It's no secret that I'm not exactly your classic "holiday person". Once the kids are grown, the holidays just don't tickle my tootsies...or anything else for that matter.
This year the holiday began with a new tree....not a NEW new tree - a used one that my friend offered to us when she and her husband downsized. ( They still had three full sized trees left, I believe. She's all about the holidays) The tree we received isn't your run of the mill faker...It definitely cost a sizable chunk of change way back when it was purchased. Prelit and all ready to go. Just fluff the branches and it will be Christmas. It came to us snugly ensconced in a rugged canvas bag with zippers and velcro and pull strings and hidden metal rings at the top and bottom carefully tucked inside the bag lining. It was quite a bag. The bagged tree lived in a corner of our garage all summer and fall. When December hit we decided that maybe we should look at this tree and see if it would work in our modest, middle class house.
How to get it in the house? Realistically it would make the most sense to take it outside and then enter the house through the front door. It would be the path of least resistance. But we didn't do it that way, of course. We chose to enter through the inner garage door that leads into our kitchen, hallway and family room (think "family room" 1970's style- no high ceilings). In case you are not familiar with 1970's architecture (and I use that term loosely) - it is based on the theory of "nothing is open and nothing is easily accessed". Every room in my house is walled off from another and requires walking through hallways and making a series of twists and turns.( Are you jealous yet?)
The tree, we soon learned, was not only bulky, it was also heavy. And while we could drag it to the door, lifting it and getting it inside proved a tough assignment for two 65+ year old slackers. But we did it. A lot of yelling, "Watch it! Stop! You're stuck on something!" and "Fuck, this is hard!". So we got it into the house. The top of the tree lay on the floor just inside the door, the base rested on our kitchen floor. In order to move it to the living room we would have to hoist it about four feet to clear a useless half wall that marks the entry to the kitchen. More swearing. Once passed the kitchen, we next had to make a sharp left turn in the "foyer' (ahem) in order to get into the living room. Furniture had to be moved. And once again the tree had to be lifted high enough to clear the banister at the bottom of the stairs. We scratched two walls, gouged the edge of one step and, dripping in sweat, we finally reached the living room. We dropped the tree to the floor and left it there....blocking this entry to the room, for three days.
On day four our goal was to remove the tree from the bag. I looked for the zipper. There were several - but they didn't do much. Opened a pocket here and there maybe. I unvelcroed some straps. Didn't do much. I tugged on some strings and loosened them,. I pulled at the bottom hidden ring to see if I could slip the canvas down. All this was fruitless. The logical, practical one long zipper that I needed did not exist. Once again Bob and I tugged, coaxed and cajoled the canvas cover. It yielded a few top branches. I removed the base. That did nothing except make the tree unable to stand on its own. And - ta da - I realized that the bottom of the pole near the base was bent! (Did we do this? Who knows.) I broke down and called my friend. "How the hell do you get this tree out of the bag???" She laughed. Once she pulled herself together she admitted that unwrapping the tree was, to be sure, a miserable task. "Be patient. You kind of have to wiggle it down. And don't remove the canvas bag. It stays at the base and you cover it with your tree skirt "(Who the hell has a tree skirt? Not me I do, however have nice black pencil skirt.)
Two hours and several mishaps later we freed the tree, reattached the stand (but first we tried to hammer the pole to straighten it. Um not happening) We spent 20 minutes propping the tree to make it look straight and then plugged it in. The prelit tree had sections of dead lights, naturally. We added two strands to the dark area, fluffed the branches (but not well) and declared the mission complete. Several days later I decorated it...and tried to fill in the unfluffed areas. It was ok. I don't enjoy decorating trees, (Sorry Christmas freaks) Persons entering our house were warned to NOT mention that the tree was crooked or they would be asked to leave.
In all the years we've had trees, no one has ever gone out of their way to complement one. But oddly, this year, the Xmas eve family gathering was loaded with "That tree is so pretty." "I like like that thing you did with feathers." "Wow, nice tree." With each complement I waited for a punchline that never came. I guess it's a good thing to get everyone liquored up on Xmas eve....everything looks better when seen through a wine haze.
We are still debating what to do this week when we un-decorate. Will we reuse the cursed canvas? Should I go to Costco and buy industrial sized plastic wrap and try that instead?
And the big question? How the hell are we going to get it back to the garage? Bob suggested that we donate the tree to the trash guys. He may have the best idea. I don't know how the trash guys will like it though.
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Friday, December 20, 2013
A Target Moment
Trying to suck up to us because someone may have stolen Target customers' credit information this week - Target has begun a new customer service program. I think.
Picture this: Me, wandering thorough the aisles....touching, looking, picking up..a.blissed out "guest"...minding my own business...
When suddenly what to my wondering eyes should appear but the face of a Target associate....maybe a foot away from my face, ":Ma'am, are you finding everything okay?" I mumbled something and walked away. Exactly 3 minutes later...in another aisle....another face, "Ma'am are you finding everything ok?" (Hey - do I look lost...or feeble...is it this damn hair again? Grey is a dull color but does not necessarily indicate a dull mind)
I looked at her and softly said. "This is Target. I'm a woman. I come here at least once a week. I really don't need help finding anything.i know where everything is. This is TARGET and your concern would make sense in a Sports Authority. I'm just fine on my own here. But thanks for asking.."
Bitch that I am.
I left. Not my best moment
But satisfying
Picture this: Me, wandering thorough the aisles....touching, looking, picking up..a.blissed out "guest"...minding my own business...
When suddenly what to my wondering eyes should appear but the face of a Target associate....maybe a foot away from my face, ":Ma'am, are you finding everything okay?" I mumbled something and walked away. Exactly 3 minutes later...in another aisle....another face, "Ma'am are you finding everything ok?" (Hey - do I look lost...or feeble...is it this damn hair again? Grey is a dull color but does not necessarily indicate a dull mind)
I looked at her and softly said. "This is Target. I'm a woman. I come here at least once a week. I really don't need help finding anything.i know where everything is. This is TARGET and your concern would make sense in a Sports Authority. I'm just fine on my own here. But thanks for asking.."
Bitch that I am.
I left. Not my best moment
But satisfying
Sunday, December 8, 2013
The Thanksgiving Story....my version
This Thanksgiving I thought I'd do myself a favor and reduce the cooking load. After all, I'm not Dolly Domestic and while I like having family around for dinner, it's not much fun to be chained to the kitchen for ten hours, or to sit down late (after everything is cold) and to eat things you've been sampling all day. Cooking for the holidays is a punishment.
This year I ordered a prepared "Holiday Meal for a Family of 6 - 8 People" from my local grocery store. That's what the brochure said anyway. This was to include dressing, mashed potatoes, gravy, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry compote and some kind of raspberry cobbler, and, of course a 10-12 pound turkey. Cooked. All I had to do was return it to the oven for 2 hours to warm it up. I envisioned a day of leisure. I would prepare a salad, maybe a few appetizers...not a lot. Someone else was bringing pies. Bliss.
The week before the holiday a little voice in my head suggested buying a turkey breast - just in case the prepared turkey wasn't big enough to feed everyone. It would also ensure that we had leftovers. Cause everyone eats turkey sammies on Thanksgiving night. So I bought one. ( Word of advice: Always listen to the voice in your head. )
Two days before Thanksgiving I crawled to the store (this was 2 days after a trip to the ER for stomach pain) and bought everything I'd need for salad, appetizers and so on. While walking though the store the little voice returned and suggested maybe buying some potatoes in case we didn't get enough in our "prepared meal"....and while I was at it, maybe break down and buy some extra gravy "just in case". As I neared the checkout line the little voice once again whispered a suggestion...."dressing" it said. What if there wasn't enough? I bought a bag, some sausage, apples and broth. We'd have two kinds of stuffing I guess.
The day before Thanksgiving I picked up the "prepared dinner". The first thing I encountered was an elaborate schedule, colorfully assembled to make my prep simple and flawless. At this hour you unwrap the turkey, at this hour you pop this container in the microwave etc. Very nice. Very neat. Very organized. Inside the box were many black containers of sides - ready to line up for their appointed time the microwave or the oven. The problem was that absolutely none of these containers would feed 6-8 people in my family. In fact, I question whether any family of more than 3 (including a toddler) would be sufficiently sated with these sides. So, a family of 6-8 what? Little people? Munchkins? Anorexics? There wasn't enough gravy to cover two mounds of mashed potatoes. The green bean casserole could be doled out in 6 melon ball scoops and it would be gone. You get the picture.
In the end I spent ten hours chained to the stove making mashed potatoes, dressing, green bean casserole, a turkey breast, salad and appetizers. My food went first...the prepared stuff didn't interest too many people. (Except the turkey - their turkey was good) Most of the sides got thrown out two days later. I sat down when most were on their second helpings and beginning to groan. My restricted diet allowed me a chunk of white meat (from the breast I cooked) and some potatoes and gravy. I took a few bites. Not hungry.
This wasn't the bliss I had envisioned for myself.....but everyone else looked mighty blissful and bloated.
Next year I'm making reservations.
This year I ordered a prepared "Holiday Meal for a Family of 6 - 8 People" from my local grocery store. That's what the brochure said anyway. This was to include dressing, mashed potatoes, gravy, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry compote and some kind of raspberry cobbler, and, of course a 10-12 pound turkey. Cooked. All I had to do was return it to the oven for 2 hours to warm it up. I envisioned a day of leisure. I would prepare a salad, maybe a few appetizers...not a lot. Someone else was bringing pies. Bliss.
The week before the holiday a little voice in my head suggested buying a turkey breast - just in case the prepared turkey wasn't big enough to feed everyone. It would also ensure that we had leftovers. Cause everyone eats turkey sammies on Thanksgiving night. So I bought one. ( Word of advice: Always listen to the voice in your head. )
Two days before Thanksgiving I crawled to the store (this was 2 days after a trip to the ER for stomach pain) and bought everything I'd need for salad, appetizers and so on. While walking though the store the little voice returned and suggested maybe buying some potatoes in case we didn't get enough in our "prepared meal"....and while I was at it, maybe break down and buy some extra gravy "just in case". As I neared the checkout line the little voice once again whispered a suggestion...."dressing" it said. What if there wasn't enough? I bought a bag, some sausage, apples and broth. We'd have two kinds of stuffing I guess.
The day before Thanksgiving I picked up the "prepared dinner". The first thing I encountered was an elaborate schedule, colorfully assembled to make my prep simple and flawless. At this hour you unwrap the turkey, at this hour you pop this container in the microwave etc. Very nice. Very neat. Very organized. Inside the box were many black containers of sides - ready to line up for their appointed time the microwave or the oven. The problem was that absolutely none of these containers would feed 6-8 people in my family. In fact, I question whether any family of more than 3 (including a toddler) would be sufficiently sated with these sides. So, a family of 6-8 what? Little people? Munchkins? Anorexics? There wasn't enough gravy to cover two mounds of mashed potatoes. The green bean casserole could be doled out in 6 melon ball scoops and it would be gone. You get the picture.
In the end I spent ten hours chained to the stove making mashed potatoes, dressing, green bean casserole, a turkey breast, salad and appetizers. My food went first...the prepared stuff didn't interest too many people. (Except the turkey - their turkey was good) Most of the sides got thrown out two days later. I sat down when most were on their second helpings and beginning to groan. My restricted diet allowed me a chunk of white meat (from the breast I cooked) and some potatoes and gravy. I took a few bites. Not hungry.
This wasn't the bliss I had envisioned for myself.....but everyone else looked mighty blissful and bloated.
Next year I'm making reservations.
Been gone so long...
Until recently I truly believed that I had some control over the state of my body. Good eating. Moderate exercise (albeit irregular), regular check ups...I'm.like a car I want to keep driving for a long time. My friend - who does not take very good care of herself (she takes better care of her car)- did some research on doing all the right things to stay healthy and concluded that by doing everything right we gain about 3 months. In the end turning down that brownie or that hot crusty French bread may not be worth the sacrifice. I think I'd rather die with brownie crumbs and frosting on my lips than kale and quinoa. In fact - I'd rather be dead than eat either one of those things. But I digress.
I have had a six month battle with lady-part issues that all stemmed from that one fateful visit to the female gynecologist who found the "bump". Then the subsequent surgery and mini-remodel. The discovery of HPV hiding in my body and the news that most people have it but don't know it, How comforting. (See blog entry entitled "the new adventures of old Mandy" if you want the details. ) Late this summer, still not feeling fully right and still having problems, I also discovered an outbreak of - are you ready for this (cause I wasn't) Herpes. WTF? I've never ever ever had an outbreak of anything transmittable 65 years. I almost fell off the exam table. What? How? God knows I've been good for 19 years (for once in my life).Not even a cold sore. Ever. My first thought was my husband had a bit of 'splainin to do...but the doctor said I could have been there sleeping for twenty or thirty years. Something just woke it up. Maybe the surgery. I would never know, he told me. (Yea but I WANT to know) Took some supressant drugs and it went back to sleep. For now.
Recently I had a run-in with genes. My mom's to be exact. Right before Thanksgiving I experienced my first full blown - go to the ER attack of diverticulitis. I'm still recovering. For the record, I don't recommend this condition. Nor do I know how to avoid having it happen again because they really have no freaking idea why it happens but it happens mostly to older people (yeah, that'd be me) and may be preventable with a high fiber diet - which I normally eat. So much for good car care. Ironically the diet they put you on to heal is the white bread diet. White bread, white pasta, no raw or fibrous veggies or fruits (except canned), no nuts, seeds or beans. Lots of bananas, mashed potatoes, chicken noodle soup and jello.
I don't think that gastroenterology is a exact science.
Sunday, November 10, 2013
Food Fight
I am not a food snob..or a foodie for that matter,.and maybe that's my problem. Compared to the many food obsessive people around me,,,I am best described as a food fuddyduddy. I'm fussy. My palate is not sophisticated. A lot of foods and flavors make me sick.I don't like being sick. (This sickness thing is a long dull story - and I'll spare you) My taste range for flavor and spices (especially spices) is narrow (you'd think with all this my butt would be narrow too...but it isn't). So when the simple act of meeting someone for a late weekend breakfast becomes a struggle...I know I'm going to have to figure out how to step up my game or skip food dates with friends.
Let me begin this with a critical piece of information. I was born into the House of Butter and I spent a long stretch of time in the House of Hamburgers, corn-on-the cob, spaghetti and boiled meat. I don't know if there have been studies on this but I believe that the first eight years of life may play a critical role in forming a person's food tastes. At least it formed mine. I lived mostly with my grandparents and my grandmother was a lousy, really really lousy cook. I simply cannot recall anything she ever cooked except pot roast which I think she boiled in buttered water for days . (Today we would call this braising...but we would add some flavor). But there was no one on earth who could bake like she did - that more than made up for it. My grandfather was from the old country - Italy. He kept a vat of "medicinal" Dago Red in the basement, loved eating the fat on the meat, ate tons of bread and fresh vegetables with gallons of olive oil. I don't know how he survived her cooking.
When I wasn't with my "Gug" and "Pup" I was with my aunt and uncle. My aunt hated anything to do with the kitchen. She could cook 4 things: hamburgers, corn-on-the-cob, spaghetti and Campbells soup. When I was with her at their lake house - one of these (sometimes only one of these) comprised our dinners - unless we went out (which we did often). I never fully realized that having only corn-on-the-cob for dinner was not healthy. Who thinks about this stuff at 6,7,or 8 years old? Not me.
When I went to live with my Mom I enjoyed amazingly high calorie, fatty foods - most of which were cooked with lots of butter. The only spice she used was garlic and salt. She made the best fries (cooked in butter), the best burgers (also in butter) and the best leg of lamb I've ever eaten. She also had a cholesterol over 400 for most of her life.
Fast forward to now. I understand healthy eating. I eat a balanced diet and love veggies and fruit,. My meat consumption is low. I am terrified of fresh fish because who the hell wants to eat something that swims in its own feces and is full of mercury (I make an exception for salmon and canned tuna with mercury). Sushi (especially anything from the pacific) isNOT on my menu. Ever. But I have never acquired a taste for anything spicy that is hot, semi-hot or overpowering. So I eat minimal Mexican, no Indian, loathe most German (hearty) foods on so on. Boring ol me. Like my Mom, I cook mostly with garlic - but unlike my mom, no butter (mostly)
So today I am meeting a foodie friend for breakfast. I don't like breakfast - I'd rather have a tuna salad sandwich. Eggs are dull. Bacon is unhealthy and heavy, I never touch sausage of any kind and pancakes/waffles are too sweet. I DO love lox and cream cheese but it isn't available everywhere.
My friend tossed out a few places we might meet. She suggested a tea room where we once ate lunch and I had to stop on my way home for some real food. She suggested a German place with a menu full of sausages and thick bacon. Other suggestions were a vegan/vegetarian place that specializes in raw foods. (seriously?) A tofu and cucumber sandwich? A sweet carrot and radish sandwich? RAW mocha cheesecake? Quinoa skillet? Yuck. I'd rather lick the inside of a fish tank.
So I found a place that may suit both of us and we're meeting there at noon. I hope this works. It is also a "healthy" restaurant (quinoa and kale are both on the menu) but I can construct something that may be filling and tasty. But I confess that I just tossed two left over Halloween chocolate bars into my purse...just in case. Just in case.
Let me begin this with a critical piece of information. I was born into the House of Butter and I spent a long stretch of time in the House of Hamburgers, corn-on-the cob, spaghetti and boiled meat. I don't know if there have been studies on this but I believe that the first eight years of life may play a critical role in forming a person's food tastes. At least it formed mine. I lived mostly with my grandparents and my grandmother was a lousy, really really lousy cook. I simply cannot recall anything she ever cooked except pot roast which I think she boiled in buttered water for days . (Today we would call this braising...but we would add some flavor). But there was no one on earth who could bake like she did - that more than made up for it. My grandfather was from the old country - Italy. He kept a vat of "medicinal" Dago Red in the basement, loved eating the fat on the meat, ate tons of bread and fresh vegetables with gallons of olive oil. I don't know how he survived her cooking.
When I wasn't with my "Gug" and "Pup" I was with my aunt and uncle. My aunt hated anything to do with the kitchen. She could cook 4 things: hamburgers, corn-on-the-cob, spaghetti and Campbells soup. When I was with her at their lake house - one of these (sometimes only one of these) comprised our dinners - unless we went out (which we did often). I never fully realized that having only corn-on-the-cob for dinner was not healthy. Who thinks about this stuff at 6,7,or 8 years old? Not me.
When I went to live with my Mom I enjoyed amazingly high calorie, fatty foods - most of which were cooked with lots of butter. The only spice she used was garlic and salt. She made the best fries (cooked in butter), the best burgers (also in butter) and the best leg of lamb I've ever eaten. She also had a cholesterol over 400 for most of her life.
Fast forward to now. I understand healthy eating. I eat a balanced diet and love veggies and fruit,. My meat consumption is low. I am terrified of fresh fish because who the hell wants to eat something that swims in its own feces and is full of mercury (I make an exception for salmon and canned tuna with mercury). Sushi (especially anything from the pacific) isNOT on my menu. Ever. But I have never acquired a taste for anything spicy that is hot, semi-hot or overpowering. So I eat minimal Mexican, no Indian, loathe most German (hearty) foods on so on. Boring ol me. Like my Mom, I cook mostly with garlic - but unlike my mom, no butter (mostly)
So today I am meeting a foodie friend for breakfast. I don't like breakfast - I'd rather have a tuna salad sandwich. Eggs are dull. Bacon is unhealthy and heavy, I never touch sausage of any kind and pancakes/waffles are too sweet. I DO love lox and cream cheese but it isn't available everywhere.
My friend tossed out a few places we might meet. She suggested a tea room where we once ate lunch and I had to stop on my way home for some real food. She suggested a German place with a menu full of sausages and thick bacon. Other suggestions were a vegan/vegetarian place that specializes in raw foods. (seriously?) A tofu and cucumber sandwich? A sweet carrot and radish sandwich? RAW mocha cheesecake? Quinoa skillet? Yuck. I'd rather lick the inside of a fish tank.
So I found a place that may suit both of us and we're meeting there at noon. I hope this works. It is also a "healthy" restaurant (quinoa and kale are both on the menu) but I can construct something that may be filling and tasty. But I confess that I just tossed two left over Halloween chocolate bars into my purse...just in case. Just in case.
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Gypsies
It's impossible to open a newspaper or turn on the television and not see a story about the sad, confused looking blonde child who was found living with gypsies. The poor kid reminds me of a doll that was popular in the late 50's or early 60's called Poor Pitiful Pearl. (Poor Pearl would never pass toy muster today...no little girl would want her with her ragged clothes and sad face...but that was the point of the doll. She was an orphan. A reject. Not PC at all.) What about this little girl on TV alerted the police? Why - she didn't look like her parents! They were dark and swarthy (but the Mom didn't wear hoop earring and a big, brightly colored circle skirt like the gypsies in the movies) she was pale and fair haired. Surely she could not belong to these people...
It got me wondering why my ex and I didn't get arrested - or at least taken in on suspicion of kidnapping- when we were in public with our son. We sure as hell bore no resemblance to him or he to us. He was Asian. We were CAUasian. Not the same. I look back and wonder why we didn't worry more about being stopped and questioned. If I had known that not looking like your child was suspicious, I would have always carried his adoption papers. Where would we have stolen him?. Koreatown? - there is no Koreatown in Milwaukee (but I think there is one in Chicago). A Korean restaurant maybe? "I'll have the bulgogi and that little boy in the kitchen please, to go.".
If memory serves me right, the only time we were ever singled out and pointed to was in a mall. Charlie and I were walking with Eli between us (it often took a team to keep track of him). It was near Christmas. A family of white people walked by and the youngest child - who was screaming at the top of his lungs - calmed down long enough to notice us. I remember hearing the mother say, quite loudly, "See that? That's what's going to happen to you if you don't behave. We'll just find you another family." I vaguely recall glaring at her but she took no notice.
When Eli was having an unusually bad day - and I was at my wits end...I often would yell, "Knock it off or you won't be happy with what I do!". He would say.."What? What are you going to do?" I would reply. "Sell you to the gypsies!" He would laugh.
Who knew that was an option?
It got me wondering why my ex and I didn't get arrested - or at least taken in on suspicion of kidnapping- when we were in public with our son. We sure as hell bore no resemblance to him or he to us. He was Asian. We were CAUasian. Not the same. I look back and wonder why we didn't worry more about being stopped and questioned. If I had known that not looking like your child was suspicious, I would have always carried his adoption papers. Where would we have stolen him?. Koreatown? - there is no Koreatown in Milwaukee (but I think there is one in Chicago). A Korean restaurant maybe? "I'll have the bulgogi and that little boy in the kitchen please, to go.".
If memory serves me right, the only time we were ever singled out and pointed to was in a mall. Charlie and I were walking with Eli between us (it often took a team to keep track of him). It was near Christmas. A family of white people walked by and the youngest child - who was screaming at the top of his lungs - calmed down long enough to notice us. I remember hearing the mother say, quite loudly, "See that? That's what's going to happen to you if you don't behave. We'll just find you another family." I vaguely recall glaring at her but she took no notice.
When Eli was having an unusually bad day - and I was at my wits end...I often would yell, "Knock it off or you won't be happy with what I do!". He would say.."What? What are you going to do?" I would reply. "Sell you to the gypsies!" He would laugh.
Who knew that was an option?
Friday, October 11, 2013
Cougar-nado!
I don't know about you - but I hate bees. They are nasty, stupid and pesky.And they love to make nests in cozy places around my house . Lots of them. I'm ok midsummer letting them freeload behind my fake-shutters...but this year they found larger spaces....they moved into my siding and brought their friends and relatives with them.I even think I saw an Ashley Furniture truck pull up to deliver bee-sized Barcaloungers - but I can't be(e) sure.
Last week, as the temperatures began to dip at night, I would find an occasional squatter inside my bedroom. He'd be hanging on the window glass walking around in circles and humming a dreadful tune. Makde my skin crawl. As the days moved on, more moved in. I could not figure out how they were getting in - but that was the least of my problems. Killing them was the biggest obstacle. They don't die easily. Because it's cool they are a bit woozy thus rendering them unable to fly freely around a room. Instead they would cling to the glass or attach themselves to my curtains and hang on for dear life.
At first I used a fly swatter. I am now here to tell you that swatting a woozy bee is harder than getting a dog to stop peeing midstream on your carpet. I would knock them to the carpet and bang away at them. Each time they would lie on their backs and wiggle their tiny little bee legs as if to signal "I'm not dead bitch". I used shoes. I squashed them with wads of paper towels. I threw some carcasses into the toilet. Others were tossed (and squashed) into the wastebasket. It was hard to keep up. My eventual remedy was to dig out my electrified tennis racket, pin them down, push the tiny yellow button and watch them fry. Wisps of smoke. Burning bee odor. And still they did not die. Their spindly little legs kept waving. I hated them. One day, after squashing 6 of them and throwing them in the wastebasket I returned hours later only to see a few, guts lying beside them, still moving their fucking nasty legs. I hate them.
Time to call the exterminator.
Travis showed up this morning at 9:30. A 30-something, sandy haired nice looking guy with a big personality, a great sense of humor and a body from Heaven. I was transported back to my twenties and recalling all the things I might have done with this amazing speciMAN. But, when you're 65, you're 65. He didn't look like the type to go for the grandmotherly looking woman. But I flirted. Yes I did...I don't think he noticed though. He spent about 30 minutes here. I walked him around the outside of the house and watched him insert his big long bug killer tool into my siding. I watched the bees freak out. And I learned about some interesting bee-havior. "Watch, " he said, "you'll see a whole bunch of bees flying back. They send out a distress signal and call everyone back to save the nest." "Don't try to make me feel sorry for them, " I warned. He laughed. sigh
"They should all be gone by Tuesday, " he explained. "If you still see activity on Tuesday (Heck I haven't seen activity in quite awhile...) then call me. I'll come back."
So now I'm looking for someone who can sell me some bees.
Got any?
Last week, as the temperatures began to dip at night, I would find an occasional squatter inside my bedroom. He'd be hanging on the window glass walking around in circles and humming a dreadful tune. Makde my skin crawl. As the days moved on, more moved in. I could not figure out how they were getting in - but that was the least of my problems. Killing them was the biggest obstacle. They don't die easily. Because it's cool they are a bit woozy thus rendering them unable to fly freely around a room. Instead they would cling to the glass or attach themselves to my curtains and hang on for dear life.
At first I used a fly swatter. I am now here to tell you that swatting a woozy bee is harder than getting a dog to stop peeing midstream on your carpet. I would knock them to the carpet and bang away at them. Each time they would lie on their backs and wiggle their tiny little bee legs as if to signal "I'm not dead bitch". I used shoes. I squashed them with wads of paper towels. I threw some carcasses into the toilet. Others were tossed (and squashed) into the wastebasket. It was hard to keep up. My eventual remedy was to dig out my electrified tennis racket, pin them down, push the tiny yellow button and watch them fry. Wisps of smoke. Burning bee odor. And still they did not die. Their spindly little legs kept waving. I hated them. One day, after squashing 6 of them and throwing them in the wastebasket I returned hours later only to see a few, guts lying beside them, still moving their fucking nasty legs. I hate them.
Time to call the exterminator.
Travis showed up this morning at 9:30. A 30-something, sandy haired nice looking guy with a big personality, a great sense of humor and a body from Heaven. I was transported back to my twenties and recalling all the things I might have done with this amazing speciMAN. But, when you're 65, you're 65. He didn't look like the type to go for the grandmotherly looking woman. But I flirted. Yes I did...I don't think he noticed though. He spent about 30 minutes here. I walked him around the outside of the house and watched him insert his big long bug killer tool into my siding. I watched the bees freak out. And I learned about some interesting bee-havior. "Watch, " he said, "you'll see a whole bunch of bees flying back. They send out a distress signal and call everyone back to save the nest." "Don't try to make me feel sorry for them, " I warned. He laughed. sigh
"They should all be gone by Tuesday, " he explained. "If you still see activity on Tuesday (Heck I haven't seen activity in quite awhile...) then call me. I'll come back."
So now I'm looking for someone who can sell me some bees.
Got any?
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Horror films... and why not to go if you're over 60
Several nights ago my husband and I settled into our usual late night dullness to watch a movie. Neither of us could remember who ordered it but we were pretty sure that we'd seen it as a preview before watching another movie. That's actually where we get most of our rental ideas from. Even though we do have a subscription to Entertainment Weekly (it's his subscription, honest) we aren't always on top of what films are trending until they've come and gone. ( Unless they're Woody Allen movies because I've been hooked on his films for 30+ years....except for "September" cause that was so bad it was unintentionally funny)
This one was called , "The Company You Keep" or something like that. I can't remember titles...or names of people..or even plots...but this is new enough for me to remember enough, So anyway it's basically about 1970's American Weather Underground activists who have been wanted for murder and mayhem for for 50 years. They've all been hiding under assumed names in non-descript towns leading ordinary, dull lives. Then one gets caught. (Well, she actually was about to turn herself in... guilt sucks).
It's not the story that bothered me. It was the actors. The film stars Robert Redford and Julie Christie and some other folks like Susan Sarandon, Sam Elliott and Stanley Tucci.. The problem with this cast was what made the movie such a horror for me because everyone I just named looks really OLD. And not in a good way.
I suppose the main problem for me was Robert Redford. Listen the guy is 77 years old - and he looks every damn year of it and more. I'm sorry for being so superficial (but I am) but Robert Redford will always be Hubble in The Way We Were, or that rough and tumble guy in Horse Whisperer, or Bob Woodward in Watergate. But this guy looked like one of those dried apple people you buy at craft fairs. And they tried so hard to make him look younger and it soooo did not work. They even gave him an 8 year old daughter ....(I hate that about men..they can keep reproducing until they keel over).His face was lumpy and they must have tried using fillers but whoever administered the injections was sight impaired with a touch of Parkinson's. Not good. I could not stop staring at his face. sigh
Julie Christie? What? That is the most beautiful woman ever. For me she is Lara in Dr. Zhivago (except for that bizarre lighting that always darkened her face and lit her eyes...that was so odd) or, more recently, she is that stunning older woman with Alzheimer's Away from Her. This Julie sadly visited the same Botox/Restalyne depot as poor old Redford. She looked ....wrong..kinda bloated and, well...wrong. Not as bad as he did...but not as good as she could.
Now Susan Sarandon looks good. Age appropriate. No visible work on the face. Her large breasts sag a bit but hey - who's looking. She did not depress me. She gave me hope. Stanley Tucci is rumored to have some connection to the Picture of Dorian Gray...he never ages, wrinkles, lines or looks any different. Those pacts with the devil work better than Botox. Nick Nolte has actually improved since the mug shot that circulated after his arrest. Sam Elliott ages great. He's still hot. If he could only give some of his aging genes to Redford or Christie maybe they would stop Botoxing and be content with tweaking (not to be confused with twerking) and tucking on occasion.
What this is, for me, is the gentle (like a smack in the head from a 2 by 4) reminder that I am older. That we are older. That the people I grew up admiring are older. There are reasons I avoid the mirror (though is is challenging to tweeze without a mirror...) Almost every glance is a shock...because the me inside who looks out from these eyes (that are beginning to sag) is still 40 years old. It is a constant surprise to look at myself in pictures or in the mirror and realize I'm not that person on the outside (just inside...yummy and fresh inside). I hope that if I ever try so hard to turn back the clock someone will pull me aside and gently say "What the f--k are you doing? You look awful" Because good friends do that.
This one was called , "The Company You Keep" or something like that. I can't remember titles...or names of people..or even plots...but this is new enough for me to remember enough, So anyway it's basically about 1970's American Weather Underground activists who have been wanted for murder and mayhem for for 50 years. They've all been hiding under assumed names in non-descript towns leading ordinary, dull lives. Then one gets caught. (Well, she actually was about to turn herself in... guilt sucks).
It's not the story that bothered me. It was the actors. The film stars Robert Redford and Julie Christie and some other folks like Susan Sarandon, Sam Elliott and Stanley Tucci.. The problem with this cast was what made the movie such a horror for me because everyone I just named looks really OLD. And not in a good way.
I suppose the main problem for me was Robert Redford. Listen the guy is 77 years old - and he looks every damn year of it and more. I'm sorry for being so superficial (but I am) but Robert Redford will always be Hubble in The Way We Were, or that rough and tumble guy in Horse Whisperer, or Bob Woodward in Watergate. But this guy looked like one of those dried apple people you buy at craft fairs. And they tried so hard to make him look younger and it soooo did not work. They even gave him an 8 year old daughter ....(I hate that about men..they can keep reproducing until they keel over).His face was lumpy and they must have tried using fillers but whoever administered the injections was sight impaired with a touch of Parkinson's. Not good. I could not stop staring at his face. sigh
Julie Christie? What? That is the most beautiful woman ever. For me she is Lara in Dr. Zhivago (except for that bizarre lighting that always darkened her face and lit her eyes...that was so odd) or, more recently, she is that stunning older woman with Alzheimer's Away from Her. This Julie sadly visited the same Botox/Restalyne depot as poor old Redford. She looked ....wrong..kinda bloated and, well...wrong. Not as bad as he did...but not as good as she could.
Now Susan Sarandon looks good. Age appropriate. No visible work on the face. Her large breasts sag a bit but hey - who's looking. She did not depress me. She gave me hope. Stanley Tucci is rumored to have some connection to the Picture of Dorian Gray...he never ages, wrinkles, lines or looks any different. Those pacts with the devil work better than Botox. Nick Nolte has actually improved since the mug shot that circulated after his arrest. Sam Elliott ages great. He's still hot. If he could only give some of his aging genes to Redford or Christie maybe they would stop Botoxing and be content with tweaking (not to be confused with twerking) and tucking on occasion.
What this is, for me, is the gentle (like a smack in the head from a 2 by 4) reminder that I am older. That we are older. That the people I grew up admiring are older. There are reasons I avoid the mirror (though is is challenging to tweeze without a mirror...) Almost every glance is a shock...because the me inside who looks out from these eyes (that are beginning to sag) is still 40 years old. It is a constant surprise to look at myself in pictures or in the mirror and realize I'm not that person on the outside (just inside...yummy and fresh inside). I hope that if I ever try so hard to turn back the clock someone will pull me aside and gently say "What the f--k are you doing? You look awful" Because good friends do that.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Put another brick in the wall....
Do you have days when you'd just like to sit down on the floor and rock. No head banging, just rocking. Soothe away the tension with a comforting back and forth motion...and a loose straightjacket. Do you know what I mean? I'm having one of those days.
Two years ago I was probably the most unstimulated, bored person I knew. Nothing (not sex or chocolate) appealed to me. I had no inclination to save the world. I accepted that I would probably never accomplish anything socially meaningful or significant for society. I wasn't going to write the great American novel. I wasn't going to be famous - or infamous- and, worst of all, I was never going to sleep with Antonio Banderas, George Clooney, Dr. McDreamy or Javier Bardim.. I would never live my fantasy of having a makeover that allowed me - for one day - to be gorgeous and sexy. I let all that go....and after I did I realized I'd better get crackin on some new dreams. Hopefully one or two that would be achievable and more realistic.
FAst forward to now. I have always sustained my brain and fought my ADD demons by working for a friend. She always seemed to come up with something challenging when I was at my lowest. To that I added volunteering - although, to be honest, I did that to more to get my husband's fat ass out of the Lazy Boy and his hand out the bag of chips and the box of chocolate. Other writing jobs randomly fell into my lap from unexpected people. And then, this year, an old acquaintance called and asked if I'd like to go back and "start again" to get my permanent Professional Counselor license. (This requires 3000 supervised hours in an accredited clinic setting...at one time I had accumulated 1500 of these hours...and quit)) Why not? I blew the dust off my training license (and paid a hefty fee) and several weeks ago I started working at his clinic.
I only work there one day a week.. That's all I may ever work. I'm already drowning in treatment plans (still unwritten), case notes and a new computer program I have to learn) But my head is having issues jumping from thing to thing. Brain flexibility - something I've never had an issue with - is suddenly a problem. Getting older still sucks.
Today I find myself trying to write the most challenging, miserable report ever for my friend. Every so often I hit the wall with one of these assignments.And I am freaked out about letting her down. This time it is not only a wall - it is a mountain -the straight up kind with nothing to hold onto. Organizing the random bits of information I collected from listening to hours of videotape into a cohesive report has simply escaped me. I just don't see how to put it together. I keep thinking that I will wake up in the morning (or from my nap if I took naps) and the solution will be there. That has happened before. It is not happening now. Damn.
Earlier this afternoon I thought that maybe...just maybe I had a solution. And just as I was inching my way through writing the first three pages - I was told to stop and asked to do something else for the same client. No surprise. This client ALWAYS wants more...and he's a good client...but I was just getting rolling and now I have to stop. I have stopped. STOP IT!!
My favorite part of this new assignment is the written communication that flew by my desk "you can just cut and paste from the old report and from the new one (um that's the one I'm having trouble writing...). Should only take two hours. That's a "reasonable" time frame." No it isn't. It sucks.If it's so damn easy then YOU write it. And it's taking more than two hours because what the client wants requires data and quotes that, in some cases, do not exist. He imagined them. I copped an attitude. My friend is not happy with me (I know this because she always plays her pity card when she's pissed at me) And I am contemplating rocking.
She does not read this blog or I would not write this. For the record.
Two years ago I was probably the most unstimulated, bored person I knew. Nothing (not sex or chocolate) appealed to me. I had no inclination to save the world. I accepted that I would probably never accomplish anything socially meaningful or significant for society. I wasn't going to write the great American novel. I wasn't going to be famous - or infamous- and, worst of all, I was never going to sleep with Antonio Banderas, George Clooney, Dr. McDreamy or Javier Bardim.. I would never live my fantasy of having a makeover that allowed me - for one day - to be gorgeous and sexy. I let all that go....and after I did I realized I'd better get crackin on some new dreams. Hopefully one or two that would be achievable and more realistic.
FAst forward to now. I have always sustained my brain and fought my ADD demons by working for a friend. She always seemed to come up with something challenging when I was at my lowest. To that I added volunteering - although, to be honest, I did that to more to get my husband's fat ass out of the Lazy Boy and his hand out the bag of chips and the box of chocolate. Other writing jobs randomly fell into my lap from unexpected people. And then, this year, an old acquaintance called and asked if I'd like to go back and "start again" to get my permanent Professional Counselor license. (This requires 3000 supervised hours in an accredited clinic setting...at one time I had accumulated 1500 of these hours...and quit)) Why not? I blew the dust off my training license (and paid a hefty fee) and several weeks ago I started working at his clinic.
I only work there one day a week.. That's all I may ever work. I'm already drowning in treatment plans (still unwritten), case notes and a new computer program I have to learn) But my head is having issues jumping from thing to thing. Brain flexibility - something I've never had an issue with - is suddenly a problem. Getting older still sucks.
Today I find myself trying to write the most challenging, miserable report ever for my friend. Every so often I hit the wall with one of these assignments.And I am freaked out about letting her down. This time it is not only a wall - it is a mountain -the straight up kind with nothing to hold onto. Organizing the random bits of information I collected from listening to hours of videotape into a cohesive report has simply escaped me. I just don't see how to put it together. I keep thinking that I will wake up in the morning (or from my nap if I took naps) and the solution will be there. That has happened before. It is not happening now. Damn.
Earlier this afternoon I thought that maybe...just maybe I had a solution. And just as I was inching my way through writing the first three pages - I was told to stop and asked to do something else for the same client. No surprise. This client ALWAYS wants more...and he's a good client...but I was just getting rolling and now I have to stop. I have stopped. STOP IT!!
My favorite part of this new assignment is the written communication that flew by my desk "you can just cut and paste from the old report and from the new one (um that's the one I'm having trouble writing...). Should only take two hours. That's a "reasonable" time frame." No it isn't. It sucks.If it's so damn easy then YOU write it. And it's taking more than two hours because what the client wants requires data and quotes that, in some cases, do not exist. He imagined them. I copped an attitude. My friend is not happy with me (I know this because she always plays her pity card when she's pissed at me) And I am contemplating rocking.
She does not read this blog or I would not write this. For the record.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Peanut butter and Jellyfish
Diana Nyad, age 64, after multiple attempts over 35 years, yesterday successfully completed a 52 hour swim from Cuba to Florida. No shark cage. One jellyfish sting. Lots of planning. Many many dedicated friends, helpers and followers. She even had a friend who fed her by hand while she swam. (Yes, sometimes it was peanut butter) I ask myself - where does that kind of passion come from?
As for me - well, I don't swim - so swimming from Cuba to Florida has never been a blip on my personal Blip screen. The problem, as I see it, is my personal Blip screen is pretty flat...sort of like my chest...but not as flat as I wish my stomach were. A burning passion to accomplish something major..or minor..or even in the key of C...just isn't there. I often say that I never really identified a passion or my "bliss" (chocolate doesn't count). Some people dispute that. I am constantly reminded of how hard I worked and how much resistance I encountered in order to become a mother. Well, we all know how that turned out. Maybe that's why the old Blip screen is so flat. There's always a price for getting what you really really want - at least in my life story.
At 65 I find myself quietly longing for small things...but not too hard and not too loud cause I don't want the gremlins who take away the good stuff to hear me or notice if I get something good. Shhh. I grew up in a house where my Dad(s) was Jewish and my Mom was an Italian Protestant. Yet, it was the Jewish superstitions that stuck with me. For example, it is advised that a family not reveal the name of a baby boy until his Bris (the ceremony for chopping off of the foreskin), If the name is revealed before that the Angel of Death will sweep in and kill the baby. There are many more superstitions like this...and I must believe them somewhere down deep in my soul. You will rarely observe me getting super enthusiastic about anything. I might be partying inside - but the outside is pure Amish. Liking something, or being really exhuberant about something is my equivalent to Diana's jellyfish. It will sting - and I don't like pain.
So my hat's is off to Diana who never gave up. Who showed the world that age is meaningless. Who made us all older women proud yesterday. If I were Diana I would spend today sleeping, nursing my sore muscles and rehydrating with a straw connected to a barrel of Margaritas. (I know - alcohol dehydrates but she can suck on ice cubes) Then I would go to Duval Street and party my saggy butt off. I can even point her in the direction of the nude bar....They don't serve anything there with peanut butter but I do remember a drink called a Jelly Stinger. Here's to you Diana!
As for me - well, I don't swim - so swimming from Cuba to Florida has never been a blip on my personal Blip screen. The problem, as I see it, is my personal Blip screen is pretty flat...sort of like my chest...but not as flat as I wish my stomach were. A burning passion to accomplish something major..or minor..or even in the key of C...just isn't there. I often say that I never really identified a passion or my "bliss" (chocolate doesn't count). Some people dispute that. I am constantly reminded of how hard I worked and how much resistance I encountered in order to become a mother. Well, we all know how that turned out. Maybe that's why the old Blip screen is so flat. There's always a price for getting what you really really want - at least in my life story.
At 65 I find myself quietly longing for small things...but not too hard and not too loud cause I don't want the gremlins who take away the good stuff to hear me or notice if I get something good. Shhh. I grew up in a house where my Dad(s) was Jewish and my Mom was an Italian Protestant. Yet, it was the Jewish superstitions that stuck with me. For example, it is advised that a family not reveal the name of a baby boy until his Bris (the ceremony for chopping off of the foreskin), If the name is revealed before that the Angel of Death will sweep in and kill the baby. There are many more superstitions like this...and I must believe them somewhere down deep in my soul. You will rarely observe me getting super enthusiastic about anything. I might be partying inside - but the outside is pure Amish. Liking something, or being really exhuberant about something is my equivalent to Diana's jellyfish. It will sting - and I don't like pain.
So my hat's is off to Diana who never gave up. Who showed the world that age is meaningless. Who made us all older women proud yesterday. If I were Diana I would spend today sleeping, nursing my sore muscles and rehydrating with a straw connected to a barrel of Margaritas. (I know - alcohol dehydrates but she can suck on ice cubes) Then I would go to Duval Street and party my saggy butt off. I can even point her in the direction of the nude bar....They don't serve anything there with peanut butter but I do remember a drink called a Jelly Stinger. Here's to you Diana!
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Booking it
I'm reading a book. The real kind. With a hard cover and a plastic cover over that. (just like Granny's furniture, only smaller) Ivory colored paper pages that you have to turn with your actual finger.The kind of pages you can dog-ear (even though you shouldn't. But I do. So shoot me) It's a three week book and it's from the LIBRARY. Yep. The library. L-i-b-r-a-r-y. I've gone old school. (Confession: I keep my library card on my phone so I don't look so so old school...)
This book is heavy. Its pages all together are 2 inches thick - not counting the cover. There are 985 of them. But that does not discourage me. It does however strain my wrist and elbow. I love Ken Follett. He writes 'em big, bold and beautifully. I am a sucker for Ken. C'mere Ken baby, let me show ya how much I love your books. Book one of his latest trilogy. Libraries may not even exist by the time I've read all three...(And I don't think book three is out yet)
Most people would ask why I didn't Kindle this. I hate Kindle. It's not real. I can't touch the paper. The dog-ear is electronic. And it doesn't have any booky-smell. I love booky-smell. I think e-readers are great if you're traveling (assuming you're traveling somewhere civilized where they have plugs). They are smaller and probably more convenient. Sure,. you can slip an e-reader into your purse or your tote....but it's still a gadget. Gadgets get loopy. Out of nowhere they turn off or skip..or don't obey your command. I have a kid like that - why would I want a book like that?
It's hard to snuggle up with a Kindle on a big chair with a cup of hot tea. It's not right. It's like sex with a vibrator. It gets the job done but there's something missing.
This book is heavy. Its pages all together are 2 inches thick - not counting the cover. There are 985 of them. But that does not discourage me. It does however strain my wrist and elbow. I love Ken Follett. He writes 'em big, bold and beautifully. I am a sucker for Ken. C'mere Ken baby, let me show ya how much I love your books. Book one of his latest trilogy. Libraries may not even exist by the time I've read all three...(And I don't think book three is out yet)
Most people would ask why I didn't Kindle this. I hate Kindle. It's not real. I can't touch the paper. The dog-ear is electronic. And it doesn't have any booky-smell. I love booky-smell. I think e-readers are great if you're traveling (assuming you're traveling somewhere civilized where they have plugs). They are smaller and probably more convenient. Sure,. you can slip an e-reader into your purse or your tote....but it's still a gadget. Gadgets get loopy. Out of nowhere they turn off or skip..or don't obey your command. I have a kid like that - why would I want a book like that?
It's hard to snuggle up with a Kindle on a big chair with a cup of hot tea. It's not right. It's like sex with a vibrator. It gets the job done but there's something missing.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
The age of confusion
So I've just ended a week in techno Hell. Seriously. In one seven day period I acquired a new phone (well actually a second new phone because the first new phone wouldn't work in my house) and a new laptop. If my hair were not already grey, it would be now. I am not cut out for anything beyond a dumb phone or Windows XP. But I now have a smartphone and Windows 8. Both are baffling.
I'll start with the phone. Once upon a time I had a sweet little slider phone with a keyboard. (Just thin.king about it makes me get all weepy) It was on this phone that I mastered texting and picture sharing. What else could a girl want? Mastering these two key functions made me feel modern, cool, and techno-savvy.. However everyone around me had smartphones or Ipads. They talked to Siri (Tom's daughter?) They mapped their trips guided by a nasty-voiced woman who frequently let out with an exasperated "RECALCULATING!" Over time I felt old and outdated. I wanted a phone that could turn on my DVR if I didn't get home in time to watch "Say yes to the dress" too. (Don't ask) I began researching phones and carriers. I looked forward to the day that I could kiss AT&T goodbye and go with a company that actually cared if my phone worked. After months - yes months - of research I chose US Cellular based mainly on the fact that when we go to Door County or other more remote places my husband's phone always found a signal. In May I committed. I signed away my life (Remember, two years at my age is a long time) and got a Samsung Galaxy S3 (because they were almost giving them away and I'm cheap).
This phone sucked. It was big, bulky and didn't work in my house, my garage or my driveway. Sadly, I didn't realize how bad the reception was until my 15 day deadline had come and gone. I don't call a lot of people so it took awhile to figure this out. I marched back to the store and basked in the beauty of the store manager (see earlier blog entry). He gave me another Galaxy. It sucked too. He had no more suggestions
but he casually mentioned a Motorola phone - the Electrify M and thought it might work better...but he didn't give me one and just left me hanging with my original GS3 that sucked.
I went back to Google and, to my chagrin (because I had researched this phone) I found a whole bunch of unhappy US Cellular customers who hated their GS3s. I wasn't alone - but that wasn't exactly comforting. What to do? What to do?
After days of thinking about my next steps I decided I would use one of my God-given talents - bitching. I went to Facebook and found the user page for US Celluar and launched a seven week attack. I wrote scathing remarks. I responded to everyone who was whining about their phone. I posted updates about how US Cellular was doing nothing. I talked about how there was no other industry where a person could purchase an item and a service and have to pay for it whether it worked or not. I never stopped. I did this day and night. I received reams of emails from their "social service reps". Yes, thats what they call themselves. Seems I had lots of social workers. The more they contacted me, the more pissed I got. Every email they sent was full of standard paragraphs...they all sounded the same. "We are so sorry that you are experiencing problems.." "We want you to be happy and satisfied..." "your problems concern us" etc. Lots of lip service; no action. They offered to find me a Motorola Electrify but, in the terms of my contract, I would have to accept one that had been returned by someone else. Where else would you return an item and have to accept a used item in return? NOWHERE!
The promised "swap phone" never materialized. I pressed harder. I began every week with "This is week #___" and I still have no working phone." Then they started calling me. I think they wanted me to shut up. Last week they "made an exception" and sent me a brand new Electrify. I activated it while someone sat on the other end of the phone and coached me, For two days it sort of worked. On the third day it didn't. Couldn't call, couldn't get calls, couldn't text and couldn't connect to a network anywhere. Oh joy. More bitching. Finally today, I crawled back to the store and spent ten minutes with Gorgeous Guy who found the problem in less than 30 seconds. Wrong SIM number. Phone works...now I just have to learn how to use it....and Gorgeous Guy gave me a new screen protector because "You deserve it". Damn right.
The laptop represents my ongoing challenge with computers. I try to not think about computers. I learn how to do only what I HAVE to do and give myself a round of applause any time I accidentally learn something new. I have been fiercely loyal to Windows XP because I know where things are. When I don't know where something is...I call someone on my friend's staff and they help me find it (after they laugh at me). Hey, it works. But I now need to have a laptop because I am blowing the dust off my counseling license and trying that again. Our client records are stored in a cloud (isn't that too damp?) in Heaven or somewhere and I need to be able to make case notes after I see clients. I need another computer like a need another phone and spending hundreds of bucks on a computer was not part of my plan...but then, what is? So I set out to find the cheapest computer I could - and I did. A brand new Dell for $299 that came with Windows 8.
It is Windows 8 that will finally do me in. The only similarity between XP and 8 is the Windows part. Someone said I could get an app that makes 8 look and run like 7. I laughed. I skipped 7 just like I skipped Vista (whew!) so looking like 7 is no big deal. Windows 8 has funky "tiles" and wierd functions and everything needs an app and I am terrified to download one. What the hell is an app anyway? XP doesn't need apps. My phone needs apps and I'm okay with that because Candy Crush Saga makes perfect sense I "get" that kind of app. And I have to be somewhat proficient by Friday.
Maybe there's a proficiency app.
I'll start with the phone. Once upon a time I had a sweet little slider phone with a keyboard. (Just thin.king about it makes me get all weepy) It was on this phone that I mastered texting and picture sharing. What else could a girl want? Mastering these two key functions made me feel modern, cool, and techno-savvy.. However everyone around me had smartphones or Ipads. They talked to Siri (Tom's daughter?) They mapped their trips guided by a nasty-voiced woman who frequently let out with an exasperated "RECALCULATING!" Over time I felt old and outdated. I wanted a phone that could turn on my DVR if I didn't get home in time to watch "Say yes to the dress" too. (Don't ask) I began researching phones and carriers. I looked forward to the day that I could kiss AT&T goodbye and go with a company that actually cared if my phone worked. After months - yes months - of research I chose US Cellular based mainly on the fact that when we go to Door County or other more remote places my husband's phone always found a signal. In May I committed. I signed away my life (Remember, two years at my age is a long time) and got a Samsung Galaxy S3 (because they were almost giving them away and I'm cheap).
This phone sucked. It was big, bulky and didn't work in my house, my garage or my driveway. Sadly, I didn't realize how bad the reception was until my 15 day deadline had come and gone. I don't call a lot of people so it took awhile to figure this out. I marched back to the store and basked in the beauty of the store manager (see earlier blog entry). He gave me another Galaxy. It sucked too. He had no more suggestions
but he casually mentioned a Motorola phone - the Electrify M and thought it might work better...but he didn't give me one and just left me hanging with my original GS3 that sucked.
I went back to Google and, to my chagrin (because I had researched this phone) I found a whole bunch of unhappy US Cellular customers who hated their GS3s. I wasn't alone - but that wasn't exactly comforting. What to do? What to do?
After days of thinking about my next steps I decided I would use one of my God-given talents - bitching. I went to Facebook and found the user page for US Celluar and launched a seven week attack. I wrote scathing remarks. I responded to everyone who was whining about their phone. I posted updates about how US Cellular was doing nothing. I talked about how there was no other industry where a person could purchase an item and a service and have to pay for it whether it worked or not. I never stopped. I did this day and night. I received reams of emails from their "social service reps". Yes, thats what they call themselves. Seems I had lots of social workers. The more they contacted me, the more pissed I got. Every email they sent was full of standard paragraphs...they all sounded the same. "We are so sorry that you are experiencing problems.." "We want you to be happy and satisfied..." "your problems concern us" etc. Lots of lip service; no action. They offered to find me a Motorola Electrify but, in the terms of my contract, I would have to accept one that had been returned by someone else. Where else would you return an item and have to accept a used item in return? NOWHERE!
The promised "swap phone" never materialized. I pressed harder. I began every week with "This is week #___" and I still have no working phone." Then they started calling me. I think they wanted me to shut up. Last week they "made an exception" and sent me a brand new Electrify. I activated it while someone sat on the other end of the phone and coached me, For two days it sort of worked. On the third day it didn't. Couldn't call, couldn't get calls, couldn't text and couldn't connect to a network anywhere. Oh joy. More bitching. Finally today, I crawled back to the store and spent ten minutes with Gorgeous Guy who found the problem in less than 30 seconds. Wrong SIM number. Phone works...now I just have to learn how to use it....and Gorgeous Guy gave me a new screen protector because "You deserve it". Damn right.
The laptop represents my ongoing challenge with computers. I try to not think about computers. I learn how to do only what I HAVE to do and give myself a round of applause any time I accidentally learn something new. I have been fiercely loyal to Windows XP because I know where things are. When I don't know where something is...I call someone on my friend's staff and they help me find it (after they laugh at me). Hey, it works. But I now need to have a laptop because I am blowing the dust off my counseling license and trying that again. Our client records are stored in a cloud (isn't that too damp?) in Heaven or somewhere and I need to be able to make case notes after I see clients. I need another computer like a need another phone and spending hundreds of bucks on a computer was not part of my plan...but then, what is? So I set out to find the cheapest computer I could - and I did. A brand new Dell for $299 that came with Windows 8.
It is Windows 8 that will finally do me in. The only similarity between XP and 8 is the Windows part. Someone said I could get an app that makes 8 look and run like 7. I laughed. I skipped 7 just like I skipped Vista (whew!) so looking like 7 is no big deal. Windows 8 has funky "tiles" and wierd functions and everything needs an app and I am terrified to download one. What the hell is an app anyway? XP doesn't need apps. My phone needs apps and I'm okay with that because Candy Crush Saga makes perfect sense I "get" that kind of app. And I have to be somewhat proficient by Friday.
Maybe there's a proficiency app.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Appreciating Depreciating
My house is 38 years old. Young by people years; a little bit of a misfit in house years. Not charming, not trendy, sort of dated and not "mid-century" chic (what, can someone please tell me, is chic about a three bedroom ranch with blond wood and a slate foyer??) A house is cool if it's really old or at least over 60 years old (oh wait - that is old)...it's even cooler if it's really young and has all the latest stuff. (I personally believe that granite and stainless steel will be come like the Harvest Gold shag carpet and the Avocado green appliances of the 70's...so I won't and don't have either....). Depends on taste. A 38 year old house, my friend, is never cool UNLESS there has been some extensive - and expensive - "updating". Then it becomes like the Housewives of Your City...still not-quite-right.
When a house nears forty, things start to fall apart. This is what my handy-guy told me this morning. ( It sounds right. I started to fall apart as I neared forty.) When this process of aging and decay begins things crumble, rust, leak and generally suck your bank account dry. I need to point out that this is exactly what happened to my body - except for the bank account thing cause those were the days of really good health insurance.
Like everything else in life, my house is falling apart in bunches. First there was the garage roof shingles that mysteriously started folding into themselves during the relentless Spring rains. ( Much like the effect of humidity on my disgusting silver,grey and black curly -once upon a time straight- hair.) I sat at my computer for weeks watching their edges curl and their middles puff outside my window (not to belabor a point but my body did the same thing) Finally I told my husband who muttered something under his breath and called the roof-guy. Ca-ching $$$$.
Next came the first basement issue - the river running through it. It went from my well tank across the concrete and into a drain conveniently located on the other side of the room. No fish. Shouldn't be there. Call the plumber. My handy-guy ("I don't do basements") stood in my basement waiting for the plumber and taking bets on what was wrong. "You look like you have a hole in your well tank. That'll cost ya." He was wrong. Our basement sink drain was clogged and the water, according to Mr. Plumber, was overflowing - thus creating a river that ran through the basement, into the drain and out into the nether world. The well tank - however - did have a busted pressure valve. I am fortunate that I have not sprung a leak in my body basement. I am blessed that way. Tough bladder and no babies. I do get pissed off a lot though.
Ream out the sink pipes, replace the valve. Ca-ching $$$$$
Fast forward one day. "Bob - I found the source of the water in the basement" I announce. "The wall is wet. The f--king wall is leaking!" This, of course, was the only wall in the basement that hadn't been "waterproofed" years earlier. The wall behind the plugged up sink...(or was it?) Why didn't the $75 an hour plumber guy see this? This was where the wall braces ended. Crap. Now - to continue the analogy of my aging body to the aging house (in case you missed the point of this)...I have had the total opposite experience of leaking...it happens in older women. They can't replace your mortar or brace your walls - but they can give you some stuff that helps. I know. I call my parts-fixing guy and he takes care of things. Just sayin'. But for this, we call the basement fixing-guy. Nice estimate. There goes the trip to Costa Rica.
Last night I was in the basement and heard a waterfall. We don't have a waterfall so I was concerned. There it was. Another leak. From the pipe that comes from the half-bath and forms a tributary of the other river. The wax seal (sounds like a Fellini movie) under my toilet was broken. The wax seal keeps the toilet from leaking. Handy-guy again. We're claiming him as a dependent on our taxes.
I've recently notice that the concrete slab that serves as a "stoop" or ugly-porch at the entrance to my house is pitted. The garage floor has cracks. The soffets in the back of the house appear to be separating from whatever caulk someone used to seal the edges. The back door has been painted so many times I've started calling it "Joan"..no more paint is possible.. New door comin'...
The handy-guy says the house is "settling" How long does a house settle? Am I still settling? I know there have been times in my life when I've "settled" but I had choices. I don't think you get too many choices about how or when your body - or your house- settles. Bummer.
When a house nears forty, things start to fall apart. This is what my handy-guy told me this morning. ( It sounds right. I started to fall apart as I neared forty.) When this process of aging and decay begins things crumble, rust, leak and generally suck your bank account dry. I need to point out that this is exactly what happened to my body - except for the bank account thing cause those were the days of really good health insurance.
Like everything else in life, my house is falling apart in bunches. First there was the garage roof shingles that mysteriously started folding into themselves during the relentless Spring rains. ( Much like the effect of humidity on my disgusting silver,grey and black curly -once upon a time straight- hair.) I sat at my computer for weeks watching their edges curl and their middles puff outside my window (not to belabor a point but my body did the same thing) Finally I told my husband who muttered something under his breath and called the roof-guy. Ca-ching $$$$.
Next came the first basement issue - the river running through it. It went from my well tank across the concrete and into a drain conveniently located on the other side of the room. No fish. Shouldn't be there. Call the plumber. My handy-guy ("I don't do basements") stood in my basement waiting for the plumber and taking bets on what was wrong. "You look like you have a hole in your well tank. That'll cost ya." He was wrong. Our basement sink drain was clogged and the water, according to Mr. Plumber, was overflowing - thus creating a river that ran through the basement, into the drain and out into the nether world. The well tank - however - did have a busted pressure valve. I am fortunate that I have not sprung a leak in my body basement. I am blessed that way. Tough bladder and no babies. I do get pissed off a lot though.
Ream out the sink pipes, replace the valve. Ca-ching $$$$$
Fast forward one day. "Bob - I found the source of the water in the basement" I announce. "The wall is wet. The f--king wall is leaking!" This, of course, was the only wall in the basement that hadn't been "waterproofed" years earlier. The wall behind the plugged up sink...(or was it?) Why didn't the $75 an hour plumber guy see this? This was where the wall braces ended. Crap. Now - to continue the analogy of my aging body to the aging house (in case you missed the point of this)...I have had the total opposite experience of leaking...it happens in older women. They can't replace your mortar or brace your walls - but they can give you some stuff that helps. I know. I call my parts-fixing guy and he takes care of things. Just sayin'. But for this, we call the basement fixing-guy. Nice estimate. There goes the trip to Costa Rica.
Last night I was in the basement and heard a waterfall. We don't have a waterfall so I was concerned. There it was. Another leak. From the pipe that comes from the half-bath and forms a tributary of the other river. The wax seal (sounds like a Fellini movie) under my toilet was broken. The wax seal keeps the toilet from leaking. Handy-guy again. We're claiming him as a dependent on our taxes.
I've recently notice that the concrete slab that serves as a "stoop" or ugly-porch at the entrance to my house is pitted. The garage floor has cracks. The soffets in the back of the house appear to be separating from whatever caulk someone used to seal the edges. The back door has been painted so many times I've started calling it "Joan"..no more paint is possible.. New door comin'...
The handy-guy says the house is "settling" How long does a house settle? Am I still settling? I know there have been times in my life when I've "settled" but I had choices. I don't think you get too many choices about how or when your body - or your house- settles. Bummer.
Friday, July 19, 2013
Trending at a Starbucks near me
I don't drink coffee. I've tried. I've tried it with sugar, cream, and sugar&cream. Naw. Tastes like mud. I don't even like mocha - why ruin perfectly good chocolate with coffee? If I believed in sin - putting coffee and chocolate together would be a BIG one.
No coffee; no daily trips to Starbucks. Right?
Sort of.
When I work, I go to Starbucks and get a Venti Black Iced Tea, unsweetened (shaken, not stirred). Really, they actually shake it. When I was a therapist in West Bend, Wisconsin, I stopped there every morning. I knew all the Baristas. They were all twelve, had perfect skin and were chipper at 7:30am. I'm not even fully awake or aware at 7:30...but still I drive.
Maybe there is something to drinking coffee.
My local Starbuckery is about two miles down the road. I don't go there often, but when I do it's in the morning. Except for today. Today, I stopped in after buying a million dollars worth of fruit and vegetables at an upscale grocery. I had $2.50 left and that's what a Venti Black Iced Tea, unsweetened costs.
What did I see? Not twelve year old women with firm bodies and perky boobs. Not studly men in tight tees working those foamers like they were making art with their own body fluids. Not even anyone who reminded me of all the gay BFFs who have come and gone in my life. I saw WOMEN. Middle aged women with poochy bellies, wiggly butts, and breasts beginning to go south. Real live people. ( I'd guess 50ish...and that would be generous.)
These midlife ladies weren't perky - they were nurturing. When I placed my order the Barista turned her head towards the one youngster Barista and said, "Honey - can you make this nice lady a Venti Black Iced tea, no syrup? Thank you, dear." I could barely move- so stunned was I. "Hon, just wait at the end of the counter and Steffy (or Steffi, or Stephee, or Steffie) will have it right up for you, " she directed.
At the pick-up counter a smiling, raven haired Mom-ista stood smiling. Her bright (and I mean neon bright) red lips beckoning me closer. She produced the tea, smiled big, "Okay darlin' you just have yourself the best day ever! Here ya go."
I don't know if I could be as nurturing or as friendly as those women. By nature I'm sort of a bitch. But at a time in my life when finding a "fun" part-time retirement job is quite a feat, this is a beacon of incandescent light - not one of those horrible curly lights. Older people are easily discounted and invisible. Ask an older person. But here was a chance...a thought...a possibility. I will tuck this information into my tiny, disorganized, brain for "later". (Although I have no idea how much 'later' I actually have) When I am tired of writing reports that frustrate me or tired of listening to the whining and sniffling of clients....I might be come a Gold-ista and start a trend towards Grannies whacked out on caffeine and servin' up a little wisdom...for tips, of course.
No coffee; no daily trips to Starbucks. Right?
Sort of.
When I work, I go to Starbucks and get a Venti Black Iced Tea, unsweetened (shaken, not stirred). Really, they actually shake it. When I was a therapist in West Bend, Wisconsin, I stopped there every morning. I knew all the Baristas. They were all twelve, had perfect skin and were chipper at 7:30am. I'm not even fully awake or aware at 7:30...but still I drive.
Maybe there is something to drinking coffee.
My local Starbuckery is about two miles down the road. I don't go there often, but when I do it's in the morning. Except for today. Today, I stopped in after buying a million dollars worth of fruit and vegetables at an upscale grocery. I had $2.50 left and that's what a Venti Black Iced Tea, unsweetened costs.
What did I see? Not twelve year old women with firm bodies and perky boobs. Not studly men in tight tees working those foamers like they were making art with their own body fluids. Not even anyone who reminded me of all the gay BFFs who have come and gone in my life. I saw WOMEN. Middle aged women with poochy bellies, wiggly butts, and breasts beginning to go south. Real live people. ( I'd guess 50ish...and that would be generous.)
These midlife ladies weren't perky - they were nurturing. When I placed my order the Barista turned her head towards the one youngster Barista and said, "Honey - can you make this nice lady a Venti Black Iced tea, no syrup? Thank you, dear." I could barely move- so stunned was I. "Hon, just wait at the end of the counter and Steffy (or Steffi, or Stephee, or Steffie) will have it right up for you, " she directed.
At the pick-up counter a smiling, raven haired Mom-ista stood smiling. Her bright (and I mean neon bright) red lips beckoning me closer. She produced the tea, smiled big, "Okay darlin' you just have yourself the best day ever! Here ya go."
I don't know if I could be as nurturing or as friendly as those women. By nature I'm sort of a bitch. But at a time in my life when finding a "fun" part-time retirement job is quite a feat, this is a beacon of incandescent light - not one of those horrible curly lights. Older people are easily discounted and invisible. Ask an older person. But here was a chance...a thought...a possibility. I will tuck this information into my tiny, disorganized, brain for "later". (Although I have no idea how much 'later' I actually have) When I am tired of writing reports that frustrate me or tired of listening to the whining and sniffling of clients....I might be come a Gold-ista and start a trend towards Grannies whacked out on caffeine and servin' up a little wisdom...for tips, of course.
Monday, July 15, 2013
Thank you, Sam
Sam is my dearest friend's grandson. I first met Sam when he was three. We were both visiting my friend at a rented, glorious, beachfront cottage in Door County, Wisconsin. We played a few handheld video games, blew bubble and generally messed around. I love three year olds. One night I made him monster spray and showed him how to apply it to the various monster hiding places in his vacation bedroom. Cool kid at three.
Fast forward to two days ago. Again Sam and I cross paths in the same place with more or less the same people. This time Sam is five. He is taller, very handsome, super charming and smart. "I remember you," he said. "You made the monster spray." He paused, "But you look older."
It's the damn gray hair. Even the kid noticed. But he was honest. Thank you Sam.
Fast forward to two days ago. Again Sam and I cross paths in the same place with more or less the same people. This time Sam is five. He is taller, very handsome, super charming and smart. "I remember you," he said. "You made the monster spray." He paused, "But you look older."
It's the damn gray hair. Even the kid noticed. But he was honest. Thank you Sam.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Nasty Bits
The first time I ever cooked anything resembling a meal (Note: I mean resembling) I was in college. Freshman year. New guy. He asked me out and, as it turned out, it was an apartment date. I was expected to cook the dinner.
I'd never cooked anything. Ever.
My mom used to shoo me from the kitchen with wise words like "Get outta here! You're gonna spend your life in this room eventually - don't start now!" I always loved her for that.
But, there I was in the galley kitchen of a third floor Boston walk-up with a guy who looked like Paul Newman. And he wanted me to cook (audition?) for him. In one hand he had a London Broil and in the other a can of peas. He might as well have handed me a live chicken and two sticks to create fire. At least you could drop a live chicken, open the door and let her run. Then you'd have to GO OUT for dinner. For wings, of course.
What to do? Call my Mother, naturally.
But how? No one had cell phone. Long distance was expensive.Who cares? Not my phone.He'll never know.
So I sent my date out for something from the grocery store..I don't remember what. But he went.
Fast dialing. (yes, dialing) "Mom. I'm in a guy's apartment and he wants me to cook a steak and a can of peas. help!" She quickly imparted all the knowledge she could fit into two minutes. She also gave me a trick to use to get him to actually finish the steaks himself. Before we hung up I asked the most important question. "Mom! How do you cook the peas?" I remember the silence. And the answer. "Open the can."
So that was 1965. This is 2013 and I've done a lot of cooking. But one thing always stumps me. ..the recipes that say, "after browning the meat, remove from the pan. Deglaze (why can't they just say pour in some liquid?) with some chicken broth, scraping the brown bits from the bottom of the pan..."
WHAT BROWN BITS? I confess that I never ever ever have any brown bits. It doesn't matter what I make or how nicely I've browned it...there are no bits. Where are my bits?
I skip over any recipe that calls for scraping up the brown bits. Because I am bitless. And you can't fake brown bits...and you can't cheat cause no one sells them.
I'd never cooked anything. Ever.
My mom used to shoo me from the kitchen with wise words like "Get outta here! You're gonna spend your life in this room eventually - don't start now!" I always loved her for that.
But, there I was in the galley kitchen of a third floor Boston walk-up with a guy who looked like Paul Newman. And he wanted me to cook (audition?) for him. In one hand he had a London Broil and in the other a can of peas. He might as well have handed me a live chicken and two sticks to create fire. At least you could drop a live chicken, open the door and let her run. Then you'd have to GO OUT for dinner. For wings, of course.
What to do? Call my Mother, naturally.
But how? No one had cell phone. Long distance was expensive.Who cares? Not my phone.He'll never know.
So I sent my date out for something from the grocery store..I don't remember what. But he went.
Fast dialing. (yes, dialing) "Mom. I'm in a guy's apartment and he wants me to cook a steak and a can of peas. help!" She quickly imparted all the knowledge she could fit into two minutes. She also gave me a trick to use to get him to actually finish the steaks himself. Before we hung up I asked the most important question. "Mom! How do you cook the peas?" I remember the silence. And the answer. "Open the can."
So that was 1965. This is 2013 and I've done a lot of cooking. But one thing always stumps me. ..the recipes that say, "after browning the meat, remove from the pan. Deglaze (why can't they just say pour in some liquid?) with some chicken broth, scraping the brown bits from the bottom of the pan..."
WHAT BROWN BITS? I confess that I never ever ever have any brown bits. It doesn't matter what I make or how nicely I've browned it...there are no bits. Where are my bits?
I skip over any recipe that calls for scraping up the brown bits. Because I am bitless. And you can't fake brown bits...and you can't cheat cause no one sells them.
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Migration and shrinkage
Except for that time a few years ago when most food tasted bad or made me nauseous (and I lost 17 pounds and wore a size 4 and looked great) I have basically been the same weight for decades. I know this because I can still wear jeans and skirts from the 90's and before. Why I still have these clothing items is a mystery - but the point is - they still fit. My annual trip to the doctor (complete with a weigh-in) provides further proof. Aside from the time I porked out and went over 140, I hover around 130 -135. For me, that's a size 6-8. I'll take it.
Staying the same weight sounds like a positive. Problem is.. as I age.the weight stays the same but it doesn't stay in the same PLACE. I cannot boast ever having a flat, firm tummy. I've dreamed about it. I've even promised myself that I'll start working on it. But I never have. Never will.
My excess body fat appears to have called a family gathering in my middle. The family has stayed put. I suddenly have a wiggly tummy and a muffin top. This is not attractive. I now understand why older women buy and wear billowy tops. I don't own a billowy top. I don't even know where people get them. QVC maybe?
Weight shifting is not the same as shape shifting. If I could shape shift I would become Marion Cotilliard.
My Dad used to complain that old age had made him shrink. He was correct. It's another yummy part of aging. He went from a whopping 5'7" to 5'4" over the course of fifteen years. Thankfully he had a friend who was good at altering his pants.
I am still 5'3 and I will do all I can to stay there. But other things are shrinking. The source of my current physical problem centers around a shrinking part. Did you know that "use it or lose it" is based on fact? I didn't use it enough (or use the estrogen inserts I had) so it shrunk. Apparently past use does not count. And now I'm going through some less than enviable stuff to return it to it's upright and locked position. The estrogen ring was inserted several days ago and the process was agonizing. The "ring" has a circumference of much larger proportion than the host. Overcrowding.
It's these little changes - and a few more - that remind me I am not 40 or even 50. I am grateful, however, that my mental age of 30 remains unmoved and unbroken.
Staying the same weight sounds like a positive. Problem is.. as I age.the weight stays the same but it doesn't stay in the same PLACE. I cannot boast ever having a flat, firm tummy. I've dreamed about it. I've even promised myself that I'll start working on it. But I never have. Never will.
My excess body fat appears to have called a family gathering in my middle. The family has stayed put. I suddenly have a wiggly tummy and a muffin top. This is not attractive. I now understand why older women buy and wear billowy tops. I don't own a billowy top. I don't even know where people get them. QVC maybe?
Weight shifting is not the same as shape shifting. If I could shape shift I would become Marion Cotilliard.
My Dad used to complain that old age had made him shrink. He was correct. It's another yummy part of aging. He went from a whopping 5'7" to 5'4" over the course of fifteen years. Thankfully he had a friend who was good at altering his pants.
I am still 5'3 and I will do all I can to stay there. But other things are shrinking. The source of my current physical problem centers around a shrinking part. Did you know that "use it or lose it" is based on fact? I didn't use it enough (or use the estrogen inserts I had) so it shrunk. Apparently past use does not count. And now I'm going through some less than enviable stuff to return it to it's upright and locked position. The estrogen ring was inserted several days ago and the process was agonizing. The "ring" has a circumference of much larger proportion than the host. Overcrowding.
It's these little changes - and a few more - that remind me I am not 40 or even 50. I am grateful, however, that my mental age of 30 remains unmoved and unbroken.
Friday, June 28, 2013
Applesauce
This applesauce thing is really pissing me off. In fact the entire food thing is starting to get to me. Is it a man/woman thing or a side effect of aging...or both? In the seventeen years that I have been married to my husband, (referred to by all as Bob #2) his forays to the grocery store have been laden with errors. And he considers himself the primary grocery shopper. Delusional.
Here is the issue - there are things I like and things I don't like. After seventeen years one might assume that some of these data have embedded themselves in his brain and serve as guideposts as he maneuvers his cart through the supermarket aisles. Alas, that is not the case. Take, for instance, applesauce. I prefer "natural" (no added sugar) he consistently buys "original". Finding sugar-laden "original" applesauce in the grocery bag or the pantry ignites my "fury" button. "Bob?" "Yeah?" "What's this?". I hold up the jar. "Applesauce," he says. "Bob, this is "original". I hate original. It's too sweet. Haven't we had this conversation a thousand times?" 'I thought you liked original," he pouts. Big sigh. "I'll take it back." Do you know how many times he has taken it back? Almost every other week for years.
Same thing happens with Fudgesicles. I love Fudgesicles. They are comfort junk. I am happy peeling off the stuck-on wrapper ( Note: when I was a kid the wrapper slid off - now it gets stuck and has to be peeled off in chunks) My mouth waters when that dusty brown frozen (almost) chocolate, icy thing is in my hand and standing proudly on its stick. I even have a ritual for eating them...but I digress. The first time he bought them he brought home "sugar free". "Bob?" Yeah?" "These are sugar-free." "I thought you liked those." "Bob, sugar-free means aspertame...I might as well eat lighter fluid. Plus it leaves an aftertaste." "I'll take them back." "Get me the "original". Never ever get sugar-free anything!" "Ok." In the years we've been together he has purchased the correct Fudgesicles once. Apart from that one time...this conversation repeats itself regularly. I have finally removed Fudgesicles from the grocery list. Hey, I'm no dummy.
( By the way, I "get" that the sugar-free, "no sugar added" "natural" and "original" thing might be confusing. But after all this time? Uh uh. Not buying it. Neither is he I guess.)
He also has trouble thinking universally for dinner. When I hear, "I'm going to the store - I'll pick up something for dinner..." I sigh.. "Dinner" will inevitably be, a pork tenderloin (I'm not a big pork fan) or an over priced hunk of beef tenderloin (I'm a New York Strip kinda girl). So I usually cook something else for myself. He is okay with that.. "You're missing out on something really good," he announces chowing down on his dead pig or his over-cooked meat . "My loss," I reply with my usual sarcasm while eating my salad or my pasta with butter, olive oil and cheese. (My fall backs. My lifelines.)
If I ask for "crackers" he brings home saltines. "These, " I have explained hundreds of times, "are not crackers. I want good, tasty crackers." I rattle off a few possible kinds. He brings home saltines anyway. "I don't know what you want..." he says. Really? Huh, coulda fooled me. He is cracker-phobic. I buy my own crackers now.
"How about Pizza for dinner?" he will suggest at least once a week. Pizza, for me, is not dinner. I've lost track of the times I've said that to him. I haven't had a dinner-quality pizza since I moved to the midwest. Pizza here is consists of crust that tastes like a saltine, sauce that tastes like ketchup and a chunk of sausage - and I will not eat sausage. (I don't know what's in sausage. Any time someone grinds up a bunch of leftover crap and sticks it in a casing that could have been an intestine, I am highly suspicious.) Anyway, then that "pizza" gets cut into little squares. No self-respecting east coast pizza would be caught dead cut into squares. Everyone knows that pizza comes in wedge shaped pieces and you fold it to eat it. Didn't you watch the Sopranos?
I've considered that all this may be passive aggressive...but mostly I think it's a brain flaw. When I say something he doesn't retain it..I can hear the vacuum flush in his brain. It's a little like dementia...each time I remind him that I don't like pizza for dinner, or that pork is gross, or that artifical sweetners are poison, he has brain freeze. Not the kind you get with ice cream...the kind you get with a Y chromosome.
Here is the issue - there are things I like and things I don't like. After seventeen years one might assume that some of these data have embedded themselves in his brain and serve as guideposts as he maneuvers his cart through the supermarket aisles. Alas, that is not the case. Take, for instance, applesauce. I prefer "natural" (no added sugar) he consistently buys "original". Finding sugar-laden "original" applesauce in the grocery bag or the pantry ignites my "fury" button. "Bob?" "Yeah?" "What's this?". I hold up the jar. "Applesauce," he says. "Bob, this is "original". I hate original. It's too sweet. Haven't we had this conversation a thousand times?" 'I thought you liked original," he pouts. Big sigh. "I'll take it back." Do you know how many times he has taken it back? Almost every other week for years.
Same thing happens with Fudgesicles. I love Fudgesicles. They are comfort junk. I am happy peeling off the stuck-on wrapper ( Note: when I was a kid the wrapper slid off - now it gets stuck and has to be peeled off in chunks) My mouth waters when that dusty brown frozen (almost) chocolate, icy thing is in my hand and standing proudly on its stick. I even have a ritual for eating them...but I digress. The first time he bought them he brought home "sugar free". "Bob?" Yeah?" "These are sugar-free." "I thought you liked those." "Bob, sugar-free means aspertame...I might as well eat lighter fluid. Plus it leaves an aftertaste." "I'll take them back." "Get me the "original". Never ever get sugar-free anything!" "Ok." In the years we've been together he has purchased the correct Fudgesicles once. Apart from that one time...this conversation repeats itself regularly. I have finally removed Fudgesicles from the grocery list. Hey, I'm no dummy.
( By the way, I "get" that the sugar-free, "no sugar added" "natural" and "original" thing might be confusing. But after all this time? Uh uh. Not buying it. Neither is he I guess.)
He also has trouble thinking universally for dinner. When I hear, "I'm going to the store - I'll pick up something for dinner..." I sigh.. "Dinner" will inevitably be, a pork tenderloin (I'm not a big pork fan) or an over priced hunk of beef tenderloin (I'm a New York Strip kinda girl). So I usually cook something else for myself. He is okay with that.. "You're missing out on something really good," he announces chowing down on his dead pig or his over-cooked meat . "My loss," I reply with my usual sarcasm while eating my salad or my pasta with butter, olive oil and cheese. (My fall backs. My lifelines.)
If I ask for "crackers" he brings home saltines. "These, " I have explained hundreds of times, "are not crackers. I want good, tasty crackers." I rattle off a few possible kinds. He brings home saltines anyway. "I don't know what you want..." he says. Really? Huh, coulda fooled me. He is cracker-phobic. I buy my own crackers now.
"How about Pizza for dinner?" he will suggest at least once a week. Pizza, for me, is not dinner. I've lost track of the times I've said that to him. I haven't had a dinner-quality pizza since I moved to the midwest. Pizza here is consists of crust that tastes like a saltine, sauce that tastes like ketchup and a chunk of sausage - and I will not eat sausage. (I don't know what's in sausage. Any time someone grinds up a bunch of leftover crap and sticks it in a casing that could have been an intestine, I am highly suspicious.) Anyway, then that "pizza" gets cut into little squares. No self-respecting east coast pizza would be caught dead cut into squares. Everyone knows that pizza comes in wedge shaped pieces and you fold it to eat it. Didn't you watch the Sopranos?
I've considered that all this may be passive aggressive...but mostly I think it's a brain flaw. When I say something he doesn't retain it..I can hear the vacuum flush in his brain. It's a little like dementia...each time I remind him that I don't like pizza for dinner, or that pork is gross, or that artifical sweetners are poison, he has brain freeze. Not the kind you get with ice cream...the kind you get with a Y chromosome.
Monday, June 17, 2013
Floaters
In police vernacular, a "floater" is a dead body found in the water. In aging vernacular a "floater" is a small dark shape that appears in your eye and darts across your "screen" randomly. I remember hearing my Dad complain about floaters. More recently my husband reported having one. Mine appeared two weeks ago and I'm not adjusting to it very well.
One cannot prepare for a floater - they appear randomly. Often, when mine pops up and zooms across my field of vision I raise my right hand to my forehead and brush my "hair" from my eye. I often think it's a stray hair. But it isn't. Fools me every darn time. For those times when I don't think it's a stray hair, I KNOW it's a fruit fly. One of those pesky little bugs that hitch hikes in on your plums or peaches. I swat it. Or at least I did until I recalled one of the last scenes in Psycho where Norman, dressed as his Mom, talks about swatting the fly that is crawling on him....I don't want to be that person. I've stopped swatting. I know for sure it's not a fruit fly. But I still get fooled when I think it's a hair.
Old age is amusing.
One cannot prepare for a floater - they appear randomly. Often, when mine pops up and zooms across my field of vision I raise my right hand to my forehead and brush my "hair" from my eye. I often think it's a stray hair. But it isn't. Fools me every darn time. For those times when I don't think it's a stray hair, I KNOW it's a fruit fly. One of those pesky little bugs that hitch hikes in on your plums or peaches. I swat it. Or at least I did until I recalled one of the last scenes in Psycho where Norman, dressed as his Mom, talks about swatting the fly that is crawling on him....I don't want to be that person. I've stopped swatting. I know for sure it's not a fruit fly. But I still get fooled when I think it's a hair.
Old age is amusing.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
The new adventures of old Mandy
I think I am at a loss for words. Sure, some will come pouring out as I try to string this together, but, overall, I am stunned. This past week has been unusual...strange...odd.
It all started with that bizarrely timed visit to the specialized clinic last week...the one I was supposed to go to several years ago, but didn't. Why did I go last week? What strange cosmic energy cause the idea to pop into my brain and have me actually act on it? I sure don't know. If I hadn't gone- I wouldn't have seen a gynecologist for 2 more years. (After 65 "they" say you don't need pap smears more than once every two years). But I did go and I am grateful for whatever message the universe sent me to "do it" when there was no compelling reason to do so. Things were as they had been for several years. It was just a whim. It's good to follow your whims, I've learned. The doctor found something inside that wasn't supposed to be there - so she biopsied it. That's where I left this story in a previous blog entry.
Four days ago I got a call from the doctor who'd found the "unusual thing". As phone calls go - it wasn't a great one. I remember the words "pre" and "cancerous" (like anyone would not notice those words..)..."need a large excision" and "refer you to " a gynecological oncologist". She painted a grim picture and asked for my permission to forward my records to the oncology specialist. I clearly recall hearing her urging me to share what I was thinking/feeling and i vaguely remember telling her I was "freaked out" and "didn't feel like talking". Within ten minutes I was contacted by the oncologists' office and an appointment for the next day was scheduled. Why was everyone in such a hurry???.
I told my husband - who looked stunned,gave me a hug, and went golfing. I called my friend - the one who is wise and calming and knows just enough about everything to convince me I am safe. She picked me up off the emotional floor and spoke reasonably. (But she later confessed calling her daughter to get more information and relieve her worry. People just function better with information than with speculation)) She advised me to NOT go online and research the issue. (She knew I would) Then I snapped out of it! I'm calling MY doctor - he'll know what to do. So I did.
After a verbal swordfight with the Aurora Healthcare receptionist/operator (I don't think I should have to tell anyone not involved in my healthcare or directly with my physician the specifics of WHY I want to talk to MY doctor) and a short explanation to my doctor's nurse, I got a call from him. That's why I love him. He calls back and he does it quickly. My hero. My savior. (My longtime sexual fantasy). The best way to characterize his response was "pissed" and concerned. Pissed that he refers someone to a clinic and the clinic doctor never contacts him and tries to send the patient elsewhere. Concerned because he had just seen me 60 days ago and NOTHING was wrong then. He was also displeased that the other doctor had scared the hell out of me by sending me on to an oncologist. "It's a bit premature," he explained, "I have several patients dealing with the same issue. I can handle it. I'll do the excision." (I later learned he also called the clinic doc and reamed her a new orifice.)
The following day, after a brief exam in his office, he concluded that the excision should be done at the hospital - as soon as possible. So we did it. It was my one and only hospital experience -ever. In 65 years I have not ever been sedated for any surgical procedure or hospitalized for any illness.( I have now experienced my first anesthesiologist and my first taste of a propofol/fentamine "cocktail". Yum.)
I lived. I even got a bonus during the surgery - my doctor told my husband he did a little remodeling so that "things" might go a little easier for us in the future. Did he paint or wallpaper my insides? Move the furniture a bit? I'll find out next week I guess.
Today the results came in. The "margins" were clear. That is good. I also discovered that within the tissue was the human papiloma virus (HPV). Who knew? How long has that been there? Which of those many many men of my youth (and my middle age) left me with this gift? This gift and cancer are often tied together. I will have to be monitored from this point forward. I will get to see my doctor MORE than every year or every other year. That is a nice payoff....I'll take it.
I guess the things we do in our youth follow us in some nasty ways into our later years. Remember when that string of freckles across your nose in the summer was cute? It's not so cute later on...nor are the "freckles" that emerge up and down your arms and legs. Not cute at all. And all those men I loved during and after the sexual revolution of the 60's and 70's - apparently they're still with me (or one of them is). I can't help but wonder what other products of my youth remain to be revealed. I kind of hope they're not all unpleasant. You know what would be unpleasant? If I'd gotten the HPV from Mel...Mini-Mel. The big psychologist with the miniature penis...That would be the worst...Instead, I'll imagine it was left by Carlos, the Argentinian hunk who...oh never mind. I'll save that for later.
It all started with that bizarrely timed visit to the specialized clinic last week...the one I was supposed to go to several years ago, but didn't. Why did I go last week? What strange cosmic energy cause the idea to pop into my brain and have me actually act on it? I sure don't know. If I hadn't gone- I wouldn't have seen a gynecologist for 2 more years. (After 65 "they" say you don't need pap smears more than once every two years). But I did go and I am grateful for whatever message the universe sent me to "do it" when there was no compelling reason to do so. Things were as they had been for several years. It was just a whim. It's good to follow your whims, I've learned. The doctor found something inside that wasn't supposed to be there - so she biopsied it. That's where I left this story in a previous blog entry.
Four days ago I got a call from the doctor who'd found the "unusual thing". As phone calls go - it wasn't a great one. I remember the words "pre" and "cancerous" (like anyone would not notice those words..)..."need a large excision" and "refer you to " a gynecological oncologist". She painted a grim picture and asked for my permission to forward my records to the oncology specialist. I clearly recall hearing her urging me to share what I was thinking/feeling and i vaguely remember telling her I was "freaked out" and "didn't feel like talking". Within ten minutes I was contacted by the oncologists' office and an appointment for the next day was scheduled. Why was everyone in such a hurry???.
I told my husband - who looked stunned,gave me a hug, and went golfing. I called my friend - the one who is wise and calming and knows just enough about everything to convince me I am safe. She picked me up off the emotional floor and spoke reasonably. (But she later confessed calling her daughter to get more information and relieve her worry. People just function better with information than with speculation)) She advised me to NOT go online and research the issue. (She knew I would) Then I snapped out of it! I'm calling MY doctor - he'll know what to do. So I did.
After a verbal swordfight with the Aurora Healthcare receptionist/operator (I don't think I should have to tell anyone not involved in my healthcare or directly with my physician the specifics of WHY I want to talk to MY doctor) and a short explanation to my doctor's nurse, I got a call from him. That's why I love him. He calls back and he does it quickly. My hero. My savior. (My longtime sexual fantasy). The best way to characterize his response was "pissed" and concerned. Pissed that he refers someone to a clinic and the clinic doctor never contacts him and tries to send the patient elsewhere. Concerned because he had just seen me 60 days ago and NOTHING was wrong then. He was also displeased that the other doctor had scared the hell out of me by sending me on to an oncologist. "It's a bit premature," he explained, "I have several patients dealing with the same issue. I can handle it. I'll do the excision." (I later learned he also called the clinic doc and reamed her a new orifice.)
The following day, after a brief exam in his office, he concluded that the excision should be done at the hospital - as soon as possible. So we did it. It was my one and only hospital experience -ever. In 65 years I have not ever been sedated for any surgical procedure or hospitalized for any illness.( I have now experienced my first anesthesiologist and my first taste of a propofol/fentamine "cocktail". Yum.)
I lived. I even got a bonus during the surgery - my doctor told my husband he did a little remodeling so that "things" might go a little easier for us in the future. Did he paint or wallpaper my insides? Move the furniture a bit? I'll find out next week I guess.
Today the results came in. The "margins" were clear. That is good. I also discovered that within the tissue was the human papiloma virus (HPV). Who knew? How long has that been there? Which of those many many men of my youth (and my middle age) left me with this gift? This gift and cancer are often tied together. I will have to be monitored from this point forward. I will get to see my doctor MORE than every year or every other year. That is a nice payoff....I'll take it.
I guess the things we do in our youth follow us in some nasty ways into our later years. Remember when that string of freckles across your nose in the summer was cute? It's not so cute later on...nor are the "freckles" that emerge up and down your arms and legs. Not cute at all. And all those men I loved during and after the sexual revolution of the 60's and 70's - apparently they're still with me (or one of them is). I can't help but wonder what other products of my youth remain to be revealed. I kind of hope they're not all unpleasant. You know what would be unpleasant? If I'd gotten the HPV from Mel...Mini-Mel. The big psychologist with the miniature penis...That would be the worst...Instead, I'll imagine it was left by Carlos, the Argentinian hunk who...oh never mind. I'll save that for later.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Happiness Addendum
I could not resist. This is what happens when you try to be happy:
The Pursuit of Happiness Ends in a Double Suicide: New York Daily News: "A Brooklyn couple who hosted a radio show called The Pursuit of Happiness committed suicide together by putting plastic bags over their heads and inhaling helium. Lynne Rosen and John Littig, who were found dead on a couch in the living room of their Park Slope apartment, left behind two notes, police said Wednesday. 'We’re going to do this together,' was the gist of Littig’s note, sources said. ... Until their decomposing bodies were found Monday, the couple had been best known as the hosts of a self-help radio show on WBAI-FM. Rosen, 46, was a psychotherapist. Littig, 48, was a motivational speaker and a musician. And for an hour every month, they took to the airwaves and doled out advice on how to be your best self.
Enough said.
The Pursuit of Happiness Ends in a Double Suicide: New York Daily News: "A Brooklyn couple who hosted a radio show called The Pursuit of Happiness committed suicide together by putting plastic bags over their heads and inhaling helium. Lynne Rosen and John Littig, who were found dead on a couch in the living room of their Park Slope apartment, left behind two notes, police said Wednesday. 'We’re going to do this together,' was the gist of Littig’s note, sources said. ... Until their decomposing bodies were found Monday, the couple had been best known as the hosts of a self-help radio show on WBAI-FM. Rosen, 46, was a psychotherapist. Littig, 48, was a motivational speaker and a musician. And for an hour every month, they took to the airwaves and doled out advice on how to be your best self.
Enough said.
Cheap hooker
Well, this might fall into the category of TMI but I need to record it.
Yesterday, I visited a highly specialized Woman's Clinic - among other things, they focus on girly part issues. When we get older, many of us have those issues. Not much fun.
First hurdle...the doctors were all women. Now, if you're younger that sounds perfectly normal; if you've been around awhile and only had male doctors, it's kind of wierd. I think I got through the touching stuff okay - but I was aware that I was unable to turn off my mouth. I was a one-woman stand-up (lie down?) comedy routine. I had an audience of two (the doc and her resident) and we were trapped in that high-tech room together. They could not escape.Sometimes I wish I had an off button. I'm sure they did too.
The details aren't important. Suffice it to say there was an unexpected biopsy (OUCH), an opportunity to view my inside stuff through the magic of vagi-cam (I made that name up) and a long lesson on the proper use of the medication I only occasionally use...which means I misuse it. That's why it doesn't work. Hmmm.
There was also a prescription for something new. Something I could "wear" inside and therefore not forget to take. Intriguing. With my ADD even the strongest of my intentions can dissipate on the way to take a pill...oh look, a twizzler and there's that book I misplaced.... So, wearing something sounded good. The doctor warned me, "It's a bit pricey, but if you break it down and divide by how long it lasts, it's not bad at all." She quoted me a price that she thought was correct. Of course it wasn't. Doctors don't use what they give you.
Unable to give me a written prescription (WHY???) I had to give her a local pharmacy. I don't really have one. I've already hit the donut hole of Part D and I go to Canada for the rest of the year. Can't do that. They won't do that. I'm stuck.
After calling 4 pharmacies, I was quoted $252, $256, $242, and 304. (Note: The Canadian price is $118) I don't know what planet the doctor lives on, but that's a lot. My dilemma: sex or no sex? Pain or no pain? I vote for abstinence!!!. My husband does not agree.
I have calculated that if we have sex four times a month, over three months, each time costs approximately $21. I have mixed feelings about that. I believe that's less than the street hookers cost...but I could be wrong...My husband says if we do it more often it would be cheaper. I tell him to "go for it" but not with me..
.
Yesterday, I visited a highly specialized Woman's Clinic - among other things, they focus on girly part issues. When we get older, many of us have those issues. Not much fun.
First hurdle...the doctors were all women. Now, if you're younger that sounds perfectly normal; if you've been around awhile and only had male doctors, it's kind of wierd. I think I got through the touching stuff okay - but I was aware that I was unable to turn off my mouth. I was a one-woman stand-up (lie down?) comedy routine. I had an audience of two (the doc and her resident) and we were trapped in that high-tech room together. They could not escape.Sometimes I wish I had an off button. I'm sure they did too.
The details aren't important. Suffice it to say there was an unexpected biopsy (OUCH), an opportunity to view my inside stuff through the magic of vagi-cam (I made that name up) and a long lesson on the proper use of the medication I only occasionally use...which means I misuse it. That's why it doesn't work. Hmmm.
There was also a prescription for something new. Something I could "wear" inside and therefore not forget to take. Intriguing. With my ADD even the strongest of my intentions can dissipate on the way to take a pill...oh look, a twizzler and there's that book I misplaced.... So, wearing something sounded good. The doctor warned me, "It's a bit pricey, but if you break it down and divide by how long it lasts, it's not bad at all." She quoted me a price that she thought was correct. Of course it wasn't. Doctors don't use what they give you.
Unable to give me a written prescription (WHY???) I had to give her a local pharmacy. I don't really have one. I've already hit the donut hole of Part D and I go to Canada for the rest of the year. Can't do that. They won't do that. I'm stuck.
After calling 4 pharmacies, I was quoted $252, $256, $242, and 304. (Note: The Canadian price is $118) I don't know what planet the doctor lives on, but that's a lot. My dilemma: sex or no sex? Pain or no pain? I vote for abstinence!!!. My husband does not agree.
I have calculated that if we have sex four times a month, over three months, each time costs approximately $21. I have mixed feelings about that. I believe that's less than the street hookers cost...but I could be wrong...My husband says if we do it more often it would be cheaper. I tell him to "go for it" but not with me..
.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Peter Pan's bad twin lives here
I don't know when "parenting" became a verb. It used to be a noun but it isn't anymore. At any rate, I began parenting in my late 30's and today, in my mid sixties, I'm still doing it. And I don't know how to make it go away. My life sentence. My recurring theme.
Why visit this again? A bad weekend with "the kid" and today's horoscope. The horoscope got me thinking that maybe the universe is again taunting me. It wouldn't be the first time; won't be the last. Here it is::
"It's time to put a stop to something. It may be a bad habit, a bad job or even a bad relationship, but you know in your heart what you have to do. Endings create beginnings, after all!"
(Note the "chipper" delivery. Obviously the writer lives in a monastery and has no life. - or worse, he/she is one of those perky positive people.)
With Father's Day approaching I would like to give my husband and my ex-husband the gift they both want. (Actually the gift we all want)A real, live, functioning, self-sufficient. motivated, honest, and independent son/stepson. But I can't. the only person who can do that is my son and he is showing no interest. This weekend was loaded with verbal skirmishes about finding a job - any job. Each of us jots down the names of places that have "help wanted" signs in the windows. We give this information to him. He finds fault with all of it. Mostly he just ignores us. He has better things to do. He is trying to conquer all levels of Candy Crush Saga.
Why not toss him out? Seriously? Would I ever sleep again? He has no money, no job, no motivation, no skills and a police record that begins at age 14 and ends with a drug felony for possession. Oddly enough, the felony hasn't been as big a job-finding problem for him as the OWI that occurred during one of the arrests. This OWI keeps him from getting any job in or around cars (which is the only interest or semi-skill he has).
He also has some serious mental health issues having been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder (the worst), Attachment disorder, and some Narcissistic tendencies. So he gets fired a lot and it is never his fault. He is remorseless - but can feign it when necessary. He appears to have no shame either. His life is like no one else he knows...and he doesn't seem to care or notice. Most of the guys he got in trouble with along the years are either dead , working to build a better life, or are married with kids and living like a normal person. My son has few friends, if any, no social life, and debt collectors chasing him down all over the city. He can't handle a checking account and his overdraft history is awful. (Do you think Candy Crush will help this?)
He lives today, like he did when he was 16. Nothing about him has changed. He has bursts of mania during which he can be incredibly wonderful and helpful - but they don't last long.. He is not bi-polar and if he were, he would refuse medication.
Sadly, as frustrating and maddening as this is, I still look at him and see that beautiful little almond-eyed boy who walked off the plane from Korea clutching the hand of his escort and trying to take in everything around him. The only "orphan" who wasn't crying. The little guy who walked into my arms , let me hug him and then handed me one of the toy cars he had in his hand. I see the child who never quite fit in with kids his age. A loner - who never seemed to notice that he had no friends. He would call anyone who talked to him "my friend". Even when he didn't know them. So, I was his friend. We did everything together. He never got invited to birthday parties - so we had other kinds of parties. He never got invited to other kids' houses to play. So I played - or someone I knew played with him. I guess he was an unsuccessful kid. He is now an unsuccessful adult. Not much has changed I guess. Not much at all.
A few months ago I found out about a grant that was awarded to the Dept. of Workforce Development. It is a training grant that focuses on persons who want to be welders. I showed the flyer to him and he did nothing. I persisted and eventually he made a call. Last week he was accepted into a "welding bootcamp" program that starts in August. This will cost me $500. If completed $300 will be returned. He seems resigned to doing this.Not enthusiastic. My husband predicts he will either get kicked out or quit and says that I'm throwing away money. My friend says that it's worth the risk. I think this is the last chance for him - and for me. At least it's the last money I throw at him. Can't give when there is nothing left to give.
As I close down this entry nothing has changed. Possibly nothing will change. That $7500 we spent 26 years ago to bring this child into our lives has not yielded much in terms of joy or happiness or even normalcy. For all the graduations, proms, first dates, girlfriends, first cars, college applications, engagements, grandchildren etc that I have never experienced, I often wonder if it has been worth it. I'm not sure it has been. And that sucks to say.
Oh - guess what - he just reached level 66 of Candy Crush.....oh yippee.
Why visit this again? A bad weekend with "the kid" and today's horoscope. The horoscope got me thinking that maybe the universe is again taunting me. It wouldn't be the first time; won't be the last. Here it is::
"It's time to put a stop to something. It may be a bad habit, a bad job or even a bad relationship, but you know in your heart what you have to do. Endings create beginnings, after all!"
(Note the "chipper" delivery. Obviously the writer lives in a monastery and has no life. - or worse, he/she is one of those perky positive people.)
With Father's Day approaching I would like to give my husband and my ex-husband the gift they both want. (Actually the gift we all want)A real, live, functioning, self-sufficient. motivated, honest, and independent son/stepson. But I can't. the only person who can do that is my son and he is showing no interest. This weekend was loaded with verbal skirmishes about finding a job - any job. Each of us jots down the names of places that have "help wanted" signs in the windows. We give this information to him. He finds fault with all of it. Mostly he just ignores us. He has better things to do. He is trying to conquer all levels of Candy Crush Saga.
Why not toss him out? Seriously? Would I ever sleep again? He has no money, no job, no motivation, no skills and a police record that begins at age 14 and ends with a drug felony for possession. Oddly enough, the felony hasn't been as big a job-finding problem for him as the OWI that occurred during one of the arrests. This OWI keeps him from getting any job in or around cars (which is the only interest or semi-skill he has).
He also has some serious mental health issues having been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder (the worst), Attachment disorder, and some Narcissistic tendencies. So he gets fired a lot and it is never his fault. He is remorseless - but can feign it when necessary. He appears to have no shame either. His life is like no one else he knows...and he doesn't seem to care or notice. Most of the guys he got in trouble with along the years are either dead , working to build a better life, or are married with kids and living like a normal person. My son has few friends, if any, no social life, and debt collectors chasing him down all over the city. He can't handle a checking account and his overdraft history is awful. (Do you think Candy Crush will help this?)
He lives today, like he did when he was 16. Nothing about him has changed. He has bursts of mania during which he can be incredibly wonderful and helpful - but they don't last long.. He is not bi-polar and if he were, he would refuse medication.
Sadly, as frustrating and maddening as this is, I still look at him and see that beautiful little almond-eyed boy who walked off the plane from Korea clutching the hand of his escort and trying to take in everything around him. The only "orphan" who wasn't crying. The little guy who walked into my arms , let me hug him and then handed me one of the toy cars he had in his hand. I see the child who never quite fit in with kids his age. A loner - who never seemed to notice that he had no friends. He would call anyone who talked to him "my friend". Even when he didn't know them. So, I was his friend. We did everything together. He never got invited to birthday parties - so we had other kinds of parties. He never got invited to other kids' houses to play. So I played - or someone I knew played with him. I guess he was an unsuccessful kid. He is now an unsuccessful adult. Not much has changed I guess. Not much at all.
A few months ago I found out about a grant that was awarded to the Dept. of Workforce Development. It is a training grant that focuses on persons who want to be welders. I showed the flyer to him and he did nothing. I persisted and eventually he made a call. Last week he was accepted into a "welding bootcamp" program that starts in August. This will cost me $500. If completed $300 will be returned. He seems resigned to doing this.Not enthusiastic. My husband predicts he will either get kicked out or quit and says that I'm throwing away money. My friend says that it's worth the risk. I think this is the last chance for him - and for me. At least it's the last money I throw at him. Can't give when there is nothing left to give.
As I close down this entry nothing has changed. Possibly nothing will change. That $7500 we spent 26 years ago to bring this child into our lives has not yielded much in terms of joy or happiness or even normalcy. For all the graduations, proms, first dates, girlfriends, first cars, college applications, engagements, grandchildren etc that I have never experienced, I often wonder if it has been worth it. I'm not sure it has been. And that sucks to say.
Oh - guess what - he just reached level 66 of Candy Crush.....oh yippee.
Friday, May 31, 2013
That always happens...
I'm not a religious person. I'm not even sure there is anything or anyone or any being remotely controlling my being here or what happens in my life. I guess I worship in the Temple of Doom and kneel before the icon of Saint Random. I could argue about religion and magical thinking forever - but I don't. I respect - and am often in awe of - those who thank God for the good things and say it's 'God's plan" when things don't work out. Faith is a powerful thing because it makes sense of the unexplainable. Without something to believe in, our heads might explode.
Having said that, I am not opposed to science and physics - although my grasp of them is negligible. ( it can always be argued that God created science or some such mumbo jumbo). Science and physics are my "higher powers". So I bow to them when I whenever I become aware of the patterns that surround me. The things I'm pretty sure I can depend on to always occur.
Take, for instance, my flowering crabapple tree. It is always the last one on my street to burst into bloom. It is also one of the first trees to lose those blooms. Blink your eyes and they are all over the driveway. Why? Because on day 3 of crabapple blooming we get a day of incredibly strong wind.The surrounding weather is irrelevant. Sometimes it's raining - but mostly it's not. The wind blows the blossoms from the tree. And then it's just a tree. Never fails. Day three. Big wind. No flowers.
The same thing used to happen with my peonies (before they were so rudely mangled and destroyed by a big old earth mover). Stunning pink blooms, happy ants, one week and then the awful, torrential rain. The rain would knock them over and slowly, their flowers would fall apart and disappear. There were years when I missed "peony week" at my house because I was on vacation. If I had known they would be forever destroyed by the big machine, I would have planned my vacations around that week. Loved that pink.
Not all patterns happen in nature. Sometimes they happen in people. We have a friend.. A nice enough guy with a big heart and a generous nature whose relationship savvy is on par with that of a thirteen year old girl. He likes the early stuff. You know - the part where the woman hangs on his every word, gazes into his eyes, eats what he eats and is willing to have sex daily. (Did I mention he is a psychologist??? Yep.) I first met him when my (ex) friend married him. She too had a adolescent view of relationships After several rough goes at marriage she was sure she'd found "the one". "There are good guys out there," she used to say, "I found one." Uh huh.. And he was her "good guy" for about five years.
After five years, the blush fell off the rose (sorry - I'm keeping with my nature theme). As we all know, Mr. perfect starts to be less than perfect. She could NOT accept this. The fights began. We had reason to suspect he had someone lined up on the side. He checked out mentally. The marriage ended badly. And he was with a new woman before his suitcases were unpacked. (It's important to know that he had established a relationship with my ex-friend, prior to leaving a woman he was living with. He also had a few ex-wives) He never looks back , he once said. Never.
So I lost my ex-friend in the divorce. (long story - no great loss)...but he hung around because he golfs with my husband. I got close to the new woman. And then I realized that his relationship with this woman was exactly, EXACTLY the same as it had been with my friend. Open space, insert woman here. Move in with her immediately. Go on trips. Go to the lake. She carries his meds and their money in her purse. We sit thru the same 15 stories he used to tell with my ex-friend...although he alters them to look even better. He takes control (in his loveable way) Oral sex is mandatory (girls, get some knee pads) She was afraid to get him upset . etc. It was creepy. I started adding up the facts. He seems to have a five year span. He doesn't care who the woman is - all she has to do is adore him.When he no longer feels adored - he's gone. And now he's gone from the last woman (bummer). There's also a new woman. This one hasn't seen 40 yet (he's 68).He moved in with her a few weeks after they met. She hangs on him. She drinks what he drinks. Agrees with him on everything. Laughs way too loud at his jokes. It's kind of pathetic, She may last 5 years. (My husband doesn't give it through the summer). Crazy thing is I still enjoy this bullshitter guy. In small doses. Go figure.
I don't know if my crapapple shedding, or my drowned peonies or my "teenage" 68 year old friend have anything to do with a God or science. I suppose there is comfort in pattern and predictability. They are both signposts that we've been this way before and we're pretty sure what lies ahead. So as I sit here and glance out the window as the plumber pulls into my driveway, I suppose I should find comfort in knowing that each time we eliminate our debt something big breaks in our house. That's the pattern. God really doesn't control my plumbing- but I think physics does...
Having said that, I am not opposed to science and physics - although my grasp of them is negligible. ( it can always be argued that God created science or some such mumbo jumbo). Science and physics are my "higher powers". So I bow to them when I whenever I become aware of the patterns that surround me. The things I'm pretty sure I can depend on to always occur.
Take, for instance, my flowering crabapple tree. It is always the last one on my street to burst into bloom. It is also one of the first trees to lose those blooms. Blink your eyes and they are all over the driveway. Why? Because on day 3 of crabapple blooming we get a day of incredibly strong wind.The surrounding weather is irrelevant. Sometimes it's raining - but mostly it's not. The wind blows the blossoms from the tree. And then it's just a tree. Never fails. Day three. Big wind. No flowers.
The same thing used to happen with my peonies (before they were so rudely mangled and destroyed by a big old earth mover). Stunning pink blooms, happy ants, one week and then the awful, torrential rain. The rain would knock them over and slowly, their flowers would fall apart and disappear. There were years when I missed "peony week" at my house because I was on vacation. If I had known they would be forever destroyed by the big machine, I would have planned my vacations around that week. Loved that pink.
Not all patterns happen in nature. Sometimes they happen in people. We have a friend.. A nice enough guy with a big heart and a generous nature whose relationship savvy is on par with that of a thirteen year old girl. He likes the early stuff. You know - the part where the woman hangs on his every word, gazes into his eyes, eats what he eats and is willing to have sex daily. (Did I mention he is a psychologist??? Yep.) I first met him when my (ex) friend married him. She too had a adolescent view of relationships After several rough goes at marriage she was sure she'd found "the one". "There are good guys out there," she used to say, "I found one." Uh huh.. And he was her "good guy" for about five years.
After five years, the blush fell off the rose (sorry - I'm keeping with my nature theme). As we all know, Mr. perfect starts to be less than perfect. She could NOT accept this. The fights began. We had reason to suspect he had someone lined up on the side. He checked out mentally. The marriage ended badly. And he was with a new woman before his suitcases were unpacked. (It's important to know that he had established a relationship with my ex-friend, prior to leaving a woman he was living with. He also had a few ex-wives) He never looks back , he once said. Never.
So I lost my ex-friend in the divorce. (long story - no great loss)...but he hung around because he golfs with my husband. I got close to the new woman. And then I realized that his relationship with this woman was exactly, EXACTLY the same as it had been with my friend. Open space, insert woman here. Move in with her immediately. Go on trips. Go to the lake. She carries his meds and their money in her purse. We sit thru the same 15 stories he used to tell with my ex-friend...although he alters them to look even better. He takes control (in his loveable way) Oral sex is mandatory (girls, get some knee pads) She was afraid to get him upset . etc. It was creepy. I started adding up the facts. He seems to have a five year span. He doesn't care who the woman is - all she has to do is adore him.When he no longer feels adored - he's gone. And now he's gone from the last woman (bummer). There's also a new woman. This one hasn't seen 40 yet (he's 68).He moved in with her a few weeks after they met. She hangs on him. She drinks what he drinks. Agrees with him on everything. Laughs way too loud at his jokes. It's kind of pathetic, She may last 5 years. (My husband doesn't give it through the summer). Crazy thing is I still enjoy this bullshitter guy. In small doses. Go figure.
I don't know if my crapapple shedding, or my drowned peonies or my "teenage" 68 year old friend have anything to do with a God or science. I suppose there is comfort in pattern and predictability. They are both signposts that we've been this way before and we're pretty sure what lies ahead. So as I sit here and glance out the window as the plumber pulls into my driveway, I suppose I should find comfort in knowing that each time we eliminate our debt something big breaks in our house. That's the pattern. God really doesn't control my plumbing- but I think physics does...
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Gravity
In case you haven't figured it out...Diane Keaton doesn't wear those ubiquitous scarves around her neck to make a fashion statement. (But she does wear a lot of white and I think that may be a fashion statement). She wears them because her neck looks like a wet sock that fell out of the washer and dried crumpled up on the floor. A woman's neck is one of the first places that gives away her age. You can't really fix it.
The topic of necks was covered in an essay, in riotous detail, by the late Nora Ephron. In fact, the title of the book was - "It's a Shame About My Neck" . And , take it from me, it IS a shame.
My own personal neck has begun to show signs of wear and tear. At this point it looks like the Sta-Puft marshmallow man. Follow my marshmallow rings upward and you reach the skin under my chin. I don't have a true wattle...I think you notice those most on heavier people or turkeys. But I do have a neck issue.and the skin under my chin is loose and possibly considering life as a wattle - just not yet.
Botox and fillers cannot touch this. When I last check there was no surgery that really worked well. Turtlenecks and scarves can hide it. My mother had a temporary fix for it. Several years into her dementia and on the day of my niece's christening, she pulled me into the bathroom, pointed to her neck and said. "Look. Look what I did." What she had done was take several strips of clear scotch tape, attached them to both sides of her neck and pull it taut in the back, under her hair. She had also attached tape to her jawbone on both sides and pulled that skin back to eliminate the little pouchy things that happen as your face begins to sag.. It was her version of a facelift. Even though there was a lot of tape bunched up in the back of her neck it sort of worked if you didn't get close enough to see the shiny reflection of light off of the tape. From far away that looked wet - like she'd been crying and the tears had rolled in an odd direction. In hindsight I should have recommended Magic Tape because it has no shine.
Earlier this week I snapped a cell phone shot of myself to send to a friend who begged and begged me to let her see my silvery hair. I took 19 pictures. Each one revealed this neck issue. I never sent the picture.I don't know who that old lady was but it couldn't have been me.
Maybe I have that disease where you can't recognize faces. Brad Pitt has it. So does Oliver Sachs. Why not me?
The topic of necks was covered in an essay, in riotous detail, by the late Nora Ephron. In fact, the title of the book was - "It's a Shame About My Neck" . And , take it from me, it IS a shame.
My own personal neck has begun to show signs of wear and tear. At this point it looks like the Sta-Puft marshmallow man. Follow my marshmallow rings upward and you reach the skin under my chin. I don't have a true wattle...I think you notice those most on heavier people or turkeys. But I do have a neck issue.and the skin under my chin is loose and possibly considering life as a wattle - just not yet.
Botox and fillers cannot touch this. When I last check there was no surgery that really worked well. Turtlenecks and scarves can hide it. My mother had a temporary fix for it. Several years into her dementia and on the day of my niece's christening, she pulled me into the bathroom, pointed to her neck and said. "Look. Look what I did." What she had done was take several strips of clear scotch tape, attached them to both sides of her neck and pull it taut in the back, under her hair. She had also attached tape to her jawbone on both sides and pulled that skin back to eliminate the little pouchy things that happen as your face begins to sag.. It was her version of a facelift. Even though there was a lot of tape bunched up in the back of her neck it sort of worked if you didn't get close enough to see the shiny reflection of light off of the tape. From far away that looked wet - like she'd been crying and the tears had rolled in an odd direction. In hindsight I should have recommended Magic Tape because it has no shine.
Earlier this week I snapped a cell phone shot of myself to send to a friend who begged and begged me to let her see my silvery hair. I took 19 pictures. Each one revealed this neck issue. I never sent the picture.I don't know who that old lady was but it couldn't have been me.
Maybe I have that disease where you can't recognize faces. Brad Pitt has it. So does Oliver Sachs. Why not me?
Friday, May 10, 2013
Slipsliding away
It's the Friday before the grandest Hallmark Holiday south of Valentine's Day. Mother's Day. Like most people my age, my Mom is gone. She technically died/passed/moved on/met-her-maker etc in 2001. She started dying many years before that and was gone long before her heart stopped beating. She died in tiny pieces, each one more horrifying for her than the last, until, thankfully, her mental world was so altered that she wasn't aware of her own existence. There are some blessings in Alzheimer's. They just take a long time to happen.
During her long long "journey" (oh how I hate that word!!!) there were many wonderful - but fleeting -moments that are as clear to me now as if they just happened. Two small, simple ones stand out. The first always reminds me of how tightly we cling to hope and how we find meaning and relevance where there isn't any. The second memory reminds me about the incredible power of love between a mother and her child. Both memories bring tears...but both pop up every year at this time as if my Mom were here to say, "Don't forget me."
My parents lived in Florida. In a good year I got "home" twice. There weren't a lot of "good years" because I was busy with work, a kid and all the other stuff that provides excuses for us. When her mental deficits could no longer be ignored, I spaced the visits further apart. And yes, I regret it. It was during a late Spring visit. By this time Mom was going through a cheerful stage. She spoke mostly jibberish (but with a lot of inflection!). Sometimes an entire clear block of relevant words and sentences would pop out of her mouth and we learned to value this. She spent hours talking to small people who lived in our kitchen. She laughed so hard when these "people" were around that I sometimes wished I could see them. She was also very active. Constantly in motion (always - even before she got sick). She loved to walk. We had to keep the doors locked and chained to keep her in.
Spring in Florida is lovely. Humidity is low, Temperatures are comfortable. It's the perfect time to walk. So we did it every day. On this specific day, we walked quickly (cause she did nothing slowly) around a man-made lake behind the apartment complex. We walked and talked. She asked me questions that gave me every reason to believe that she was having a period of clarity...she knew who I was and generally understood what we were talking about. We talked about family. Work. Kids. It was one of the most wonderful times I'd had with her in years. Partway through our third time around the lake she looked at me and said, "You are such a wonderful person. So nice. Is your Mother still living?" I recall two simultaneous reactions to her question: an emotional kick in the gut and an inability to speak. Maybe there were five seconds of silence. But she was waiting for her answer. I reached out and gave her a hug and said, "No, she's been gone for some time. ....but I've sure enjoyed talking to you. She was a lot like you" We walked on. She reverted to happy jibberish. And I recall thinking how foolish I'd been to let my self imagine something that wasn't possible. But it sure was nice.
My second memory actually happened earlier than the walk around the lake. Perhaps one or two years earlier. I had spent many months on the phone from Wisconsin searching and fighting for services for my parents. Dad had no money (A perpetual state of being) and he needed help. Luckily there was grant money available to pay for day care. For awhile Dad resisted. "Your mother won't like it. She never joined anything. She doesn't like groups." Over and over we had argued until, at last, he agreed to try it. She loved it. She thought she was going to "The Club". This was odd since she'd never joined or even visited a "club". After my Mom had been "clubbing" for several months, and Dad was realizing how wonderful a few hours of freedom could be, I flew down for a visit. I picked up a rental car and drove directly to the Day Care Center.
In the room where I found my mother there were many tables full of magazines and small toys, brightly colored crayon pictures hanging on bulletin boards, and stuffed toys seated patiently on nearby shelves. In a large circle on one side of the room sat a dozen or so "guests" singing loudly to a recording of "Let me call you sweetheart". There were men and women. Some were swaying with the music. A few were slumped in wheelchairs. Several were chatting to each other unaware that those around them were singing. In the group of singers, looking animated and happy, sat my little Mom. My mother would never ever ever in her life be in a sing-along! But here she was. Off key at the top of her voice. Happy and involved. I felt my throat close and the tears come and I ran from the room. I sat outside in the garden on a concrete bench and sobbed till there were no tears left. This was real.(It's never real when you live 2000 miles away) This really was happening. She was gone. And my heart was shattered.
After composing myself I returned to the room to get her. For a brief moment she looked at me, her eyes widened, and she smiled and waved. I hugged her. She held out her hand and said, "Hello Ruth " (Ruth is her sister) She shook my hand and turned away. I took her hand and led her out the door. We walked out slowly.. She was talking nonsense. She stopped several times to examine a leaf or tie her slipon shoe that had no laces. When we got to the car she grabbed my elbow and turned me around, "Honey,have you been crying?", she asked. I said, "No Mom, it's allergies." but she didn't hear me because she was busy rolling small balls of paper and tucking them into her pocket. But for that one moment she recognized me and for that one moment she knew who I was and I knew that she was still in there somewhere and she still loved me.
Wherever you are now Mom, I miss you. Happy Mother's Day.
During her long long "journey" (oh how I hate that word!!!) there were many wonderful - but fleeting -moments that are as clear to me now as if they just happened. Two small, simple ones stand out. The first always reminds me of how tightly we cling to hope and how we find meaning and relevance where there isn't any. The second memory reminds me about the incredible power of love between a mother and her child. Both memories bring tears...but both pop up every year at this time as if my Mom were here to say, "Don't forget me."
My parents lived in Florida. In a good year I got "home" twice. There weren't a lot of "good years" because I was busy with work, a kid and all the other stuff that provides excuses for us. When her mental deficits could no longer be ignored, I spaced the visits further apart. And yes, I regret it. It was during a late Spring visit. By this time Mom was going through a cheerful stage. She spoke mostly jibberish (but with a lot of inflection!). Sometimes an entire clear block of relevant words and sentences would pop out of her mouth and we learned to value this. She spent hours talking to small people who lived in our kitchen. She laughed so hard when these "people" were around that I sometimes wished I could see them. She was also very active. Constantly in motion (always - even before she got sick). She loved to walk. We had to keep the doors locked and chained to keep her in.
Spring in Florida is lovely. Humidity is low, Temperatures are comfortable. It's the perfect time to walk. So we did it every day. On this specific day, we walked quickly (cause she did nothing slowly) around a man-made lake behind the apartment complex. We walked and talked. She asked me questions that gave me every reason to believe that she was having a period of clarity...she knew who I was and generally understood what we were talking about. We talked about family. Work. Kids. It was one of the most wonderful times I'd had with her in years. Partway through our third time around the lake she looked at me and said, "You are such a wonderful person. So nice. Is your Mother still living?" I recall two simultaneous reactions to her question: an emotional kick in the gut and an inability to speak. Maybe there were five seconds of silence. But she was waiting for her answer. I reached out and gave her a hug and said, "No, she's been gone for some time. ....but I've sure enjoyed talking to you. She was a lot like you" We walked on. She reverted to happy jibberish. And I recall thinking how foolish I'd been to let my self imagine something that wasn't possible. But it sure was nice.
My second memory actually happened earlier than the walk around the lake. Perhaps one or two years earlier. I had spent many months on the phone from Wisconsin searching and fighting for services for my parents. Dad had no money (A perpetual state of being) and he needed help. Luckily there was grant money available to pay for day care. For awhile Dad resisted. "Your mother won't like it. She never joined anything. She doesn't like groups." Over and over we had argued until, at last, he agreed to try it. She loved it. She thought she was going to "The Club". This was odd since she'd never joined or even visited a "club". After my Mom had been "clubbing" for several months, and Dad was realizing how wonderful a few hours of freedom could be, I flew down for a visit. I picked up a rental car and drove directly to the Day Care Center.
In the room where I found my mother there were many tables full of magazines and small toys, brightly colored crayon pictures hanging on bulletin boards, and stuffed toys seated patiently on nearby shelves. In a large circle on one side of the room sat a dozen or so "guests" singing loudly to a recording of "Let me call you sweetheart". There were men and women. Some were swaying with the music. A few were slumped in wheelchairs. Several were chatting to each other unaware that those around them were singing. In the group of singers, looking animated and happy, sat my little Mom. My mother would never ever ever in her life be in a sing-along! But here she was. Off key at the top of her voice. Happy and involved. I felt my throat close and the tears come and I ran from the room. I sat outside in the garden on a concrete bench and sobbed till there were no tears left. This was real.(It's never real when you live 2000 miles away) This really was happening. She was gone. And my heart was shattered.
After composing myself I returned to the room to get her. For a brief moment she looked at me, her eyes widened, and she smiled and waved. I hugged her. She held out her hand and said, "Hello Ruth " (Ruth is her sister) She shook my hand and turned away. I took her hand and led her out the door. We walked out slowly.. She was talking nonsense. She stopped several times to examine a leaf or tie her slipon shoe that had no laces. When we got to the car she grabbed my elbow and turned me around, "Honey,have you been crying?", she asked. I said, "No Mom, it's allergies." but she didn't hear me because she was busy rolling small balls of paper and tucking them into her pocket. But for that one moment she recognized me and for that one moment she knew who I was and I knew that she was still in there somewhere and she still loved me.
Wherever you are now Mom, I miss you. Happy Mother's Day.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Old Dog New tricks and Hot Men
I own a smartphone. I am clawing my way into the 21st century. It's been three days and my nails are broken, my knees are skinned and I know I have to learn to learn this gadget in an upright position. Groveling and bouncing from one twenty-something to another to ask for help is not a pretty picture. I am forever grateful that my nephew is staying with us for awhile and he has been a gracious assistant. He is a thirty-something and has more patience with his elders. Sadly, he left yesterday for a three week trip and I am flying solo.
So far, the best part of buying the phone was buying the phone. When Bob and I walked into US Cellular on Thursday, the store was quiet. There was one salesperson sitting at a desk and no other customers. As the sales guy approached us, all I can remember is freezing-in-place, locking my eyes on his breathtaking face and blurting out "I need a new phone..." or something like that. All my life I have been attracted to olive-skinned men with dark eyes and black hair. It helps if they have an ad-worthy white toothed smile and a rocking body too. Long slender fingers on perfectly manicured hands tie this picture up in a neat little package. And here he was.... forty years too late. Shit.
Well, not only was George (yep, that's his name) awesomely gorgeous, he was also charming, patient and funny. I think I stretched this visit out for well over an hour. I would have bought almost anything he was selling. Really - I asked questions about every gadget I saw. Asked for advice with a phone cover. I did everything but ask him to zip up the back of my dress (which would have been odd since I was wearing jeans). He invited me to take a "class" on the first Saturday of every month (which, thankfully, was 2 days away). I don't think my lust was obvious to anyone but my husband who just kept shaking his head and rolling his eyes. Occasionally I would whisper, "This kid is so gorgeous!" I texted everyone who might appreciate my appreciation of this perfect specimen. In the end, I snapped a picture of him "Oops, found the camera!" I said, trying to be cool. I texted the picture to everyone.
On Saturday I went to the "class". There were three women, including me,. We all had grey hair. It was a Granny class. But at least I was dressed cool. There were two people available to help us. George was available and so was Matt. I whispered to the other Granny lady - "You go with George. I find him far too distracting." She gave me a confused look. ( Let's face it - George could be our grandson...) So I went with Matt who, by the way, was also hot. Olive skinned, big dark eyes and a great smile. Maybe you have to look like that to work there.
As of today I can text, email, Facebook and surf on my phone. Last night I taught myself how to change ringtones but they didn't go where I thought they would and i may have hit the wrong buttons. When I get a text my phone farts. I have a long way to go and anticipate many trips to the store for help and recreational viewing.
So far, the best part of buying the phone was buying the phone. When Bob and I walked into US Cellular on Thursday, the store was quiet. There was one salesperson sitting at a desk and no other customers. As the sales guy approached us, all I can remember is freezing-in-place, locking my eyes on his breathtaking face and blurting out "I need a new phone..." or something like that. All my life I have been attracted to olive-skinned men with dark eyes and black hair. It helps if they have an ad-worthy white toothed smile and a rocking body too. Long slender fingers on perfectly manicured hands tie this picture up in a neat little package. And here he was.... forty years too late. Shit.
Well, not only was George (yep, that's his name) awesomely gorgeous, he was also charming, patient and funny. I think I stretched this visit out for well over an hour. I would have bought almost anything he was selling. Really - I asked questions about every gadget I saw. Asked for advice with a phone cover. I did everything but ask him to zip up the back of my dress (which would have been odd since I was wearing jeans). He invited me to take a "class" on the first Saturday of every month (which, thankfully, was 2 days away). I don't think my lust was obvious to anyone but my husband who just kept shaking his head and rolling his eyes. Occasionally I would whisper, "This kid is so gorgeous!" I texted everyone who might appreciate my appreciation of this perfect specimen. In the end, I snapped a picture of him "Oops, found the camera!" I said, trying to be cool. I texted the picture to everyone.
On Saturday I went to the "class". There were three women, including me,. We all had grey hair. It was a Granny class. But at least I was dressed cool. There were two people available to help us. George was available and so was Matt. I whispered to the other Granny lady - "You go with George. I find him far too distracting." She gave me a confused look. ( Let's face it - George could be our grandson...) So I went with Matt who, by the way, was also hot. Olive skinned, big dark eyes and a great smile. Maybe you have to look like that to work there.
As of today I can text, email, Facebook and surf on my phone. Last night I taught myself how to change ringtones but they didn't go where I thought they would and i may have hit the wrong buttons. When I get a text my phone farts. I have a long way to go and anticipate many trips to the store for help and recreational viewing.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
The Daily Dilemma - sunrise edition
Most people start their day reviewing the list of things that have to get done and then planning how to execute. Some folks - with less on their plates- do yoga or meditate or go for a run. The amazing people do all that and still squeeze in quality moments with their kids and a Starbucks venti mocha loca chocka whatever.
My days - for the most part - begin with The Daily Dilemma. My subscription started about 16 years ago and I can't find a number to call to cancel it. The basic subscription is free, but it costs a lot. Most dilemmas (dilemmae?) involve my son or my son and my husband (the stepfather). Today is no different. Today's topic is The Saga of the Cell Phone.
I need to write about this so I can work it out - or have justifiable reasons to catch the next train to anywhere by myself. (This would leave the husband and the son alone to kill each other). Or solve it and stick with the solution.
When my son is part of the topic, advice flows freely from all those well-meaning people whose kids are good. These are the kids whose worst sins were sneaking out one night, or smoking and getting caught, or not maintaining a GPA high enough to get into Barnard or Harvard. These friends/parents are the voices of inexperienced reason which they contrast sharply to my unstoppable and painful enabling behaviors.So I'm tuning out "those people" today. But, thank you for your advice.
My cell phone contract ended three years ago. In that time I have maintained my dumb phone as well as my 28-year-old son's smartphone. From time to time (if he is working AND if I can corner him) he will pay me, It's always a struggle. My dumb phone is dying. I have to re-contract somewhere. This time I want a smartphone. I do not want to pay for 2 smartphones. I am "smart" enough to realize I will get stuck -which would make me dumb and thus negate the impact of a "smart" phone.. Earlier this week, after years of threatening to shut down his cell, I announced that this was the week. I spoke to my son about looking at prepaid plans for himself (He could never pass a credit check for his own plan). I talked about a bunch of stuff. He wants what he wants. He wants his smart phone and wants me to engage another contract with him on it. The arguments have been vile. (The irony in arguing with him is he is very persuasive and his reasoning and arguing skills could be great skills to have if he had a career. But his career is to fuck-up.) I have verbally stuck to my guns about NOT funding a smartphone..and the result is my husband's "admiration". Whoopee.
Today is the day. The man/child said he'd rather have no phone...but I want him to have a phone. It gives me peace of mind. He gets in trouble so often that he needs - and mostly I need- a way to reach out. It's a Mom thing. You either get it or you don't.. My husband doesn't. I'm sure if I were him I wouldn't get it either.
I discussed my need for him to have some basic phone this morning. I thought about it all night. Today I would give him one more opportunity to accept a dumb phone.. My husband said, "Yesterday I was proud of you...today not so much."
I live at the corner of rock and hard place. I am surrounded by two people who hate each other. One of those people - no, BOTH of those people are insecure and whiny. I guess my husband didn't realize he was signing on for a lifetime commitment to my son. I understand this, really I do. But I did sign on for that commitment and maybe I've overdone it but he is screwed up and he came that way. Personality disorders are what they are. He won't change. My husband won't change. I guess that leaves me.
I will get my phone. I will offer him a basic phone one more time. I will incur the continual disapproval of my husband and the disdain of my son because no one got what they really wanted.
I think I'll go read that "Hints to being a Happy person" now. Need it.
My days - for the most part - begin with The Daily Dilemma. My subscription started about 16 years ago and I can't find a number to call to cancel it. The basic subscription is free, but it costs a lot. Most dilemmas (dilemmae?) involve my son or my son and my husband (the stepfather). Today is no different. Today's topic is The Saga of the Cell Phone.
I need to write about this so I can work it out - or have justifiable reasons to catch the next train to anywhere by myself. (This would leave the husband and the son alone to kill each other). Or solve it and stick with the solution.
When my son is part of the topic, advice flows freely from all those well-meaning people whose kids are good. These are the kids whose worst sins were sneaking out one night, or smoking and getting caught, or not maintaining a GPA high enough to get into Barnard or Harvard. These friends/parents are the voices of inexperienced reason which they contrast sharply to my unstoppable and painful enabling behaviors.So I'm tuning out "those people" today. But, thank you for your advice.
My cell phone contract ended three years ago. In that time I have maintained my dumb phone as well as my 28-year-old son's smartphone. From time to time (if he is working AND if I can corner him) he will pay me, It's always a struggle. My dumb phone is dying. I have to re-contract somewhere. This time I want a smartphone. I do not want to pay for 2 smartphones. I am "smart" enough to realize I will get stuck -which would make me dumb and thus negate the impact of a "smart" phone.. Earlier this week, after years of threatening to shut down his cell, I announced that this was the week. I spoke to my son about looking at prepaid plans for himself (He could never pass a credit check for his own plan). I talked about a bunch of stuff. He wants what he wants. He wants his smart phone and wants me to engage another contract with him on it. The arguments have been vile. (The irony in arguing with him is he is very persuasive and his reasoning and arguing skills could be great skills to have if he had a career. But his career is to fuck-up.) I have verbally stuck to my guns about NOT funding a smartphone..and the result is my husband's "admiration". Whoopee.
Today is the day. The man/child said he'd rather have no phone...but I want him to have a phone. It gives me peace of mind. He gets in trouble so often that he needs - and mostly I need- a way to reach out. It's a Mom thing. You either get it or you don't.. My husband doesn't. I'm sure if I were him I wouldn't get it either.
I discussed my need for him to have some basic phone this morning. I thought about it all night. Today I would give him one more opportunity to accept a dumb phone.. My husband said, "Yesterday I was proud of you...today not so much."
I live at the corner of rock and hard place. I am surrounded by two people who hate each other. One of those people - no, BOTH of those people are insecure and whiny. I guess my husband didn't realize he was signing on for a lifetime commitment to my son. I understand this, really I do. But I did sign on for that commitment and maybe I've overdone it but he is screwed up and he came that way. Personality disorders are what they are. He won't change. My husband won't change. I guess that leaves me.
I will get my phone. I will offer him a basic phone one more time. I will incur the continual disapproval of my husband and the disdain of my son because no one got what they really wanted.
I think I'll go read that "Hints to being a Happy person" now. Need it.
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