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????
Saturday, August 22, 2009
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.
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