, or in a year, or in three years...what will come to pass? I once said, about this other mother, that the only words I can tell her are words she should not, under any circumstances, hear right now - not just yet. I must stay far, far away from her for I am a reminder of what you get when things go tragically wrong - when a prayer doesn't get answered, at least not in the way you hoped. My prayer is different. Sure, I pray for the precious little girl who never hurt anyone, who is undeserving of this horror, who had so much to give the world. If given the chance what could she do? Cure cancer? Be a Congresswoman? Leap tall buildings in a single bound? My prayer, though, is also for her mother. I know how she feels right now. Frantic. Panicked. Shell-shocked. She forever paces in her mind. Surely, she thinks, there is one little stone somewhere that is still unturned. I must find it. I must turn it. This is all up to me. I must find our way out of this fog. For, my baby girl still has so much left to do. So many places yet to go. She prays to God every night to bring her a magic answer. She prays that God's magic answer will match hers. She prays that God does not have some biblical lesson that the world needs to learn through her tragedy. She just prays. I pray, too. I don't want to ever have to speak to her on how to cope when your child isn't here anymore. Of what it's like to have an empty bedroom in your house. Of how sad it is when all the "firsts" happen to other mother's daughters ....but not yours. Never yours. I don't want this mother to ever look into my eyes and see how I'm haunted. She doesn't need to know these things. That the pain never ends. That the tears never stop. That it never feels right. That the world just refuses to stop for you. That life goes on, but the life of a heart-broken mother stays stuck forever. That a little bit of you goes completely, off the wall, "Sybil" crazy....and stays that way forever. That you have to fight the urge to scream in public places. That you pray every night to see your daughter in a dream. That you can no longer care about trivial things - like eating, or shopping - or sleeping. That the world scares you now. You see - membership in my club is mandatory for us. I don't want to renew, but I don't have a choice. It's like a bad vacation - I'm in room #1408 & I can't check out! We are them now, the spirits of our children who didn't quite make it. We walk through life with their beautiful souls shining through our eyes. Look closely the next time you see one of us. We need you to see them, too. So that we'll never forget. So that you'll never forget. It's the worst kind of "Catch 22". I would curl up in a ball and die if she were to be forgotten, but it hurts so bad to remember what she could have been. But still, for that mother, I pray.
Such a lovely Place (such a lovely face)
They livin' it up at the Hotel California
What a nice surprise, bring your alibis
Mirrors on the ceiling, the pink champagne on ice
And she said 'We are all just prisoners here, of our own device'
And in the master's chambers, they gathered for the feast
They stab it with their steely knives, but they just can't kill the beast
Last thing I remember, I was running for the door
I had to find the passage back to the place I was before
'Relax' said the nightman, We are programed to receive.
You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave
"Hotel California" - The Eagles
Hey! Remember me? Me, the gal who swore on a stack of Jodi Picoult novels that she was going to start blogging everyday after getting a RETURN EMAIL FROM A NATIONALLY ACCLAIMED AUTHOR whose sole advice was to write every day no matter what! Yep, sent off an email on a lark and actually got a response on my "I'm sure you get letters like this all the time (letters? Suddenly I'm one of the Bronte sisters with stationary and wax seals and stuff...actually I do have stationary...and a wax seal...but this was actually an email) but I, too, long to be a successful writer lauded the world over, and what - oh what - ever shall I do?" Yep, said author replied - write every single day. Write a book, write a column, write a freakin' grocery list...but just write. Now, here we sit, after approximately one week of unrelenting dedication...and exactly three days of approximately NADA! Time to get back up on that literary horse and get to trottin'. Warning - I'm issuing a soft absorbent tissue alert. Have one handy. Or two.
This morning I was doing my daily walk. Daily walk it's become, because I had the long awaited "I'm Bringin' Boobies Back" surgery and can't start running again until said boobas can be safely ensconsed in a supportive sporty sport sports bra....in 2 more weeks. So, I walk. It's not as bad as I thought. Sure, it's regressive to a point, but plain ole walking does have it's advantadges. You can concentrate on the music a little better. You can really focus on all your neighbor's landscaping. Sure, there are yards that really make you feel like you live in Shrek's shack in the bog, but there are plenty that make your house look like the enchanted forest, too. On the other hand, you do have to do that dorky "granny goes to town" mall walk thing. Still - I've actually lost 2 lbs during a time that I assumed I would gain, I don't know - like 50 - from my non-running, so it's not so bad. This morning my only goal was to come up with a blog topic and walk 4 miles within 45 minutes. I was sort of successful on both counts. I keep focusing on this one idea. I keep telling myself that I can't handle it, but it won't go away. It haunts my dreams. So, I must purge. All names will be changed to protect the innocent. And, away we go.
There is a little girl. A sick little girl. We are all praying. I wonder, sometimes, is this how everyone prayed for Chynna? Did everyone send little messages back and forth proclaiming that God would surely save my daughter, too? Were there email chains - how far did they make it, I wonder? Michigan? Canada? Portugal? I'm sure they did. I look at the situation so, so differently. I wonder what will happen. Whether today, or in a year, or in three years...what will come to pass? I once said, about this other mother, that the only words I can tell her are words she should not, under any circumstances, hear right now - not just yet. I must stay far, far away from her for I am a reminder of what you get when things go tragically wrong - when a prayer doesn't get answered, at least not in the way you hoped. My prayer is different. Sure, I pray for the precious little girl who never hurt anyone, who is undeserving of this horror, who had so much to give the world. If given the chance what could she do? Cure cancer? Be a Congresswoman? Leap tall buildings in a single bound? My prayer, though, is also for her mother. I know how she feels right now. Frantic. Panicked. Shell-shocked. She forever paces in her mind. Surely, she thinks, there is one little stone somewhere that is still unturned. I must find it. I must turn it. This is all up to me. I must find our way out of this fog. For, my baby girl still has so much left to do. So many places yet to go. She prays to God every night to bring her a magic answer. She prays that God's magic answer will match hers. She prays that God does not have some biblical lesson that the world needs to learn through her tragedy. She just prays. I pray, too. I don't want to ever have to speak to her on how to cope when your child isn't here anymore. Of what it's like to have an empty bedroom in your house. Of how sad it is when all the "firsts" happen to other mother's daughters ....but not yours. Never yours. I don't want this mother to ever look into my eyes and see how I'm haunted. She doesn't need to know these things. That the pain never ends. That the tears never stop. That it never feels right. That the world just refuses to stop for you. That life goes on, but the life of a heart-broken mother stays stuck forever. That a little bit of you goes completely, off the wall, "Sybil" crazy....and stays that way forever. That you have to fight the urge to scream in public places. That you pray every night to see your daughter in a dream. That you can no longer care about trivial things - like eating, or shopping - or sleeping. That the world scares you now. You see - membership in my club is mandatory for us. I don't want to renew, but I don't have a choice. It's like a bad vacation - I'm in room #1408 & I can't check out! We are them now, the spirits of our children who didn't quite make it. We walk through life with their beautiful souls shining through our eyes. Look closely the next time you see one of us. We need you to see them, too. So that we'll never forget. So that you'll never forget. It's the worst kind of "Catch 22". I would curl up in a ball and die if she were to be forgotten, but it hurts so bad to remember what she could have been. But still, for that mother, I pray.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Josie Had to Cut Her Vacation Short
We went out last night
like we swore we wouldn't do
Drank too much beer last night
a lot more than we wanted to
There were girls from Argentina and Arkansas, Maine,
Alabama, and Panama
All mixed together and having a ball
Yeah, we went out last night
One thing started leading to another
Out last night hitting on everybody and their mother
There were two karaoke girls drunk on a dare
Singing 'I got you babe' by Sonny and Cher
Yeah, life was good everywhere
We went out last night
Well you know I'm a music man
I grew up in East Tennessee
Last night I was everything
When I had a few drinks in me
I was a doctor, lawyer, senators son, Brad Pitt's brother, and a man on the run
Anything i thought would get the job done
Yeah, we went out last night
One thing started leading to another
Out last night hittin' on everybody and their mother
There were people doing body shots up on the bar
Jimmy in a fist fight out by the car
Everybody was some kind of star
When we went out last night
Well the fact that I'm still breathing means that I must have survived
And that i lived to go out with my friends again tonight
Oh we went out last night
One thing started leading to another
Out last night
Everybody stared loving on each other
They were dancing on the tables
Howling at the moon
Pairing of together and pretty soon
There was not a soul in sight
When we went out last night
"Out Last Night" - Kenny Chesney
I really was not going to blog about this today, because, quite frankly, it doesn't paint me in the best light. I am, however, a consenting adult of legal age (boy am I!) who happens to have had quite a hellacious 2008/09 (boy haven't I!)and was entitled to get my freak on just a little bit (boy didn't I!), right? Plus, usually I am sitting here with the finished bloduct racking my brain for an appropriate lyrical segue for, like days on end....but today the perfect song was already playing in my head! Hence, here's the blog.
I may have asked for it. I did go on a rant the other day, telling the Hubs that we never have any fun, never go anywhere, never socialize, etc, et al. And, while we were at Costco yesterday and I was reading all the wine reviews to determine if the better purchase was a top 15 from 2009 or a top 10 from 2007 (as if my Uncle Sandy's homemade cherry wine palate would know the difference)....maybe I did suggest that we get all dolled up and go out somewhere. And, when the Hubs suggested a movie, maybe I did make a face and crinkle my nose up and say something like, oh, I don't know...maybe "NO! NOT ANOTHER MOVIE!" So, what did the Hubs do? Why he walked out of the closet wearing his Buckle jeans! That's when I knew it was on like Donkey Kong. Those Buckle jeans don't come hoppin' out for just any ole night. Faster than you can say "you're going to regret this tomorrow" I slithered into my spanks and hit the door!
Here in my neck of the woods we have this place called "Gloria's" (those of you who know me are already hanging your heads and nodding slowly to and fro). If you stand on my back porch and listen carefully on beautiful summer evenings, you can here it literally call my name. "Diiiiiiinnnnna." See? Gloria's has superb Cuban food. They wrap their tamales in banana leaves. They serve this yummy rice that's dark brown and sort of gooey. They have black bean dip. They also have the best margaritas in the universe. No one really knows for sure exactly what they put in said margaritas - it's sort of like an urban legend. Everclear? Napalm? Crack? They're itty bitty, too! One is my limit. It seems, though, that one of these little glasses of Heaven + two glasses of 2007's top ten Merlot....is all she wrote.
Act 2: Leave Gloria's. See Kevin and Dina on a beautiful starlit night. See Kevin and Dina gaze out over the water. See Kevin and Dina walk by a bar. See Kevin and Dina notice live band playing. See Kevin and Dina decide to go inside. Cue crowd noise. Hear lead singer proclaim, "THIS ONE'S FOR YOU SOUTH GARLAND CLASS OF '84!!" Watch Kevin and Dina proceed to gyrate wildly on the dance floor to that song about Josie being on a vacation far away. See Dina do the ever-popular V'd fingers across the eyes "Pulp Fiction" move. See Kevin striking up conversations with complete strangers. See Dina showing old driver's license to other complete strangers because, apparently, they need to see Dina with long hair. Watch Dina come back from ladies room with random South Garland name tag. (Can you believe they made them wear name tags with their old high school pictures on them? OMG - it was HILARIOUS!!!!!) Watch Dina convince people that she really is Buffy Ramsey-Haskins. Hear Kevin tell lead singer of band that he plays the guitar & perhaps could sit in with them if, oh - I don't know, say the lead guitarist were to get bonked on the head accidentally tonight. Hear Kevin convince Dina that woman in corner really is Michelle Obama. See Dina writing this blog at 9:48am & picking remnants of mascara out of her eyelashes while Kevin is still sleeping soundly.
Don't tell me we're too old to freak.....I just hope there were no pictures. That's all I'm sayin'. (Buffy Ramsey-Haskins is a fictitious name. If you really are out there, Buffy, rest assured that I don't know you and meant no disrespect. I'm sure you're quite the shiz.)
like we swore we wouldn't do
Drank too much beer last night
a lot more than we wanted to
There were girls from Argentina and Arkansas, Maine,
Alabama, and Panama
All mixed together and having a ball
Yeah, we went out last night
One thing started leading to another
Out last night hitting on everybody and their mother
There were two karaoke girls drunk on a dare
Singing 'I got you babe' by Sonny and Cher
Yeah, life was good everywhere
We went out last night
Well you know I'm a music man
I grew up in East Tennessee
Last night I was everything
When I had a few drinks in me
I was a doctor, lawyer, senators son, Brad Pitt's brother, and a man on the run
Anything i thought would get the job done
Yeah, we went out last night
One thing started leading to another
Out last night hittin' on everybody and their mother
There were people doing body shots up on the bar
Jimmy in a fist fight out by the car
Everybody was some kind of star
When we went out last night
Well the fact that I'm still breathing means that I must have survived
And that i lived to go out with my friends again tonight
Oh we went out last night
One thing started leading to another
Out last night
Everybody stared loving on each other
They were dancing on the tables
Howling at the moon
Pairing of together and pretty soon
There was not a soul in sight
When we went out last night
"Out Last Night" - Kenny Chesney
I really was not going to blog about this today, because, quite frankly, it doesn't paint me in the best light. I am, however, a consenting adult of legal age (boy am I!) who happens to have had quite a hellacious 2008/09 (boy haven't I!)and was entitled to get my freak on just a little bit (boy didn't I!), right? Plus, usually I am sitting here with the finished bloduct racking my brain for an appropriate lyrical segue for, like days on end....but today the perfect song was already playing in my head! Hence, here's the blog.
I may have asked for it. I did go on a rant the other day, telling the Hubs that we never have any fun, never go anywhere, never socialize, etc, et al. And, while we were at Costco yesterday and I was reading all the wine reviews to determine if the better purchase was a top 15 from 2009 or a top 10 from 2007 (as if my Uncle Sandy's homemade cherry wine palate would know the difference)....maybe I did suggest that we get all dolled up and go out somewhere. And, when the Hubs suggested a movie, maybe I did make a face and crinkle my nose up and say something like, oh, I don't know...maybe "NO! NOT ANOTHER MOVIE!" So, what did the Hubs do? Why he walked out of the closet wearing his Buckle jeans! That's when I knew it was on like Donkey Kong. Those Buckle jeans don't come hoppin' out for just any ole night. Faster than you can say "you're going to regret this tomorrow" I slithered into my spanks and hit the door!
Here in my neck of the woods we have this place called "Gloria's" (those of you who know me are already hanging your heads and nodding slowly to and fro). If you stand on my back porch and listen carefully on beautiful summer evenings, you can here it literally call my name. "Diiiiiiinnnnna." See? Gloria's has superb Cuban food. They wrap their tamales in banana leaves. They serve this yummy rice that's dark brown and sort of gooey. They have black bean dip. They also have the best margaritas in the universe. No one really knows for sure exactly what they put in said margaritas - it's sort of like an urban legend. Everclear? Napalm? Crack? They're itty bitty, too! One is my limit. It seems, though, that one of these little glasses of Heaven + two glasses of 2007's top ten Merlot....is all she wrote.
Act 2: Leave Gloria's. See Kevin and Dina on a beautiful starlit night. See Kevin and Dina gaze out over the water. See Kevin and Dina walk by a bar. See Kevin and Dina notice live band playing. See Kevin and Dina decide to go inside. Cue crowd noise. Hear lead singer proclaim, "THIS ONE'S FOR YOU SOUTH GARLAND CLASS OF '84!!" Watch Kevin and Dina proceed to gyrate wildly on the dance floor to that song about Josie being on a vacation far away. See Dina do the ever-popular V'd fingers across the eyes "Pulp Fiction" move. See Kevin striking up conversations with complete strangers. See Dina showing old driver's license to other complete strangers because, apparently, they need to see Dina with long hair. Watch Dina come back from ladies room with random South Garland name tag. (Can you believe they made them wear name tags with their old high school pictures on them? OMG - it was HILARIOUS!!!!!) Watch Dina convince people that she really is Buffy Ramsey-Haskins. Hear Kevin tell lead singer of band that he plays the guitar & perhaps could sit in with them if, oh - I don't know, say the lead guitarist were to get bonked on the head accidentally tonight. Hear Kevin convince Dina that woman in corner really is Michelle Obama. See Dina writing this blog at 9:48am & picking remnants of mascara out of her eyelashes while Kevin is still sleeping soundly.
Don't tell me we're too old to freak.....I just hope there were no pictures. That's all I'm sayin'. (Buffy Ramsey-Haskins is a fictitious name. If you really are out there, Buffy, rest assured that I don't know you and meant no disrespect. I'm sure you're quite the shiz.)
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Broken Promises - Pie Crust Intact
If you need a friend, don't look to a stranger,
You know in the end, I'll always be there.
But when you're in doubt, and when you're in danger,
Take a look all around, and I'll be there.
I'm sorry, but I'm just thinking of the right words to say.
I know they don't sound the way I planned them to be.
But if you'll wait around awhile, I'll make you fall for me,
I promise you, I promise you I will.
"The Promise" - When in Rome
Promises are like pie crust. I'm not sure, but I think that's a French saying. At least, it's a song on one of Carla Bruni's albums. Though Carla is an Italian born former supermodel, she is the current 1st lady of France. Besides, the lyrics look French, what with all the je' words everywhere. I wonder what it means, this pie crust thing? Difficult to make and breaks easily? Tempting to pick apart and eat when you're not supposed to? Probably not the latter. I really like Carla Bruni. It's nice to see a true free spirit. I love that she seems, from my angle, at least, completely unapologetic for her indiscretions. So what if she was the Yoko Ono of the Rolling Stones (was that really Mick's baby or is the jury still out on that one?). Who cares if a painting of her naked sold for 60 times what was predicted? I see her as so refreshing in a day and age where we get to see celebrities pretend to be unapologetic, until the cash flow subsides. Then, there are more apologies hurling through the universe than you can shake a stick at....or a piece of pie crust.
Promises have always bothered me. Why do we make them? Moreover, why do we promise the most ridiculous, uncontrollable things? "I promise I'll always be there for you?" Oh, yeah? What if I get hit by a bus tomorrow. "I promise this won't hurt a bit." Please!!!! Whatever. "I promise to love you forever." So what if it's from afar or if you're sick of me already. "I promise,Chynna, just give me your bracelet and I will wear it for you until you're back in the recovery room - this surgery is going to be a breeze." Why can't we just say - "Hey. I do promise that I'll always have the best of intentions. I promise that, if I do hurt you, I'll at least try to help you pick up the pieces again. I promise not to make horrible, ridiculous promises anymore. I promise that I'm glad we're right here...right now. I promise that no matter what happens - you were it for me, baby girl, and I'll never ever forget you." Now, help me eat this pie crust before it breaks.
You know in the end, I'll always be there.
But when you're in doubt, and when you're in danger,
Take a look all around, and I'll be there.
I'm sorry, but I'm just thinking of the right words to say.
I know they don't sound the way I planned them to be.
But if you'll wait around awhile, I'll make you fall for me,
I promise you, I promise you I will.
"The Promise" - When in Rome
Promises are like pie crust. I'm not sure, but I think that's a French saying. At least, it's a song on one of Carla Bruni's albums. Though Carla is an Italian born former supermodel, she is the current 1st lady of France. Besides, the lyrics look French, what with all the je' words everywhere. I wonder what it means, this pie crust thing? Difficult to make and breaks easily? Tempting to pick apart and eat when you're not supposed to? Probably not the latter. I really like Carla Bruni. It's nice to see a true free spirit. I love that she seems, from my angle, at least, completely unapologetic for her indiscretions. So what if she was the Yoko Ono of the Rolling Stones (was that really Mick's baby or is the jury still out on that one?). Who cares if a painting of her naked sold for 60 times what was predicted? I see her as so refreshing in a day and age where we get to see celebrities pretend to be unapologetic, until the cash flow subsides. Then, there are more apologies hurling through the universe than you can shake a stick at....or a piece of pie crust.
Promises have always bothered me. Why do we make them? Moreover, why do we promise the most ridiculous, uncontrollable things? "I promise I'll always be there for you?" Oh, yeah? What if I get hit by a bus tomorrow. "I promise this won't hurt a bit." Please!!!! Whatever. "I promise to love you forever." So what if it's from afar or if you're sick of me already. "I promise,Chynna, just give me your bracelet and I will wear it for you until you're back in the recovery room - this surgery is going to be a breeze." Why can't we just say - "Hey. I do promise that I'll always have the best of intentions. I promise that, if I do hurt you, I'll at least try to help you pick up the pieces again. I promise not to make horrible, ridiculous promises anymore. I promise that I'm glad we're right here...right now. I promise that no matter what happens - you were it for me, baby girl, and I'll never ever forget you." Now, help me eat this pie crust before it breaks.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Polk Salad DD
If We Make It Through December
ev'rything's gonna be alright I know
It's the coldest time of winter
and I shiver when I see the falling snow
If We Make It Through December
Got plans to be a warmer town come summer time
Maybe even California
If We Make It Through December we'll be fine
Got laid off down at the fact'ry
And their timing's not the greatest in the world
Heaven knows I been working hard
wanted Christmas to be right for daddy's girl
I don't mean to hate December
It's meant to be the happy time of year
And my little girl don't understand
why daddy can't afford no Christmas here
"If We Make it Through December" - Merle Haggard
Life on a budget.....it ain't for sissies, folks! Yes, we're on a strict budget. We have been on this budget for like 375 years already!!! Seriously - not a joke. On the 1/2 full side, I will say that we are no worse off than the year I was RAKING IN THE DOUGH while staffing a large call center somewhere in the world that may have had something to do with some vicious, nameless hurricane. That was a great year! So is this. Because, even though I'm not theoretically employed, I can stretch a buck! Likewise, when I have it, I sure can spend it. Granted, it's been a rough year. Losing a child is emotionally devastating....and EXPENSIVE to boot. Also, the cost of having cancer is roughly quadruple the national deficit. If I actually had all of the money I owe to various hospitals, clinics, doctors who I never heard of but who apparently are entitled to thousands of dollars for telling some nurse to give me a Tylenol, etc....I could buy Dubai, or at least a new car. So, pray tell, what strategies does one employ to remain solvent in such difficult times? Easy-peasy! Here is my official idiot's guide to saving a buck.
Everything ends in salad. Chicken today - chicken salad tomorrow. Tuna today - tuna salad tomorrow. Eggs today....got the rhythm? Word to yo mother, beware the fish salad. I don't know what I did wrong, but it wasn't my finest moment. Virtually EVERYTHING, though, can be made into some type of edible salad something or other. All it takes is mayo and relish....apples and walnuts if there's company coming. It's delicious, too, except Kevin never seems to be around on salad nights? What's up with that? That, and we are all a little skinnier, but there's absolutely NO correlation! (OK - I'll come clean. Kitty ate the fish salad, which led to the blog about cat S*&$)
Show me a mom with an extra 5 bucks and I'll show you a modern day Madame Curie! Where is that Coach that taught chemistry now, huh? Tell me I'm "chemically challenged" will ya! My lab is my bathroom - sometimes even the laundry room. A dab of this, a squirt of that.....al la peanut butter sandwiches, and....POOF! Got 57 body washes hanging around with about 2 Tsp of lather left in the bottom. No problemo! Grab the funnel out of the Hubs "man space" and get ta mixin'. So what if we bathe in gray lather and smell a little bit like cumin all the time? Who cares if we washed our clothes in the last of the Palmolive this week? Out of Burberry? Just dab some Downy behind each ear. Angelina wore Billy Bob's blood around her neck for years - just make mine Snuggle. Think out of the box people!
Forget location, the key to cheap life is logistics, logistics, logistics! I route plan. I don't make willy-nilly trips all over town....I ration my gas! Seriously, Kevin needed a haircut for like 2 months one time, but I wouldn't let him go until my library books were due - same side of town = same day of errands. Similarly, you can forget the health club membership. I'll just put my doggies on the pavement. I was driving across town to walk on the middle school track. Too far. Then, I was driving everyday to the new park. Closer, but no cigar. Now, I just walk right out my front door and hoof it from here. Sooner or later you may catch me walking in place in the dining room! Think you need a weight machine? A weenie dog weighs about 15 lbs. Just hold one doggy under each arm....and squat (and up), and squat (and up). Piece of cake! I even have Opie the pug doing yoga with me. He's very mellow....talk about downward facing dogs, though (you so saw that one coming).
When life gives you a lemon.....make a lemon salad!
ev'rything's gonna be alright I know
It's the coldest time of winter
and I shiver when I see the falling snow
If We Make It Through December
Got plans to be a warmer town come summer time
Maybe even California
If We Make It Through December we'll be fine
Got laid off down at the fact'ry
And their timing's not the greatest in the world
Heaven knows I been working hard
wanted Christmas to be right for daddy's girl
I don't mean to hate December
It's meant to be the happy time of year
And my little girl don't understand
why daddy can't afford no Christmas here
"If We Make it Through December" - Merle Haggard
Life on a budget.....it ain't for sissies, folks! Yes, we're on a strict budget. We have been on this budget for like 375 years already!!! Seriously - not a joke. On the 1/2 full side, I will say that we are no worse off than the year I was RAKING IN THE DOUGH while staffing a large call center somewhere in the world that may have had something to do with some vicious, nameless hurricane. That was a great year! So is this. Because, even though I'm not theoretically employed, I can stretch a buck! Likewise, when I have it, I sure can spend it. Granted, it's been a rough year. Losing a child is emotionally devastating....and EXPENSIVE to boot. Also, the cost of having cancer is roughly quadruple the national deficit. If I actually had all of the money I owe to various hospitals, clinics, doctors who I never heard of but who apparently are entitled to thousands of dollars for telling some nurse to give me a Tylenol, etc....I could buy Dubai, or at least a new car. So, pray tell, what strategies does one employ to remain solvent in such difficult times? Easy-peasy! Here is my official idiot's guide to saving a buck.
Everything ends in salad. Chicken today - chicken salad tomorrow. Tuna today - tuna salad tomorrow. Eggs today....got the rhythm? Word to yo mother, beware the fish salad. I don't know what I did wrong, but it wasn't my finest moment. Virtually EVERYTHING, though, can be made into some type of edible salad something or other. All it takes is mayo and relish....apples and walnuts if there's company coming. It's delicious, too, except Kevin never seems to be around on salad nights? What's up with that? That, and we are all a little skinnier, but there's absolutely NO correlation! (OK - I'll come clean. Kitty ate the fish salad, which led to the blog about cat S*&$)
Show me a mom with an extra 5 bucks and I'll show you a modern day Madame Curie! Where is that Coach that taught chemistry now, huh? Tell me I'm "chemically challenged" will ya! My lab is my bathroom - sometimes even the laundry room. A dab of this, a squirt of that.....al la peanut butter sandwiches, and....POOF! Got 57 body washes hanging around with about 2 Tsp of lather left in the bottom. No problemo! Grab the funnel out of the Hubs "man space" and get ta mixin'. So what if we bathe in gray lather and smell a little bit like cumin all the time? Who cares if we washed our clothes in the last of the Palmolive this week? Out of Burberry? Just dab some Downy behind each ear. Angelina wore Billy Bob's blood around her neck for years - just make mine Snuggle. Think out of the box people!
Forget location, the key to cheap life is logistics, logistics, logistics! I route plan. I don't make willy-nilly trips all over town....I ration my gas! Seriously, Kevin needed a haircut for like 2 months one time, but I wouldn't let him go until my library books were due - same side of town = same day of errands. Similarly, you can forget the health club membership. I'll just put my doggies on the pavement. I was driving across town to walk on the middle school track. Too far. Then, I was driving everyday to the new park. Closer, but no cigar. Now, I just walk right out my front door and hoof it from here. Sooner or later you may catch me walking in place in the dining room! Think you need a weight machine? A weenie dog weighs about 15 lbs. Just hold one doggy under each arm....and squat (and up), and squat (and up). Piece of cake! I even have Opie the pug doing yoga with me. He's very mellow....talk about downward facing dogs, though (you so saw that one coming).
When life gives you a lemon.....make a lemon salad!
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Allow me to introduce you to my friend, Victoria ('s Secret, that is!)
Say hey, good lookin' whatcha got cookin'?
How's about cookin' something up with me?
Hey, sweet baby don't you think maybe
We can find us a brand new recipe?
I got a hot rod ford and a two dollar bill
And I know a spot right over the hill
There's soda pop and the dancin's free
So if you want to have fun come along with me.
Hey, good lookin' whatcha got cookin'?
How's about cookin' something up with me?
"Hey Good Lookin'" by Hank Williams
Yesterday was a stressful day! Hospital, grocers, CEO of the Moon limo service for munchkins, spending 4 hours cooking food that magically disappears within 10 minutes (kids around food = leprechauns within 100 miles of a rainbow - "Have ya seen me Lucky Charms, laddy?"). Still, any day that I can have a crowd of chillrens here is a superb day, in my opinion. We entertained the following individuals last eve: Kev & I, Cart, Dill, Dano, Wingo, Parker, Brit, Park & Brit's unborn daughter, Grandma Marsha, Grandad Ted.....I think that's all? There were surprises! Park has a fierce new tat. Brit's tum tum is sooooooo cute, and I love her choices in baby names. Grandad brought me approximately 2 decades worth of pre-cut firewood. Daniel is speed texting a new girl that he knows only by her first name, while Dillan tells us he's texting someone who lives on the Arkansas border, is 4 years older than he is, and has a 2 year old son.....deep, cleansing breaths. Count backwards from 100.....there now!
Boobie Update! Boobie Update! We now interrupt your regularly scheduled blog to bring you this exciting and "titillating" information. John Wayne is legally changing her name to....... Michael Jackson!!!!! Though human hands have shaped and re-shaped her structure, she's looks pretty awesome, very feminine, and just needs a tan! YESSSSSS! Good-bye, stitches. So long, stacks and stacks of gauze with symmetrical holes cut in the tops. Adios, steri-strips, sticky medical tape, & triple antibiotic ointments. Smell you later, horrid "sleeping on one's back" regime. Welcome back to my life, side sleeping au natural, weird exercises to keep my "pockets" soft, Mederma (tm), and .....in just 3 short weeks......UNDERWIRE BRAS FOR THE FIRST TIME IN OVER A YEAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I must say. This truly is the silk purse that I've crafted from my cancerous sow's ear. Dr. McHottie (he's latino so I'm hereby changing his moniker to Dr. Rico Suave) sculpts with the hands of a master! He's the Michelangelo of boobies! He talked me into silicone! He brought me into the light! Enough of that.
Suffice it to say that things are going great! I feel good. I look....eh, better, at least. My hair is growing into a nice little party-in-the-back mullet. I didn't lose those two toenails after all. My Mexican rice was REALLY GOOD last night (as were the black beans with chorizo and cilantro AND the cheese enchiladas) and Daniel almost ate an entire Dutch oven's worth. What could be better? I think I'll make a pie today!
How's about cookin' something up with me?
Hey, sweet baby don't you think maybe
We can find us a brand new recipe?
I got a hot rod ford and a two dollar bill
And I know a spot right over the hill
There's soda pop and the dancin's free
So if you want to have fun come along with me.
Hey, good lookin' whatcha got cookin'?
How's about cookin' something up with me?
"Hey Good Lookin'" by Hank Williams
Yesterday was a stressful day! Hospital, grocers, CEO of the Moon limo service for munchkins, spending 4 hours cooking food that magically disappears within 10 minutes (kids around food = leprechauns within 100 miles of a rainbow - "Have ya seen me Lucky Charms, laddy?"). Still, any day that I can have a crowd of chillrens here is a superb day, in my opinion. We entertained the following individuals last eve: Kev & I, Cart, Dill, Dano, Wingo, Parker, Brit, Park & Brit's unborn daughter, Grandma Marsha, Grandad Ted.....I think that's all? There were surprises! Park has a fierce new tat. Brit's tum tum is sooooooo cute, and I love her choices in baby names. Grandad brought me approximately 2 decades worth of pre-cut firewood. Daniel is speed texting a new girl that he knows only by her first name, while Dillan tells us he's texting someone who lives on the Arkansas border, is 4 years older than he is, and has a 2 year old son.....deep, cleansing breaths. Count backwards from 100.....there now!
Boobie Update! Boobie Update! We now interrupt your regularly scheduled blog to bring you this exciting and "titillating" information. John Wayne is legally changing her name to....... Michael Jackson!!!!! Though human hands have shaped and re-shaped her structure, she's looks pretty awesome, very feminine, and just needs a tan! YESSSSSS! Good-bye, stitches. So long, stacks and stacks of gauze with symmetrical holes cut in the tops. Adios, steri-strips, sticky medical tape, & triple antibiotic ointments. Smell you later, horrid "sleeping on one's back" regime. Welcome back to my life, side sleeping au natural, weird exercises to keep my "pockets" soft, Mederma (tm), and .....in just 3 short weeks......UNDERWIRE BRAS FOR THE FIRST TIME IN OVER A YEAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I must say. This truly is the silk purse that I've crafted from my cancerous sow's ear. Dr. McHottie (he's latino so I'm hereby changing his moniker to Dr. Rico Suave) sculpts with the hands of a master! He's the Michelangelo of boobies! He talked me into silicone! He brought me into the light! Enough of that.
Suffice it to say that things are going great! I feel good. I look....eh, better, at least. My hair is growing into a nice little party-in-the-back mullet. I didn't lose those two toenails after all. My Mexican rice was REALLY GOOD last night (as were the black beans with chorizo and cilantro AND the cheese enchiladas) and Daniel almost ate an entire Dutch oven's worth. What could be better? I think I'll make a pie today!
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Say "Cheese" John Wayne!
Rub, rub here, rub, rub there
Whether you're tin or brass
That's how we keep you in repair
In the Merry Old Land of Oz
We can make a dimple smile
Out of a frown
Can you even dye my eyes
To match my gown?
Uh-huh!
Jolly Old town!
Clip, clip here, clip, clip there
We give the roughest claws
That certain air of savoir faire
In the Merry Old Land of Oz
Ha!
That's how we laugh the day away
In the Merry Old Land of Oz
"Merry Old Land of OZ" Songwriters: Arlen, Harold; Harburg, E Y
Attention good people! Friends, Romans, Texans.......
There will be no blog today. I repeat, there will be no blog today. Temper, temper! "Do not arouse the wrath of the great and powerful Oz. I said come back tomorrow!" Today, yours truly has to kick it into high gear in order to get to the hospital for a post-op follow-up that will, hopefully, include stitch removal and....drumroll......wait for it.......REMOVAL OF JOHN WAYNE'S EYE PATCH(she was my sick girlie who recently underwent a year's worth of treatment - also, this is all a BRILLIANT code I developed for breast cancer terms, so just use your imagination and read between the lines)! I can hardly wait to see how she looks! It's like - back in the day - on "Day's of Our Lives", when that guy with all the bandages was rescued off the pier by Victor Kiriakis and hidden in one of his mansion bedrooms and we waited like all summer to see who it was and it turned out to be Roman Brady but when they took the bandages off it wasn't the actor that used to play Roman Brady but some new guy that smirked too much and talked in a fake low voice and said "Doc" every other word? Whew! Yep, that's exactly what it's like!
So - I will report in tomorrow on how the girl's are looking and what they're allowed to do and not do. Maybe (this is a stretch!) I'll get to throw the lunch lady bra in the trash.....now that's a horse of a different color!
Muah! Muah!
Whether you're tin or brass
That's how we keep you in repair
In the Merry Old Land of Oz
We can make a dimple smile
Out of a frown
Can you even dye my eyes
To match my gown?
Uh-huh!
Jolly Old town!
Clip, clip here, clip, clip there
We give the roughest claws
That certain air of savoir faire
In the Merry Old Land of Oz
Ha!
That's how we laugh the day away
In the Merry Old Land of Oz
"Merry Old Land of OZ" Songwriters: Arlen, Harold; Harburg, E Y
Attention good people! Friends, Romans, Texans.......
There will be no blog today. I repeat, there will be no blog today. Temper, temper! "Do not arouse the wrath of the great and powerful Oz. I said come back tomorrow!" Today, yours truly has to kick it into high gear in order to get to the hospital for a post-op follow-up that will, hopefully, include stitch removal and....drumroll......wait for it.......REMOVAL OF JOHN WAYNE'S EYE PATCH(she was my sick girlie who recently underwent a year's worth of treatment - also, this is all a BRILLIANT code I developed for breast cancer terms, so just use your imagination and read between the lines)! I can hardly wait to see how she looks! It's like - back in the day - on "Day's of Our Lives", when that guy with all the bandages was rescued off the pier by Victor Kiriakis and hidden in one of his mansion bedrooms and we waited like all summer to see who it was and it turned out to be Roman Brady but when they took the bandages off it wasn't the actor that used to play Roman Brady but some new guy that smirked too much and talked in a fake low voice and said "Doc" every other word? Whew! Yep, that's exactly what it's like!
So - I will report in tomorrow on how the girl's are looking and what they're allowed to do and not do. Maybe (this is a stretch!) I'll get to throw the lunch lady bra in the trash.....now that's a horse of a different color!
Muah! Muah!
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Dr. Moon-Paging Dr. Moon...Code Blue on Kitty, Dr. Moon
Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat,
What are they feeding you?
Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat
It's not your fault
They won't take you to the vet
You're obviously not their favorite pet
Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat,
It's not your fault
You may not be a bed of roses
You're not friend to those with noses
I'll miss you before we're done
Or the world will smell as one
"Smelly Cat" as sung by Phoebe on "Friends"
Everyone relax! This is going to be a relatively short blog today about absolutely nothing. I know you all had nightmares about my pseudo politically charged recycling rant yesterday & for that I am very sorry. I just don't know what gets into me some days?? Hee hee. Anyway, I have absolutely nothing to say today....so we will briefly discuss my brilliant use of sarcasm and how it gets me into sooooooo much trouble with the Hubs! Warning: Contents to include foul language. I don't actually curse that much (oh, c'mon! I don't care which protestant church ya'll go to, everyone of you knows that you pop out an S-word or even an F-bomb every so often: backed over your kid's $200 bike lately? forgot to set the oven timer on that casserole that's expected at your mother-in-law's house in 15 min? See?), though I do say the words IN MY MIND. And, since this is a view into my mind, we have to include the expletives for authenticity's sake. Now that you're all nodding your head in agreement, you'll realize that I missed my calling and should've been a defense attorney....
My husband does not like me to swear. He does not like me to smart off at him. He does not think it is cute, sexy, endearing, or anything similar. When I try it, he thinks it comes across as crass, vulgar, and low-class. But, that's really me! I am the queen of dark sarcastic humor! I can't control it! So, I say it in my head (or scream it into a pillow)...case in point...I went upstairs to do some piddly, unimportant thing over the weekend, only to find that my almost 10 year old Ragdoll cat, Penelope Cruz Moon, had shit on Carter's bed. There's no other way to say it, AND, I warned you! It was completely disgusting! Now, Kevin is not a fan of cat shit, esp on his beloved son's bed and I was not excited about the prospect of him seeing it. He isn't crazy about my love of the feline species as it is....he's even less gracious with Kitty's (I am the only one who uses her proper name!!!)recent gastrointestinal anomalies. So, there I am. Scrubbing, spraying, vomiting in my mouth just a little. I hear something! I freeze! I hold my breath! Yep - that's what it is.....footfalls on the stairs. HE'S COMING! QUICK! PICK THE SHIT UP (literally)! But wait - there's not time! So, like the ugly little troll in that scary story about the billy goats and the bridge, I yell, "HALT! WHO GOES THERE?" Actually, I think I just screamed, "DON'T COME UP HERE - KITTY JUST TOOK A SH...A POOPIE ON CARTER'S BED! RUN! SAVE YOURSELF!" His response...."Whaaaaaa???" Me, again, in a relatively calmer tone, "Kitty is sick, dear husband, and I doth intend to clean this abomination up thoroughly so it doesn't makest thou ill." He replies, "Uh...Kitty's sick? What do you mean sick?" OK - this is the point where the conversation retreats inside my head. SHITTING ON BED IS THE ONLY KIND OF SICK THAT KITTY GETS!!! I have no idea what I said back as I went into my Stepford Wives mentality and said whatever he would've preferred I say. I think I even put on pearls and stiletto pumps afterward and vacuumed the carpet al a June Cleaver. What I said on the inside, however, was the REAL me...."What kind of sick? Uh, oh! Didn't I tell you that she joined a gang? Yeah - she joined a gang and, unfortunately, was just the victim of a Feline drive-by. Kitty is a gunshot victim and I'm removing the bullet on top of Carter's bed, since I really like to see his bed COVERED IN KITTY ENTRAILS!!!!"
I just thought it, OK. I didn't actually say it! Then I vacuumed....and made a pie! Shhhhhhhh - don't tell the Hubs! He thinkest me perfect!
What are they feeding you?
Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat
It's not your fault
They won't take you to the vet
You're obviously not their favorite pet
Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat,
It's not your fault
You may not be a bed of roses
You're not friend to those with noses
I'll miss you before we're done
Or the world will smell as one
"Smelly Cat" as sung by Phoebe on "Friends"
Everyone relax! This is going to be a relatively short blog today about absolutely nothing. I know you all had nightmares about my pseudo politically charged recycling rant yesterday & for that I am very sorry. I just don't know what gets into me some days?? Hee hee. Anyway, I have absolutely nothing to say today....so we will briefly discuss my brilliant use of sarcasm and how it gets me into sooooooo much trouble with the Hubs! Warning: Contents to include foul language. I don't actually curse that much (oh, c'mon! I don't care which protestant church ya'll go to, everyone of you knows that you pop out an S-word or even an F-bomb every so often: backed over your kid's $200 bike lately? forgot to set the oven timer on that casserole that's expected at your mother-in-law's house in 15 min? See?), though I do say the words IN MY MIND. And, since this is a view into my mind, we have to include the expletives for authenticity's sake. Now that you're all nodding your head in agreement, you'll realize that I missed my calling and should've been a defense attorney....
My husband does not like me to swear. He does not like me to smart off at him. He does not think it is cute, sexy, endearing, or anything similar. When I try it, he thinks it comes across as crass, vulgar, and low-class. But, that's really me! I am the queen of dark sarcastic humor! I can't control it! So, I say it in my head (or scream it into a pillow)...case in point...I went upstairs to do some piddly, unimportant thing over the weekend, only to find that my almost 10 year old Ragdoll cat, Penelope Cruz Moon, had shit on Carter's bed. There's no other way to say it, AND, I warned you! It was completely disgusting! Now, Kevin is not a fan of cat shit, esp on his beloved son's bed and I was not excited about the prospect of him seeing it. He isn't crazy about my love of the feline species as it is....he's even less gracious with Kitty's (I am the only one who uses her proper name!!!)recent gastrointestinal anomalies. So, there I am. Scrubbing, spraying, vomiting in my mouth just a little. I hear something! I freeze! I hold my breath! Yep - that's what it is.....footfalls on the stairs. HE'S COMING! QUICK! PICK THE SHIT UP (literally)! But wait - there's not time! So, like the ugly little troll in that scary story about the billy goats and the bridge, I yell, "HALT! WHO GOES THERE?" Actually, I think I just screamed, "DON'T COME UP HERE - KITTY JUST TOOK A SH...A POOPIE ON CARTER'S BED! RUN! SAVE YOURSELF!" His response...."Whaaaaaa???" Me, again, in a relatively calmer tone, "Kitty is sick, dear husband, and I doth intend to clean this abomination up thoroughly so it doesn't makest thou ill." He replies, "Uh...Kitty's sick? What do you mean sick?" OK - this is the point where the conversation retreats inside my head. SHITTING ON BED IS THE ONLY KIND OF SICK THAT KITTY GETS!!! I have no idea what I said back as I went into my Stepford Wives mentality and said whatever he would've preferred I say. I think I even put on pearls and stiletto pumps afterward and vacuumed the carpet al a June Cleaver. What I said on the inside, however, was the REAL me...."What kind of sick? Uh, oh! Didn't I tell you that she joined a gang? Yeah - she joined a gang and, unfortunately, was just the victim of a Feline drive-by. Kitty is a gunshot victim and I'm removing the bullet on top of Carter's bed, since I really like to see his bed COVERED IN KITTY ENTRAILS!!!!"
I just thought it, OK. I didn't actually say it! Then I vacuumed....and made a pie! Shhhhhhhh - don't tell the Hubs! He thinkest me perfect!
Monday, July 27, 2009
I Feel So Used (and re-used, and re-used, and re-used...)
I've a clock that won't work
And an old telephone
A broken umbrella, a rusty trombone
And I am delighted to call them my own
I love them because they're trash!
Oh, I love trash!
Anything dirty or dingy or dusty
Anything ragged or rotten or rusty
Yes! I love it because it's trash!
"I Love Trash" written by Jeff Moss/performed by Oscar the Grouch
Well, here we are. It's Monday. All the leaves are brown and the sky is gray (sorry Mama Cass - I hate to jumble together two of your poetic masterpieces right after quoting Sesame Street). What to write about today? I really wasn't sure. As I stumbled downstairs this morning, smugly smiling my "I'm the BEST unemployed house-Frau in the world" because I FINALLY remembered to set the darn coffee maker last night, I paused to throw Kev's gummy bear candy wrapper in the trash (yes, that's correct - professional banker, father/step-father of 4, college degreed, well-mannered, 70's guitar playin', James Taylor lovin' man of mine......who's favorite candy is now and forever....gummy bears!!! And he only eats the Haribo brand? wtf?). Anyway, as I bend over to toss out the little gold package 'o treats.....the thought occurs to me that I'm still tossing into the same trash bag that was in the kitchen last week! Yep, that's right. We're down to just one bag a week! If ya'll want to throw a parade in my honor, go right ahead. Just make sure that my float is made from 100% RECYCLABLE items...since THAT, my friends, is what we're going to talk about today! You can also give me an award for the most unlikely and awkward segue in history......
I recycle. Quick! Keep reading! Don't close me down yet! I didn't always. Actually, I kind of did, but I've just done much better at times - much worse at other times. The reason I am passionate is because I: a) am now at an age where I am starting to see the sins of non-recycling generations past b)know that it puts you into a mental state where you really think about all the ridiculous packaging involved in our US products c) am actually slightly competitive after all, as long as there is no hand to eye coordination involved & d)I really think that St. Peter's checklist has the following items listed (among several thousand others, of course)...kind to babies/ old folks/animals (check)...always tried to do the right thing (check)...recycled (check!!). I am also of the opinion that I still have very much to learn, but that if little ole me out here in Forney, Texas can recycle herself down to one trash bag a week, anyone can! There are a bajillion sites you can go to that show you what to do and where to do it, but they all make it sound so COMPLICATED that you immediately feel you can't possibly be successful without a PhD in trash. I thought that maybe if I could dumb it down enough for me....maybe my tips would work for you, too! Read on, oh earthy ones!
I know what it's like. I know why you don't recycle. I do. It's because you have to get up at 4am in order to leave by 6am so you can be at work by 8am. Now, in my former life, only about 15 min of that 4-6am allotment was spent perfecting the nude pouty lip appropriate for office. The remainder was given toward things like unload/reload of dishwasher, transferring last night's wash into dryer, making munchkin lunches, & just trying to get enough coffee in me to hold my eyes open! I also know what it's like to cover exactly 29 miles in 2 hours (one way, folks), only to get to work and realize that you - who could just as well have just driven to California (that's how it seemed, anyway) - are the only one who seems to be able to get to where you're supposed to be on time! I know what it's like to pull into the driveway at 7pm knowing that if you don't close your eyes at 10pm there will be no way you will survive another day (tick, tick, tick)...but that won't happen because there's a project due at school, there are no clean uniform clothes, someone let the cat out, and they seem to really think that you LIKE to hear the word Mom/Dad at high decibels for hours on end (always reminded me of those kittens who sing Jingle Bells in meows?)! See - I told you I understand!! That's ok. You won't believe me now, but one day you will miss all that mess. You'll think that you were the bomb.com back then. You'll tell Paul Bunyan-esque stories about how you walked 25 miles to work each day. You'll secretly still have nightmares. But, mostly...you'll be proud and the laugh track that will accompany these memories will highlight your dreams. Sorry for the wild tangent! I just wanted to qualify myself as credible in assuming that, perhaps, you don't recycle because there just isn't time. This is where I come in! Now - this is where the blog really speeds up!
Start small. Only do, say...newspapers for a month. After saving (AND RECYCLING) papers - watching them stack up in the corner of your dining room does NOT count - becomes second nature, add something else (warning - no one else in your househould will want to help you at first, so invest in rubber gloves. This way, sticking your hand down in a slimy, stinky trash bag to get that one can isn't quite as gross!) Now....call your local city hall. They should have recycling bins for free. If not, the next town over will have a drop off location - no one cares if you live in that town or not, just find out what they will accept and what you need to bag it in and then just drop it off to or from work. Let's continue under the assumption that you have a bin & are ready to start collecting all your stuff and setting it out each week. Make sure you know what your municipality will accept. It should be on their website, or again, just call them. Most cities accept newspapers, #1/#2 plastics, clear and colored glass, metal cans (soft drinks, canned veggies/fruits with the labels removed), and cardboard. Our drop off site in Forney ( we do curbside and have a drop off location) also accepts these things plus (this is the one I love!) junk mail and random office papers!!! Isn't that cool? We also have newspaper drop-off bins at our high school and several local churches. Try just adding a couple of these things each month until you have it mastered! It's infinitely better to recycle a few things superbly than to dive in too fast and decide you can't handle it at all!
Now that you have the recycling rhythm, try my tips. Tip #1 - before you put any plastic item in your grocery cart, flip it over and make sure it's a #1 or #2 plastic product. If it's not....keep looking. There will be another such product for the same price that falls into this category. Pay attention to the packaging - I don't know why something in a tube needs to be wrapped in plastic AND placed into a box INSIDE one of those hard plastic thingies that cut you when you try in vain to rip them open! Tip #2 - Take it back, jack! Do you have TONS of plastic hangers from Wal-Mart? How about those glass vases from the florist? Both scenarios are easily repairable. Wal-Mart will take back the hangers - just drop them off at customer service...or set them down next to the big container for recycling the plastic bags (more on this in a sec). After my daughter's funeral, we had about 200 (seriously)clear glass vases from florists around the area. It took a few days, but I finally found one that would gladly take all those once used vases off my hands. If I had possessed the mental capacity to list them on Craig's List, I'm sure I could've made a profit! Tip #3 - take your own bags to the grocery store and insist that you be able to use them for bagging your items! This is my current pet peeve and the thing that I have not yet perfected - though I'm trying. You DON'T have to buy the bags your grocer sells. You can bring any sort of bag you want: other plastic bags from that grocer or another, duffel bags, large purses, anything you want! My favorite thing to do is to go through the self-checkout line and bag my own. I've noticed lately that the self-checkout lines are never open when I'm at my local grocer. So...one day when there wasn't a line around the block in customer service, I asked why that was so. The response: it is this grocer's policy to staff a checker who can help with corrections and such for all of the computer challenged patrons who attempt to use the self-check aisles. These would be patrons who haven't quite mastered the touch screen philosophy. Since this grocer is purposefully understaffed in order to save money - I totally understand this, too (and I'm not being sarcastic) - they currently aren't employing said person, thus - no self-checkout. I then tell the snotty little c/s person that I intend to bring my own bags, then, and will accept absolutely no lip from the surly cashier who doesn't want to use my bags because they don't fit on the bag carousel (images of pretty plastic horses wearing lipstick run through my fertile mind). She tells me that they will GLADLY use whatever bags I choose to bring with me (I take mental note of her name and rank)and proceed to check-out. While I know all the checkers are hiding under the conveyor belt things when it's my turn, at least I feel like I'm doing something that matters! Change doesn't come easy,super centers!
One final tip - find a company that supports recycling efforts and patronize, patronize, patronize! My absolute FAV is http://www.terracycle.net/. They make amazing things like backpacks out of Oreo wrappers and binders from stuff they find in landfills. You won't believe it! Get used to the delayed gratification idealization. When you come to terms with the fact that good change is accomplished in tiny little steps, and that the end result will only be evident to you in the future, it really helps one's mindset in many areas of life. Now....for those gummy bear wrappers...wonder if I could make a bikini for my dog, Lucybird Johnson (a weenie bikini!!! get it?) Have a recycling tip for us? As always, all constructive comments and brilliant ideas are welcomed! One day I might even cover composting, thrift store shopping, and garage sales!!!! Easy - ya'll calm down!
And an old telephone
A broken umbrella, a rusty trombone
And I am delighted to call them my own
I love them because they're trash!
Oh, I love trash!
Anything dirty or dingy or dusty
Anything ragged or rotten or rusty
Yes! I love it because it's trash!
"I Love Trash" written by Jeff Moss/performed by Oscar the Grouch
Well, here we are. It's Monday. All the leaves are brown and the sky is gray (sorry Mama Cass - I hate to jumble together two of your poetic masterpieces right after quoting Sesame Street). What to write about today? I really wasn't sure. As I stumbled downstairs this morning, smugly smiling my "I'm the BEST unemployed house-Frau in the world" because I FINALLY remembered to set the darn coffee maker last night, I paused to throw Kev's gummy bear candy wrapper in the trash (yes, that's correct - professional banker, father/step-father of 4, college degreed, well-mannered, 70's guitar playin', James Taylor lovin' man of mine......who's favorite candy is now and forever....gummy bears!!! And he only eats the Haribo brand? wtf?). Anyway, as I bend over to toss out the little gold package 'o treats.....the thought occurs to me that I'm still tossing into the same trash bag that was in the kitchen last week! Yep, that's right. We're down to just one bag a week! If ya'll want to throw a parade in my honor, go right ahead. Just make sure that my float is made from 100% RECYCLABLE items...since THAT, my friends, is what we're going to talk about today! You can also give me an award for the most unlikely and awkward segue in history......
I recycle. Quick! Keep reading! Don't close me down yet! I didn't always. Actually, I kind of did, but I've just done much better at times - much worse at other times. The reason I am passionate is because I: a) am now at an age where I am starting to see the sins of non-recycling generations past b)know that it puts you into a mental state where you really think about all the ridiculous packaging involved in our US products c) am actually slightly competitive after all, as long as there is no hand to eye coordination involved & d)I really think that St. Peter's checklist has the following items listed (among several thousand others, of course)...kind to babies/ old folks/animals (check)...always tried to do the right thing (check)...recycled (check!!). I am also of the opinion that I still have very much to learn, but that if little ole me out here in Forney, Texas can recycle herself down to one trash bag a week, anyone can! There are a bajillion sites you can go to that show you what to do and where to do it, but they all make it sound so COMPLICATED that you immediately feel you can't possibly be successful without a PhD in trash. I thought that maybe if I could dumb it down enough for me....maybe my tips would work for you, too! Read on, oh earthy ones!
I know what it's like. I know why you don't recycle. I do. It's because you have to get up at 4am in order to leave by 6am so you can be at work by 8am. Now, in my former life, only about 15 min of that 4-6am allotment was spent perfecting the nude pouty lip appropriate for office. The remainder was given toward things like unload/reload of dishwasher, transferring last night's wash into dryer, making munchkin lunches, & just trying to get enough coffee in me to hold my eyes open! I also know what it's like to cover exactly 29 miles in 2 hours (one way, folks), only to get to work and realize that you - who could just as well have just driven to California (that's how it seemed, anyway) - are the only one who seems to be able to get to where you're supposed to be on time! I know what it's like to pull into the driveway at 7pm knowing that if you don't close your eyes at 10pm there will be no way you will survive another day (tick, tick, tick)...but that won't happen because there's a project due at school, there are no clean uniform clothes, someone let the cat out, and they seem to really think that you LIKE to hear the word Mom/Dad at high decibels for hours on end (always reminded me of those kittens who sing Jingle Bells in meows?)! See - I told you I understand!! That's ok. You won't believe me now, but one day you will miss all that mess. You'll think that you were the bomb.com back then. You'll tell Paul Bunyan-esque stories about how you walked 25 miles to work each day. You'll secretly still have nightmares. But, mostly...you'll be proud and the laugh track that will accompany these memories will highlight your dreams. Sorry for the wild tangent! I just wanted to qualify myself as credible in assuming that, perhaps, you don't recycle because there just isn't time. This is where I come in! Now - this is where the blog really speeds up!
Start small. Only do, say...newspapers for a month. After saving (AND RECYCLING) papers - watching them stack up in the corner of your dining room does NOT count - becomes second nature, add something else (warning - no one else in your househould will want to help you at first, so invest in rubber gloves. This way, sticking your hand down in a slimy, stinky trash bag to get that one can isn't quite as gross!) Now....call your local city hall. They should have recycling bins for free. If not, the next town over will have a drop off location - no one cares if you live in that town or not, just find out what they will accept and what you need to bag it in and then just drop it off to or from work. Let's continue under the assumption that you have a bin & are ready to start collecting all your stuff and setting it out each week. Make sure you know what your municipality will accept. It should be on their website, or again, just call them. Most cities accept newspapers, #1/#2 plastics, clear and colored glass, metal cans (soft drinks, canned veggies/fruits with the labels removed), and cardboard. Our drop off site in Forney ( we do curbside and have a drop off location) also accepts these things plus (this is the one I love!) junk mail and random office papers!!! Isn't that cool? We also have newspaper drop-off bins at our high school and several local churches. Try just adding a couple of these things each month until you have it mastered! It's infinitely better to recycle a few things superbly than to dive in too fast and decide you can't handle it at all!
Now that you have the recycling rhythm, try my tips. Tip #1 - before you put any plastic item in your grocery cart, flip it over and make sure it's a #1 or #2 plastic product. If it's not....keep looking. There will be another such product for the same price that falls into this category. Pay attention to the packaging - I don't know why something in a tube needs to be wrapped in plastic AND placed into a box INSIDE one of those hard plastic thingies that cut you when you try in vain to rip them open! Tip #2 - Take it back, jack! Do you have TONS of plastic hangers from Wal-Mart? How about those glass vases from the florist? Both scenarios are easily repairable. Wal-Mart will take back the hangers - just drop them off at customer service...or set them down next to the big container for recycling the plastic bags (more on this in a sec). After my daughter's funeral, we had about 200 (seriously)clear glass vases from florists around the area. It took a few days, but I finally found one that would gladly take all those once used vases off my hands. If I had possessed the mental capacity to list them on Craig's List, I'm sure I could've made a profit! Tip #3 - take your own bags to the grocery store and insist that you be able to use them for bagging your items! This is my current pet peeve and the thing that I have not yet perfected - though I'm trying. You DON'T have to buy the bags your grocer sells. You can bring any sort of bag you want: other plastic bags from that grocer or another, duffel bags, large purses, anything you want! My favorite thing to do is to go through the self-checkout line and bag my own. I've noticed lately that the self-checkout lines are never open when I'm at my local grocer. So...one day when there wasn't a line around the block in customer service, I asked why that was so. The response: it is this grocer's policy to staff a checker who can help with corrections and such for all of the computer challenged patrons who attempt to use the self-check aisles. These would be patrons who haven't quite mastered the touch screen philosophy. Since this grocer is purposefully understaffed in order to save money - I totally understand this, too (and I'm not being sarcastic) - they currently aren't employing said person, thus - no self-checkout. I then tell the snotty little c/s person that I intend to bring my own bags, then, and will accept absolutely no lip from the surly cashier who doesn't want to use my bags because they don't fit on the bag carousel (images of pretty plastic horses wearing lipstick run through my fertile mind). She tells me that they will GLADLY use whatever bags I choose to bring with me (I take mental note of her name and rank)and proceed to check-out. While I know all the checkers are hiding under the conveyor belt things when it's my turn, at least I feel like I'm doing something that matters! Change doesn't come easy,super centers!
One final tip - find a company that supports recycling efforts and patronize, patronize, patronize! My absolute FAV is http://www.terracycle.net/. They make amazing things like backpacks out of Oreo wrappers and binders from stuff they find in landfills. You won't believe it! Get used to the delayed gratification idealization. When you come to terms with the fact that good change is accomplished in tiny little steps, and that the end result will only be evident to you in the future, it really helps one's mindset in many areas of life. Now....for those gummy bear wrappers...wonder if I could make a bikini for my dog, Lucybird Johnson (a weenie bikini!!! get it?) Have a recycling tip for us? As always, all constructive comments and brilliant ideas are welcomed! One day I might even cover composting, thrift store shopping, and garage sales!!!! Easy - ya'll calm down!
Friday, July 24, 2009
Me & Fergie Ferg Love You Long Time
You are the Dancing Queen,
young and sweet,
only seventeen
Dancing Queen,
feel the beat from the tambourine
You can dance,
you can jive,
having the time of your life
See that girl,
watch that scene,
digging the Dancing Queen
"Dancing Queen" by ABBA
So, I don't get out much anymore. It's understandable. Especially in the last year or so, I really haven't felt like a party girl. First I was bald - can you imagine? I don't think I have EVER heard the phrase "OMG,dude, look at that HOT, bald, older, married woman in the corner." Then, I sported the GI Jane cut for a while. That was fine, until very muscular women started winking at me (and there is nothing wrong with very muscular women who wink at other women, either, so let's not even start that debate. Just wasn't my focus, ok?). Finally I have enough hair that I can pretend like I intended for it to look this way. So, imagine my horror when I found myself in a social situation recently - a BAR nonetheless! No idea what to say. No idea what to do. Basically, just no idea! Let us go on a journey, shall we? Take my hand. I will be the ghost of lady's nights past....let's go back.....back.....back. All the way back to THURSDAY NIGHT!
OK - I started to turn down the invitation. After all, I just had reconstructive surgery last Friday. I currently have enough steri-strips and gauze pads on "the girls" to clothe a mummy(I affectionately refer to one of my girlies as John Wayne, since she has to wear an eye patch for a little while). Kevin looked at me rather knowingly when I asked him if he would throw caution to the wind and try not to worry about me too much - as if there's a market out there for married 42 year old women with post chemo hair, stretch marks, and one good boob. Plus, this post surgical bra coordinates better with a hair net, a set of clear gloves, and a name tag that says "Gertrude" than it does nightlife attire. Still, I've been stir crazy. It really seemed like a very innocent outing, too. Little music, couple of drinks, blanket under the stars, all my favorite bff's....great band...hmmm? Sounds to me like all the right ingredients for a GIRLS NIGHT! So, against medical advice, I lost the lunch lady bra for the evening, donned a uber soft and flowy sundress to hide my multitude of girl over 40 sins, slicked down my bouffant hairdo, and hit the road. Fasten your seat belts - it's going to be a bumpy ride!
The concert was GREAT! But ya'll know how it goes. After the party is the after party (don't worry, no hotel lobbies were harmed in this outing!)So...picture me and my bestest BFF trying to finagle a GIGANTIC cooler - I feigned injury so she had to do all the work! (I'm the dork that made homemade tuna salad sandwiches for everyone - with apples and walnuts no less - in case anyone got hungry. I'm still embarrassed just typing that line! Still - we did take sandwich breaks a few times. Ain't nothin' but a mom thang). We parked the cooler on wheels outside of the club, left our large blanket on top of it, and walked into....party central. Now, once upon a time, yours truly would have known EXACTLY how to behave. Why, I had a fake ID when I was 16 (Thank you, Debbie Talasek)! You could find me at Confetti's, Monopoly's, and especially Zebo's! I was a dancing queen. I could bat my eyelashes with the best of them. I was like Scarlett O'Hara at the Wilkes annual picnic when all the boys argue over where she was going to sit. I'll bet, however, that Scarlett wasn't walking around trying to count the heads of all the gentlemen who were theoretically old enough to be her children. Talk about depressing! Try striking up a conversation with someone (male or female) when their opening lines range from "Uh, have you, uh, like, heard of me" to "OMG so like my friend Whitney was talking to this ugly girl and she like rolled her eyes at us so like Whitney said oh no you didn't and then the ugly girl said bword lets take this outside and Whit said OMG your manicure is as nasty as you are and then the ugly girl went to find all her other ugly friends"......et al. You get the picture.
Dilemma upon dilemma. Issue #1: How to dance in place at bar. Good song comes on ("Boom, Boom, Pow" and I do know all Fergie's lines). See me standing there. Have NO IDEA what to do with my hands. Arsenio Hall whoop whoops? Raise the roof with palms up? 80's finger snaps? I just don't feel comfortable bending over and rubbing my butt on other women! That, however, seems to be the preferred mode of dance. So, I just sort of swayed softly from side to side, holding my big mom purse and smiling ever so sweetly. Besides, keeping my arms slightly bent means that you can't see my excess elbow skin - a true sign of someone who should not be in a bar. Issue #2: My age men should not be allowed in bars! PREDATOR ALERT! PREDATOR ALERT! Granted, there did seem to be a couple of really decent, nice folks there, but c'mon! There was a weird little old man TAKING PICTURES OF SCANTILY CLAD GIRLS WITH HIS CAMERA PHONE! Oogey! Don't worry - I was neither (girl or scantily clad). Issue #3: What to do on dance floor. I didn't dance, don't worry. Still, to get to the ladies room, one had to navigate through the center of the dance floor! AWKWARD. As you shuffle your feet with teeny tiny steps and try incorporating a Space Invaders inspired sideways crab walk to make yourself as small as possible, everyone mistakes this as an invitation to dance with you. Again, out of nowhere comes a cacophony of bent over butts and anonymous crotches - it's the attack of the nether regions! Run! Save yourself! Finally, I found a tiny, third-world-country type of unexplored pathway right next to the DJ's area. I would cling to his little podium and circumnavigate the entire area. Plus, on my way back at one point, I discovered that he keeps baskets and baskets of saltine crackers back there! Heck yes! Give me free crackers any day of the week! Cha ching!
Now, I'm not a big drinker. Too much and I just get sleepy, anyway. Thus, I won't be closing 'em down anytime soon. It is quite funny to be one of the few, the proud, the somewhat sober. Drunk people are very much like old people. They assume that you can't hear either and yell VERY LOUDLY AT EVERYONE. Drunk people start thinking that they are WAAAAAY more attractive than they actually are - unless the other party is also intoxicated. Drunk people either love everyone or hate everyone. Drunk female people think that you want to see their boobies. Don't worry, John Wayne, I'll keep all the crazy people away from you. It was FANTASTIC people watching! I had a great time on my lady's night out excursion. Hopefully I can do it again after John Wayne loses her eye patch. In the meantime, I will be practicing my dance moves. Next time, when I need to pee, watch out. I might break out the funky chicken, or cabbage patch my way to the potty! And......Mr. Radio personality, I know you only told me that I looked like Halle Berry after my friends informed you of all my tragic stories, but still - Thanks! Made my night!
young and sweet,
only seventeen
Dancing Queen,
feel the beat from the tambourine
You can dance,
you can jive,
having the time of your life
See that girl,
watch that scene,
digging the Dancing Queen
"Dancing Queen" by ABBA
So, I don't get out much anymore. It's understandable. Especially in the last year or so, I really haven't felt like a party girl. First I was bald - can you imagine? I don't think I have EVER heard the phrase "OMG,dude, look at that HOT, bald, older, married woman in the corner." Then, I sported the GI Jane cut for a while. That was fine, until very muscular women started winking at me (and there is nothing wrong with very muscular women who wink at other women, either, so let's not even start that debate. Just wasn't my focus, ok?). Finally I have enough hair that I can pretend like I intended for it to look this way. So, imagine my horror when I found myself in a social situation recently - a BAR nonetheless! No idea what to say. No idea what to do. Basically, just no idea! Let us go on a journey, shall we? Take my hand. I will be the ghost of lady's nights past....let's go back.....back.....back. All the way back to THURSDAY NIGHT!
OK - I started to turn down the invitation. After all, I just had reconstructive surgery last Friday. I currently have enough steri-strips and gauze pads on "the girls" to clothe a mummy(I affectionately refer to one of my girlies as John Wayne, since she has to wear an eye patch for a little while). Kevin looked at me rather knowingly when I asked him if he would throw caution to the wind and try not to worry about me too much - as if there's a market out there for married 42 year old women with post chemo hair, stretch marks, and one good boob. Plus, this post surgical bra coordinates better with a hair net, a set of clear gloves, and a name tag that says "Gertrude" than it does nightlife attire. Still, I've been stir crazy. It really seemed like a very innocent outing, too. Little music, couple of drinks, blanket under the stars, all my favorite bff's....great band...hmmm? Sounds to me like all the right ingredients for a GIRLS NIGHT! So, against medical advice, I lost the lunch lady bra for the evening, donned a uber soft and flowy sundress to hide my multitude of girl over 40 sins, slicked down my bouffant hairdo, and hit the road. Fasten your seat belts - it's going to be a bumpy ride!
The concert was GREAT! But ya'll know how it goes. After the party is the after party (don't worry, no hotel lobbies were harmed in this outing!)So...picture me and my bestest BFF trying to finagle a GIGANTIC cooler - I feigned injury so she had to do all the work! (I'm the dork that made homemade tuna salad sandwiches for everyone - with apples and walnuts no less - in case anyone got hungry. I'm still embarrassed just typing that line! Still - we did take sandwich breaks a few times. Ain't nothin' but a mom thang). We parked the cooler on wheels outside of the club, left our large blanket on top of it, and walked into....party central. Now, once upon a time, yours truly would have known EXACTLY how to behave. Why, I had a fake ID when I was 16 (Thank you, Debbie Talasek)! You could find me at Confetti's, Monopoly's, and especially Zebo's! I was a dancing queen. I could bat my eyelashes with the best of them. I was like Scarlett O'Hara at the Wilkes annual picnic when all the boys argue over where she was going to sit. I'll bet, however, that Scarlett wasn't walking around trying to count the heads of all the gentlemen who were theoretically old enough to be her children. Talk about depressing! Try striking up a conversation with someone (male or female) when their opening lines range from "Uh, have you, uh, like, heard of me" to "OMG so like my friend Whitney was talking to this ugly girl and she like rolled her eyes at us so like Whitney said oh no you didn't and then the ugly girl said bword lets take this outside and Whit said OMG your manicure is as nasty as you are and then the ugly girl went to find all her other ugly friends"......et al. You get the picture.
Dilemma upon dilemma. Issue #1: How to dance in place at bar. Good song comes on ("Boom, Boom, Pow" and I do know all Fergie's lines). See me standing there. Have NO IDEA what to do with my hands. Arsenio Hall whoop whoops? Raise the roof with palms up? 80's finger snaps? I just don't feel comfortable bending over and rubbing my butt on other women! That, however, seems to be the preferred mode of dance. So, I just sort of swayed softly from side to side, holding my big mom purse and smiling ever so sweetly. Besides, keeping my arms slightly bent means that you can't see my excess elbow skin - a true sign of someone who should not be in a bar. Issue #2: My age men should not be allowed in bars! PREDATOR ALERT! PREDATOR ALERT! Granted, there did seem to be a couple of really decent, nice folks there, but c'mon! There was a weird little old man TAKING PICTURES OF SCANTILY CLAD GIRLS WITH HIS CAMERA PHONE! Oogey! Don't worry - I was neither (girl or scantily clad). Issue #3: What to do on dance floor. I didn't dance, don't worry. Still, to get to the ladies room, one had to navigate through the center of the dance floor! AWKWARD. As you shuffle your feet with teeny tiny steps and try incorporating a Space Invaders inspired sideways crab walk to make yourself as small as possible, everyone mistakes this as an invitation to dance with you. Again, out of nowhere comes a cacophony of bent over butts and anonymous crotches - it's the attack of the nether regions! Run! Save yourself! Finally, I found a tiny, third-world-country type of unexplored pathway right next to the DJ's area. I would cling to his little podium and circumnavigate the entire area. Plus, on my way back at one point, I discovered that he keeps baskets and baskets of saltine crackers back there! Heck yes! Give me free crackers any day of the week! Cha ching!
Now, I'm not a big drinker. Too much and I just get sleepy, anyway. Thus, I won't be closing 'em down anytime soon. It is quite funny to be one of the few, the proud, the somewhat sober. Drunk people are very much like old people. They assume that you can't hear either and yell VERY LOUDLY AT EVERYONE. Drunk people start thinking that they are WAAAAAY more attractive than they actually are - unless the other party is also intoxicated. Drunk people either love everyone or hate everyone. Drunk female people think that you want to see their boobies. Don't worry, John Wayne, I'll keep all the crazy people away from you. It was FANTASTIC people watching! I had a great time on my lady's night out excursion. Hopefully I can do it again after John Wayne loses her eye patch. In the meantime, I will be practicing my dance moves. Next time, when I need to pee, watch out. I might break out the funky chicken, or cabbage patch my way to the potty! And......Mr. Radio personality, I know you only told me that I looked like Halle Berry after my friends informed you of all my tragic stories, but still - Thanks! Made my night!
Thursday, July 23, 2009
My Heart Belongs to Sam Hill....or is that Cooter Brown?
Spend my dollar
Parked in a holler 'neath the moutain moonlight
Holdin' her up tight
Make a little lovin'
A little turtle dovein' on a Mason-Dixon night
It's my life
Oh so right
My Dixieland Delight
Whitetail buck deer munchin' on clover
Redtailed hawk sitting on a limb
Chubby ol' groundhog
Croakin' bullfrog
Free as a feeling in the wind
Home grown country girl
Gonna give me a whirl
On a Tenessee Saturday night
Lucky as a seven
Livin' in Heaven
With my dixieland delight
"Dixieland Delight" by Alabama
Today we will focus on that enigma that is Southern colloquialisms. It is our heritage, gifts from our forefathers from this side of the Mason-Dixon line. And, it is disappearing faster than polar bears, the ozone layer, and celebs who die from prescription drug addictions all combined. Equally concerning is the rate at which we Southern chillrens misuse, misquote, and similarly butcher these age old pearls of wisdom. I first came upon this EXCELLENT blog idea from an April 2009 Dallas Morning News article by the man who is the GENIUS humorist Steve Blow. Sure, Mr. Blow covers all sorts of amazing human interest stories in his column, but to me he is simply hilarious when he hops on his Southern soapbox and uses that brilliant sarcastic wit. I love this thought so much that I could write a book on the subject......but wait! No need! Mesquite's own Bill Cannon did that recently with his "A Treasury of Texas Sayings." Though I have not read Mr. Cannon's book, I'm sure he also covers several of the chiches that I will include in this entry. I practice the Golden Rule of blogging! I would want others to give me proper credit for all my intensely amazing stuff, so I shall do the same. And, even though these are my original takes on the euphemisms, gettin' sued ain't no fun, right folks? Also, there are WAAAAY too many of these quotables to examine, so I just picked my favorites. Like Bobby Brown (and Britney - who is a Southern Belle, ya'll) says, "That's my prerogative!"
First we will tackle the area of misuse. If you're going to use a Southern cliche, please, please use it right! This may mean that even the way yer Momma taught you wasn't quite correct. I live in a small town in Texas. Last winter I was at a high school football game (it's a religious experience here) when I overheard a young 'un say that someone at a party was "drunker 'n Cootie Brown." OK...first, cooties are something that you get pretend shots for in kindergarten ("circle, circle, dot, dot....")The correct verbiage is "drunker 'n Cooter Brown." Not Cootie, not Tooter, and certainly not Pooter Brown. Secondly, I did some research and, though no one can identify the original Cooter, apparently he was very drunk, but not so much so that he didn't know his own name. How about this one...(said YEARS ago at a local high school in a different town by a TEACHER no less!): A young man walks down the icy sidewalk outside with no coat and is obviously FREEZING. Said person turns and says, "And here I thought shivering was dead!" I assure you that shivering is alive and well, as is CHIVALRY, which is what she should have said IF the young man were to have been performing a gentlemanly and charitable act toward a young maiden (mentally picture the old coat over the mud puddle trick). Similarly, years ago I was serving cupcakes to my daughter's 1st grade class in honor of her birthday (back when we were allowed to stop class and do things like this). As I was nearing the back of the classroom, a precious little girl with icing all over her mouth pulled on my sleeve and proclaimed that my cupcakes were so good that she felt obligated to "slap her fanny." Now I have to shoulder the blame - I could not correct her - she was just too cute! 75 years from now when the entire state is saying "slap your fanny" it will be my fault! Of course, what she meant to say was, "so good it'll make you slap your mammy/pappy" (depending on the version you were taught). Finally, though I didn't personally observe this transaction, a good friend chimed in to tell me about the time her son saw another little boy scratch his privates while playing on the playground one afternoon. My friend's son looked at her at said,"Ewwww! He must have an itch in his getalong." Itch - hitch, tomato - tomahto...out of the mouths of babes. At least they're forgivable!
While plenty of our charming Southern phrases are dying a slow, cruel death, others are alive and seemingly well, in my house at least! For instance, let's examine Mr. Hill, Sam Hill, that is - as in, "What in the Sam Hill is going on in here?" To my understanding, it started with someone's idea (probably some kid's mom)of substituting a more palatable version of the word hell with hill. I have no idea who popped Sam onto the beginning. While not misquoted, the phrase "sick as a dog (dawg)" is technically abused when you consider that a sick dog either pukes or gets the runs. Therefore, you should really only proclaim yourself to be as sick as the proverbial dog if you are experiencing severe gastrointestinal issues which are propelling from an orifice. My absolute favorite saying comes straight from my Daddy, Mr. Ted Stilwell himself! Upon encountering a rather healthy female walking away from him, he was known to say (if the view wasn't to his liking), "looks like two pigs tryin' ta git out of a toe sack." I think the term burlap sack can also be substituted. Of course, we take many Southern liberties here. My husband is infamous for shaving w's off of words, hence we look out of "winduhs", sleep on "pilluhs", and grow "yelluh" roses. See, even bankers get bitten by the sweet, syrupy, Southern language bug!
Those are the most common foibles, in my opinion. I'm sure you have your own set of perplexing word combinations that you might like to share with us. We'd be mighty glad for you to add your pet peeves to our comments. There are some that defy logic to the point that I need someone much smarter and wiser than myself to translate. For instance, my mother used to tell me (when I misbehaved) that she was going to "knock the pea wadden out of me". Of course I never misbehaved, so I'm sure I only heard that comment once in my entire life! Maybe that's why I don't understand it? Is that pea or pee? What is wadden? Some sort of cotton batting? My mother also used to ask me if I would enjoy a trip to "Fist City." In my imaginative only child mind, Fist City MUST look exactly like Dodge City did in "Gunsmoke." There was surely a saloon and a Miss Kitty to entertain the cowboy troops. I thought a trip to Fist City might be quite delightful, actually. My mother also refers to low-down, no good, rotten, dirty scoundrels as "Jake Legs." Perhaps one of you could tell me who this Jake fellow is and what in the Sam Hill is wrong with his leg? IDK? So, there it all is - in a Southern nutshell - the life and times of the Southern sayings. Let's use them. Use them often - Use them correctly - but please use them. I assure you that Fist City is an endangered species and I here there are only 2 Jake Legs left in the wild!
Parked in a holler 'neath the moutain moonlight
Holdin' her up tight
Make a little lovin'
A little turtle dovein' on a Mason-Dixon night
It's my life
Oh so right
My Dixieland Delight
Whitetail buck deer munchin' on clover
Redtailed hawk sitting on a limb
Chubby ol' groundhog
Croakin' bullfrog
Free as a feeling in the wind
Home grown country girl
Gonna give me a whirl
On a Tenessee Saturday night
Lucky as a seven
Livin' in Heaven
With my dixieland delight
"Dixieland Delight" by Alabama
Today we will focus on that enigma that is Southern colloquialisms. It is our heritage, gifts from our forefathers from this side of the Mason-Dixon line. And, it is disappearing faster than polar bears, the ozone layer, and celebs who die from prescription drug addictions all combined. Equally concerning is the rate at which we Southern chillrens misuse, misquote, and similarly butcher these age old pearls of wisdom. I first came upon this EXCELLENT blog idea from an April 2009 Dallas Morning News article by the man who is the GENIUS humorist Steve Blow. Sure, Mr. Blow covers all sorts of amazing human interest stories in his column, but to me he is simply hilarious when he hops on his Southern soapbox and uses that brilliant sarcastic wit. I love this thought so much that I could write a book on the subject......but wait! No need! Mesquite's own Bill Cannon did that recently with his "A Treasury of Texas Sayings." Though I have not read Mr. Cannon's book, I'm sure he also covers several of the chiches that I will include in this entry. I practice the Golden Rule of blogging! I would want others to give me proper credit for all my intensely amazing stuff, so I shall do the same. And, even though these are my original takes on the euphemisms, gettin' sued ain't no fun, right folks? Also, there are WAAAAY too many of these quotables to examine, so I just picked my favorites. Like Bobby Brown (and Britney - who is a Southern Belle, ya'll) says, "That's my prerogative!"
First we will tackle the area of misuse. If you're going to use a Southern cliche, please, please use it right! This may mean that even the way yer Momma taught you wasn't quite correct. I live in a small town in Texas. Last winter I was at a high school football game (it's a religious experience here) when I overheard a young 'un say that someone at a party was "drunker 'n Cootie Brown." OK...first, cooties are something that you get pretend shots for in kindergarten ("circle, circle, dot, dot....")The correct verbiage is "drunker 'n Cooter Brown." Not Cootie, not Tooter, and certainly not Pooter Brown. Secondly, I did some research and, though no one can identify the original Cooter, apparently he was very drunk, but not so much so that he didn't know his own name. How about this one...(said YEARS ago at a local high school in a different town by a TEACHER no less!): A young man walks down the icy sidewalk outside with no coat and is obviously FREEZING. Said person turns and says, "And here I thought shivering was dead!" I assure you that shivering is alive and well, as is CHIVALRY, which is what she should have said IF the young man were to have been performing a gentlemanly and charitable act toward a young maiden (mentally picture the old coat over the mud puddle trick). Similarly, years ago I was serving cupcakes to my daughter's 1st grade class in honor of her birthday (back when we were allowed to stop class and do things like this). As I was nearing the back of the classroom, a precious little girl with icing all over her mouth pulled on my sleeve and proclaimed that my cupcakes were so good that she felt obligated to "slap her fanny." Now I have to shoulder the blame - I could not correct her - she was just too cute! 75 years from now when the entire state is saying "slap your fanny" it will be my fault! Of course, what she meant to say was, "so good it'll make you slap your mammy/pappy" (depending on the version you were taught). Finally, though I didn't personally observe this transaction, a good friend chimed in to tell me about the time her son saw another little boy scratch his privates while playing on the playground one afternoon. My friend's son looked at her at said,"Ewwww! He must have an itch in his getalong." Itch - hitch, tomato - tomahto...out of the mouths of babes. At least they're forgivable!
While plenty of our charming Southern phrases are dying a slow, cruel death, others are alive and seemingly well, in my house at least! For instance, let's examine Mr. Hill, Sam Hill, that is - as in, "What in the Sam Hill is going on in here?" To my understanding, it started with someone's idea (probably some kid's mom)of substituting a more palatable version of the word hell with hill. I have no idea who popped Sam onto the beginning. While not misquoted, the phrase "sick as a dog (dawg)" is technically abused when you consider that a sick dog either pukes or gets the runs. Therefore, you should really only proclaim yourself to be as sick as the proverbial dog if you are experiencing severe gastrointestinal issues which are propelling from an orifice. My absolute favorite saying comes straight from my Daddy, Mr. Ted Stilwell himself! Upon encountering a rather healthy female walking away from him, he was known to say (if the view wasn't to his liking), "looks like two pigs tryin' ta git out of a toe sack." I think the term burlap sack can also be substituted. Of course, we take many Southern liberties here. My husband is infamous for shaving w's off of words, hence we look out of "winduhs", sleep on "pilluhs", and grow "yelluh" roses. See, even bankers get bitten by the sweet, syrupy, Southern language bug!
Those are the most common foibles, in my opinion. I'm sure you have your own set of perplexing word combinations that you might like to share with us. We'd be mighty glad for you to add your pet peeves to our comments. There are some that defy logic to the point that I need someone much smarter and wiser than myself to translate. For instance, my mother used to tell me (when I misbehaved) that she was going to "knock the pea wadden out of me". Of course I never misbehaved, so I'm sure I only heard that comment once in my entire life! Maybe that's why I don't understand it? Is that pea or pee? What is wadden? Some sort of cotton batting? My mother also used to ask me if I would enjoy a trip to "Fist City." In my imaginative only child mind, Fist City MUST look exactly like Dodge City did in "Gunsmoke." There was surely a saloon and a Miss Kitty to entertain the cowboy troops. I thought a trip to Fist City might be quite delightful, actually. My mother also refers to low-down, no good, rotten, dirty scoundrels as "Jake Legs." Perhaps one of you could tell me who this Jake fellow is and what in the Sam Hill is wrong with his leg? IDK? So, there it all is - in a Southern nutshell - the life and times of the Southern sayings. Let's use them. Use them often - Use them correctly - but please use them. I assure you that Fist City is an endangered species and I here there are only 2 Jake Legs left in the wild!
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