"So will you be stopping here on your way back or on your way down," asked my last living aunt who happens to be on the brink of her 90th birthday. What? Stop in Pittsburgh on my way back (or to) Florida? I quickly grabbed my Google map directions. There's no Pittsburgh on my directions...no Pennsylvania on my map...and no earthly reason that I cannot change my route. I reply, "I don't think we can do that Max...it's not on the way." Silence. "Oh. Okay....but it sure would be nice to see you guys." More silence and the Cloak of Guilt descends and I basically feel like shit.
My aunt, the sister of my mother, the last living member of a family of 7 children, the one I am most like....the person who fed me an endless diet of corn on the cob, spaghetti and hamburgers and laid the foundation for my pedestrian food preferences....the woman who made sure I had great summers at the lake and a "family" that was normal...a woman who by all indications should be dead from the lung cancer, stroke, COPD, and congestive heart failure that plagues her.....wants to see me (probably for the last time)... And I don't want to go out of my way. May a large pot hole swallow me up as I drive through Indiana and touch the edges of Pennsylvania with my tires. May the frackers, hidden and well guarded in the western Pennsylvania hills, release their toxic gasses and cause a calamity that affects only me....oh dear....Guilt is paralyzing.
I have been asking myself for years why I don't go visit more often. It's an 11 hour drive. It's boring but not awful. I never have an answer that meets with my approval....and the last time I acted on the idea that I would actually go was three years ago when I had to fulfill a promise to spread my Mom, Dad and sister's ashes over my grandparents' grave. (well that didn't work out very well...) My husband went with me and declared that this area of western Pennsylvania (25 miles outside of Pittsburgh) and many of the people he met, made him think of the movie Deliverance. He hummed the banjo tune from that film the entire trip.Jackass.
My primary and oft repeated excuse is the weather and the time of the year. If it snows in western Pennsylvania - you're stuck. It's happened to me several times....once I got stuck for a month. It's all hills and valleys. You just get snowed in. With the people from Deliverance, my cousin and her kids, and Aunt Max. So winter is out. There is no excuse for summer...or fall...or Spring. Or at least none I can think of.
Will we re-route? I don't know. I do know that she will continue to ask and I will continue to wiggle and squirm. And if I don't get to spend time with her at least once more...I will wiggle and squirm and kick my ass all over the place for being so lazy. At the end of my life, who will I want to see? My son? No because he wouldn't come. My niece and nephew? Maybe. Whomever it is....I would probably not ask - I would just hope, But not Max, she's just going to keep asking and part of me hopes she wears me down.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Friday, January 24, 2014
Postmarked: Hell
I live with someone who has a mental illness and because of this our life at home has a strangely discomforting rhythm. While his behaviors are predictable and nearly set in stone, the impact they have on me is not.. I find I cope best with my son when I am mad. Screaming, vein bulging, hand shaking mad. Unfortunately, I cannot sustain that level of anger long enough. In it's place, fear and anxiety move in.
That's where I m now.
Several months ago I suggested to my husband that we take a month-long vacation. Rent a house someplace warm (any place warmer than this) Travel there at a leisurely pace. Get there when we get there. Stay there as long as we want. Maybe invite some friends and family to stay for a few days - or not. And slowly make our way back. So I found a condo in a gated community in Kissimmee, Florida. And with much (and I mean much) anxiety I sent the deposit.
Now why would I experience anxiety while in the act of preparing for something I wanted? My son. So much could go wrong before we left - or while we were gone. It would, after all, be March and March has never been a good month for him or us. I convinced myself to be positive and move ahead.
It looks like my anxiety was justified. Drug use has re-appeared. His hair has been shaved to a military style prison cut. (Which he knows I hate...Maybe he's getting ready for the next arrest) I believe he has lost his job (I have no proof - he's just here too much to be working). He is smoking in his room.(Forbidden) The room is a sty.(Won't clean it) Everything around him is in a state of neglect and duly reflects what state his mind is in. This is when things usually begin to go missing in the house...money...stuff..Hasn't happened yet but it is just a matter of time. This is - and always has been- the precursor to an EVENT. He has declared war in the house and will not engage in conversation. He has been given a deadline by which he is to move out. His door lock has been removed. Yet, he is mad at us for whatever twisted reasons. We are the bad guys -especially me.
Persons with Borderline Personality Disorder are a therapist's nightmare. At the clinic where I work we do all we can to avoid taking someone with that diagnosis. ("Hey Sara, I have a great client for you..." or "Gee I am so booked, maybe you should give it to Tom..")....no one wants these people because there is rarely any change and many therapists do not believe change is possible. They are the clients that make YOU want to bang your head against a wall. They are are wired wrong....so the change has to come from the people who live with them. Um...that would be me.
So, right now, I am struggling with what to do. I have asked him to leave earlier. That's not going to happen. I would love to find someone to stay at my house so I could maybe not worry 24 hours a day about what is happening here...but no one can do that . I've even considered cancelling the trip and swallowing the 2600 dollar loss....but my husband says ,' no'.
There are many kinds of hell on earth. My son lives in hell. We live in hell.
All I want is a 30 day retreat
That's where I m now.
Several months ago I suggested to my husband that we take a month-long vacation. Rent a house someplace warm (any place warmer than this) Travel there at a leisurely pace. Get there when we get there. Stay there as long as we want. Maybe invite some friends and family to stay for a few days - or not. And slowly make our way back. So I found a condo in a gated community in Kissimmee, Florida. And with much (and I mean much) anxiety I sent the deposit.
Now why would I experience anxiety while in the act of preparing for something I wanted? My son. So much could go wrong before we left - or while we were gone. It would, after all, be March and March has never been a good month for him or us. I convinced myself to be positive and move ahead.
It looks like my anxiety was justified. Drug use has re-appeared. His hair has been shaved to a military style prison cut. (Which he knows I hate...Maybe he's getting ready for the next arrest) I believe he has lost his job (I have no proof - he's just here too much to be working). He is smoking in his room.(Forbidden) The room is a sty.(Won't clean it) Everything around him is in a state of neglect and duly reflects what state his mind is in. This is when things usually begin to go missing in the house...money...stuff..Hasn't happened yet but it is just a matter of time. This is - and always has been- the precursor to an EVENT. He has declared war in the house and will not engage in conversation. He has been given a deadline by which he is to move out. His door lock has been removed. Yet, he is mad at us for whatever twisted reasons. We are the bad guys -especially me.
Persons with Borderline Personality Disorder are a therapist's nightmare. At the clinic where I work we do all we can to avoid taking someone with that diagnosis. ("Hey Sara, I have a great client for you..." or "Gee I am so booked, maybe you should give it to Tom..")....no one wants these people because there is rarely any change and many therapists do not believe change is possible. They are the clients that make YOU want to bang your head against a wall. They are are wired wrong....so the change has to come from the people who live with them. Um...that would be me.
So, right now, I am struggling with what to do. I have asked him to leave earlier. That's not going to happen. I would love to find someone to stay at my house so I could maybe not worry 24 hours a day about what is happening here...but no one can do that . I've even considered cancelling the trip and swallowing the 2600 dollar loss....but my husband says ,' no'.
There are many kinds of hell on earth. My son lives in hell. We live in hell.
All I want is a 30 day retreat
Thursday, January 16, 2014
12 Years a Coward
I think it was 12 years ago that my doctors started nagging me about getting a colonoscopy. In that time I repeatedly refused with some pretty good excuses: Didn't want it, colonoscopies were for old people (denial is comforting) no one in my family has ever had colon cancer, a friend had his colon punctured during the procedure ( true), don't like going to sleep, couldn't afford it (pre Affordable Care Act)...my excuses were endless and my colon remained virgin territory (unlike the rest of me).
Shortly after my experience with diverticulitis - I gave in. I scheduled one and promptly put it out of my mind..until I had to face the dreaded day of PREP. For the uninitiated, prepping for a colonoscopy ranks right up there with self-flagellation or watching a Steven Segall movie. Pure torture. Wanting to be fully prepared, I spent hours scanning the Internet for colorful descriptions of the experiences of others on Prep Day. From these horror stories I constructed a solid plan for what I would do and how I would do it. I was ready.
The people who developed the array of Prep products clearly have a sense of humor. I was given a powdery substance that came in a 4 liter plastic jug which would, at some point, be filled to the "fill line" with water. This product came with the unlikely name GOLYTELY. Honestly, I couldn't make that up
As part of my plan I would spend the day before Prep Day preparing to prepare. I would make jell-o jigglers, mix my Golytely concoction and refrigerate it because, according to the directions, it was more palatable that way. I would buy broth, 7 Up, Ginger Ale and Gator Ade. By Sunday night I was ready for my day of clear liquids only and my evening of "cleansing".
Not eating all day isn't fun - so I'd planned to see clients on Prep Day, do my volunteer stint at the food pantry, send my husband out for dinner and camp out in the bathroom from 4- whenever. I packed a cooler with my clear drinks, some extra ice, and long drinking straws, two plastic drinking vessels that had 8 ounce hash marks (so I could ingest the correct amounts) and a pile of magazines I hadn't had to time to read. I found a lavender scented candle to burn and made sure I had the softest TP imaginable. Oh - and a large tube of A&D ointment (highly recommended).
At 4:00pm I drank the first 8 ounce glass of Golytely. It was cold, I placed the straw as far back in my mouth as possible and I chugged. At best it tasted like drinking the ocean with a lot of pee in it. I grabbed for the Gatorade and took a large gulp. It cleared the palate (so to speak). This became my routine. Because I had to drink 8 ounces every 15 minutes until the first 2 liters were gone. I never touched the other drinks. The Gatorade was perfect. I never read the magazines either. I danced. Jumped, Ran around the room. Hopped on the stair stepper (aka clothes rack) and did everything I could to get things moving. The drinking did not get any easier. Strangely enough, I was no longer hungry. It was over an hour before anything moved. And then everything moved. I was grateful for the Lavender candle. Really grateful.
When things quieted down I felt safe to move around the house. This was not such a good idea. Unlike the normal passage of stuff through the body, this treatment changes everything. The directions clearly state "stay near a bathroom". They didn't define "near". I won't describe what happened but I will tell you it happened not once, but twice. I'm a slow learner.
Spent, exhausted I got up the next morning and had to repeat the routine at 5:00am. Well, I sort of repeated it (I stayed in the bathroom) I didn't drink the remaining 2 liters. I drank 16 ounces. I felt "clear" and declared that if I hand't done it right that was just too bad. No way I was ever going to do this again.
I don't even remember the procedure. I do remember Dr. Armanisuit (not his name - but his suit) because he had done an endoscope 6 years before. Dr. Armani Suit was impecabbly dressed -as usual. Crisp burgundy shirt, perfectly tied tie, dark Indian skin and gorgeous perfect hair. Handsome man who, when he spoke and made a point, would roll his eyes upward, lower his lids and manage to look like he had no eyes. The man who was going to snake a camera up my butt had moments of having no eyes. Lucky me.
I guess things turned out okay. The nurse said I wouldn't have to come back for 10 years. I told her I would be dead by then and did not think that making an appointment so far in advance was a sound idea. I'm not going back anyway.
Shortly after my experience with diverticulitis - I gave in. I scheduled one and promptly put it out of my mind..until I had to face the dreaded day of PREP. For the uninitiated, prepping for a colonoscopy ranks right up there with self-flagellation or watching a Steven Segall movie. Pure torture. Wanting to be fully prepared, I spent hours scanning the Internet for colorful descriptions of the experiences of others on Prep Day. From these horror stories I constructed a solid plan for what I would do and how I would do it. I was ready.
The people who developed the array of Prep products clearly have a sense of humor. I was given a powdery substance that came in a 4 liter plastic jug which would, at some point, be filled to the "fill line" with water. This product came with the unlikely name GOLYTELY. Honestly, I couldn't make that up
As part of my plan I would spend the day before Prep Day preparing to prepare. I would make jell-o jigglers, mix my Golytely concoction and refrigerate it because, according to the directions, it was more palatable that way. I would buy broth, 7 Up, Ginger Ale and Gator Ade. By Sunday night I was ready for my day of clear liquids only and my evening of "cleansing".
Not eating all day isn't fun - so I'd planned to see clients on Prep Day, do my volunteer stint at the food pantry, send my husband out for dinner and camp out in the bathroom from 4- whenever. I packed a cooler with my clear drinks, some extra ice, and long drinking straws, two plastic drinking vessels that had 8 ounce hash marks (so I could ingest the correct amounts) and a pile of magazines I hadn't had to time to read. I found a lavender scented candle to burn and made sure I had the softest TP imaginable. Oh - and a large tube of A&D ointment (highly recommended).
At 4:00pm I drank the first 8 ounce glass of Golytely. It was cold, I placed the straw as far back in my mouth as possible and I chugged. At best it tasted like drinking the ocean with a lot of pee in it. I grabbed for the Gatorade and took a large gulp. It cleared the palate (so to speak). This became my routine. Because I had to drink 8 ounces every 15 minutes until the first 2 liters were gone. I never touched the other drinks. The Gatorade was perfect. I never read the magazines either. I danced. Jumped, Ran around the room. Hopped on the stair stepper (aka clothes rack) and did everything I could to get things moving. The drinking did not get any easier. Strangely enough, I was no longer hungry. It was over an hour before anything moved. And then everything moved. I was grateful for the Lavender candle. Really grateful.
When things quieted down I felt safe to move around the house. This was not such a good idea. Unlike the normal passage of stuff through the body, this treatment changes everything. The directions clearly state "stay near a bathroom". They didn't define "near". I won't describe what happened but I will tell you it happened not once, but twice. I'm a slow learner.
Spent, exhausted I got up the next morning and had to repeat the routine at 5:00am. Well, I sort of repeated it (I stayed in the bathroom) I didn't drink the remaining 2 liters. I drank 16 ounces. I felt "clear" and declared that if I hand't done it right that was just too bad. No way I was ever going to do this again.
I don't even remember the procedure. I do remember Dr. Armanisuit (not his name - but his suit) because he had done an endoscope 6 years before. Dr. Armani Suit was impecabbly dressed -as usual. Crisp burgundy shirt, perfectly tied tie, dark Indian skin and gorgeous perfect hair. Handsome man who, when he spoke and made a point, would roll his eyes upward, lower his lids and manage to look like he had no eyes. The man who was going to snake a camera up my butt had moments of having no eyes. Lucky me.
I guess things turned out okay. The nurse said I wouldn't have to come back for 10 years. I told her I would be dead by then and did not think that making an appointment so far in advance was a sound idea. I'm not going back anyway.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Unfriending: The untold and unhappy story
I have, in my time on Facebook, unfriended several people and been more than okay with it. While in hindsight it seems rather like a cyber-tantrum most folks don't discover they have been unfriended for months. And most of those whom I have released are right wing tea party zealots with whom I have zero, zip, zilch in common other than a high school diploma from North Bergen High School in Jersey. That's not much of a bonding medium. It's also not much of a place to be from.
Almost always the "unfriender" rarely the" unfriendee" (unless you want to count the handful of people who dropped mein a show of support for a friend after I could no longer stand her lunacy. Hello high school?)) Until today - or was it yesterday- when I was cast aside by my son. Let me note that the entire "friending" act was initially prompted by him. I personally have no interest in having any clues to his depraved life (even though he lives under my roof) Therein lies the problem. He lives here. I find clues. They are not nice.
To live here he has been repeatedly asked to comply with five simple rules. Sadly, he has been unable to maintain even one of them. In exchange for his blatant nose thumbing to our repeated requests, he has been allowed to live here rent free, expense free, get his bills paid by his step dad (his money not ours), add food to the grocery list, live in a pig sty be unsociable and unfriendly, and only clean his bathroom when forced to because company is coming. Nice deal. (I know, I know...my fault. Enabling is my talent). This week I served him with my equivalent of an eviction notice. He has until April 15 to get out. No discussion. In three months he should be able to find some hole to crawl in. Why not immediately? It's cold. He has no where to go and I want to sleep at night. If he ends up under a bridge in April - it won't be as bad for me.
So he is mad at me. (and strangely I don't care). He unfriended me in a show of rebellion and disdain. Really? That's the best you can do? I think he's mad cause I threw away some contraband...or he's mad because I am unreasonable...or he's mad because emotionally - like most addicts - he stopped maturing at 15 or 16. He also won't eat anything I cook (and exactly how is that a punishment for me...) Deep down, I think he's mad at himself....he is unable to be anyone but this 16 year old person trapped in the body of a 29 year old. Being him sucks. And even if I gave him a roadmap and a ticket to a newer and better life...he would still mess up. That's how he is built.
If you don't understand BPD or addiction....you won't understand why I've hung in there so long. Or how painful it is to accept that this is always how it will be.
Pass me the chocolates please.
Almost always the "unfriender" rarely the" unfriendee" (unless you want to count the handful of people who dropped mein a show of support for a friend after I could no longer stand her lunacy. Hello high school?)) Until today - or was it yesterday- when I was cast aside by my son. Let me note that the entire "friending" act was initially prompted by him. I personally have no interest in having any clues to his depraved life (even though he lives under my roof) Therein lies the problem. He lives here. I find clues. They are not nice.
To live here he has been repeatedly asked to comply with five simple rules. Sadly, he has been unable to maintain even one of them. In exchange for his blatant nose thumbing to our repeated requests, he has been allowed to live here rent free, expense free, get his bills paid by his step dad (his money not ours), add food to the grocery list, live in a pig sty be unsociable and unfriendly, and only clean his bathroom when forced to because company is coming. Nice deal. (I know, I know...my fault. Enabling is my talent). This week I served him with my equivalent of an eviction notice. He has until April 15 to get out. No discussion. In three months he should be able to find some hole to crawl in. Why not immediately? It's cold. He has no where to go and I want to sleep at night. If he ends up under a bridge in April - it won't be as bad for me.
So he is mad at me. (and strangely I don't care). He unfriended me in a show of rebellion and disdain. Really? That's the best you can do? I think he's mad cause I threw away some contraband...or he's mad because I am unreasonable...or he's mad because emotionally - like most addicts - he stopped maturing at 15 or 16. He also won't eat anything I cook (and exactly how is that a punishment for me...) Deep down, I think he's mad at himself....he is unable to be anyone but this 16 year old person trapped in the body of a 29 year old. Being him sucks. And even if I gave him a roadmap and a ticket to a newer and better life...he would still mess up. That's how he is built.
If you don't understand BPD or addiction....you won't understand why I've hung in there so long. Or how painful it is to accept that this is always how it will be.
Pass me the chocolates please.
Monday, January 6, 2014
6 6 6
It is my 66th birthday. I am speechless. I am now on the down side of my sixties. Going straight to hell. 6 6 6.
As birthdays go (and I wish this one would) this day has been similar to many of the 60's birthdays that preceeded it.The weather sucks. It's too cold to do anything fun. It's so cold the restaurant where we had reservations called to cancel us - because it's too cold. Wind chill is minus 40 and that's with the sun shining. I was looking forward to calamari in as many iterations as they could possibly concoct for me. That's not happening. Everything around us is closing. Wimps. Canned tuna may have to do. Canned tuna and a great imagination.
My best birthday of the 60-decade so far was my 60th. In Las Vegas. Wearing a rhinestone "60" crown in my BROWN hair and a "This is what 60 looks like" tee shirt we casino hopped ate amazing Italian food, drank a lot, opened ridiculous gifts, and fulfilled a lifetime fantasy by participating in a skit at Second City. (I am a frustrated performer) Despite the fact that our friends were fighting and my husband was drop down drunk...it was a great kick-off to another decade
So - left with nothing fun to do and nothing good to eat today, I find myself ruminating on confessing something. I've decided that I will confess some of my guilty pleasures. You know - those things that are crass,or tasteless, unsophisticated, not cool, or embarrassing to admit you like but you like anyway but don't admit to anyone.
I'm rambling so I'm just going to start listing a few things.
Velveeta: Disgusting, non-dairy, coagulated orange oil product with no redeeming food value. And if it happens to find it's way into my refrigerator (for whatever reason) I devour it...a little bit at a time until it is gone. Yes, I do.
Red Lobster Shrimp Scampi: Buttery, garlicky, fat-filled and wonderful. So good in fact that I can ignore the other people who come there to eat....who may also be hoping that no one saw them come in or will see them going out. I actually have their recipe (or one that pretends to be). It's close. Maybe one needs to be in the Red Lobster atmosphere in order to fully experience the intricacies of this dish. Home doesn't cut it.
Tuna casserole: Although I haven't had it in at least ten years, I still list it among my desert island foods. Could it be the velveeta or the crunchy fried onions on top?
Dark Chocolate covered cherries. Yum. No explanation necessary. Any brand - even the drugstore kind.
Kenny G: What can I say. Love the alto sax. Not cool;don't care
Barry Manilow: In concert or not. How can you dislike a guy who wrote a song about you right around the time of the BIG break-up.
Shirley Temple movies: I used to love Sunday afternoons when I could always count on a Shirley movie to be on one of the local channels. I know the stories (they are all the same), the cast, the songs. If I could tap dance - I would be able to replicate the dance routines - if could dance.
All Doris Day/Rock Hudson/Cary Grant combo movies. Doris and either of these guys is a winning combination for pure schmaltz. Love it.
All Cary Grant movies.
Charlie Chan movies: Sooooooo politically incorrect
Um Bop: That bubble gum teeney bopper song from the 80's. Makes me dance.
Superman: TV version with George Reeves. Probably know the scripts by heart. I would have made a great Lois Lane rocking those stupid hats and bad suits.
CATS: Saw it;loved it and don't care how much people make fun of it. I still cry when the old cat sings.
"Say Yes to the Dress": I cannot explain the attraction. I don't like weddings and I've worked in a bridal salon (one of the worst jobs of my life). But I watch this show almost every opportunity I get. By myself. Telling no one.(I have discovered that I harbor deep dislike for mermaid dresses, followed quickly by "fit and flare" styles. So unflattering.)
I'll stop here. I have to re-direct my thoughts to finding a way to save the day. If I hurry I can catch the afternoon edition of "Say yes..." while I consider where to get some take-out that will soothe the pain of not eating Pasta Calamari at Mimma's. I still have some chocolate covered cherries hidden away from Christmas and I believe that some of the music stations way way up on the cable play broadway show tunes. Meow.
As birthdays go (and I wish this one would) this day has been similar to many of the 60's birthdays that preceeded it.The weather sucks. It's too cold to do anything fun. It's so cold the restaurant where we had reservations called to cancel us - because it's too cold. Wind chill is minus 40 and that's with the sun shining. I was looking forward to calamari in as many iterations as they could possibly concoct for me. That's not happening. Everything around us is closing. Wimps. Canned tuna may have to do. Canned tuna and a great imagination.
My best birthday of the 60-decade so far was my 60th. In Las Vegas. Wearing a rhinestone "60" crown in my BROWN hair and a "This is what 60 looks like" tee shirt we casino hopped ate amazing Italian food, drank a lot, opened ridiculous gifts, and fulfilled a lifetime fantasy by participating in a skit at Second City. (I am a frustrated performer) Despite the fact that our friends were fighting and my husband was drop down drunk...it was a great kick-off to another decade
So - left with nothing fun to do and nothing good to eat today, I find myself ruminating on confessing something. I've decided that I will confess some of my guilty pleasures. You know - those things that are crass,or tasteless, unsophisticated, not cool, or embarrassing to admit you like but you like anyway but don't admit to anyone.
I'm rambling so I'm just going to start listing a few things.
Velveeta: Disgusting, non-dairy, coagulated orange oil product with no redeeming food value. And if it happens to find it's way into my refrigerator (for whatever reason) I devour it...a little bit at a time until it is gone. Yes, I do.
Red Lobster Shrimp Scampi: Buttery, garlicky, fat-filled and wonderful. So good in fact that I can ignore the other people who come there to eat....who may also be hoping that no one saw them come in or will see them going out. I actually have their recipe (or one that pretends to be). It's close. Maybe one needs to be in the Red Lobster atmosphere in order to fully experience the intricacies of this dish. Home doesn't cut it.
Tuna casserole: Although I haven't had it in at least ten years, I still list it among my desert island foods. Could it be the velveeta or the crunchy fried onions on top?
Dark Chocolate covered cherries. Yum. No explanation necessary. Any brand - even the drugstore kind.
Kenny G: What can I say. Love the alto sax. Not cool;don't care
Barry Manilow: In concert or not. How can you dislike a guy who wrote a song about you right around the time of the BIG break-up.
Shirley Temple movies: I used to love Sunday afternoons when I could always count on a Shirley movie to be on one of the local channels. I know the stories (they are all the same), the cast, the songs. If I could tap dance - I would be able to replicate the dance routines - if could dance.
All Doris Day/Rock Hudson/Cary Grant combo movies. Doris and either of these guys is a winning combination for pure schmaltz. Love it.
All Cary Grant movies.
Charlie Chan movies: Sooooooo politically incorrect
Um Bop: That bubble gum teeney bopper song from the 80's. Makes me dance.
Superman: TV version with George Reeves. Probably know the scripts by heart. I would have made a great Lois Lane rocking those stupid hats and bad suits.
CATS: Saw it;loved it and don't care how much people make fun of it. I still cry when the old cat sings.
"Say Yes to the Dress": I cannot explain the attraction. I don't like weddings and I've worked in a bridal salon (one of the worst jobs of my life). But I watch this show almost every opportunity I get. By myself. Telling no one.(I have discovered that I harbor deep dislike for mermaid dresses, followed quickly by "fit and flare" styles. So unflattering.)
I'll stop here. I have to re-direct my thoughts to finding a way to save the day. If I hurry I can catch the afternoon edition of "Say yes..." while I consider where to get some take-out that will soothe the pain of not eating Pasta Calamari at Mimma's. I still have some chocolate covered cherries hidden away from Christmas and I believe that some of the music stations way way up on the cable play broadway show tunes. Meow.
Friday, January 3, 2014
A brief bathroom dilemma
So, what would you do if you walked into a bathroom in your home (not "your" bathroom), pulled back the shower curtain and saw a 12 inch, lifelike (although not like anyone I've ever known) rubber dildo resting across your soap dish? If you're me you stare it it (just to be sure your aging eyes aren't fooling you), then you pick it up, then you look around the room (for no reason at all) while it jiggles to and fro in your hand.
That was me two days ago. Standing in a bathroom in my home - a bathroom several people were using because it was a holiday and they were guests - staring at a Caucasian, flesh-toned replica of the largest penis you could imagine...complete with appropriate (or so I'm told) color gradations to make it more lifelike.
Who would forget to take this from a bathroom?!!! It's not like leaving your tweezers on the sink.
I struggled with leaving it outside the door in a plastic bag...discreet? I considered asking specific people whether they had lost track of anything important? I considered putting it in our room and waiting for someone to confide in me. I also toyed with taking a series of funny pictures of it and texting the pix to my gay friend in Washington DC. (and putting it back where I'd found it afterwards, of course).
What did I do? Yup. You guessed it. They were great pictures. He and I spent hours captioning and re-captioning them. Laughing our butts off (so to speak) and considering all the possibilities and ramifications of ownership. It was a great way to ride out a snowstorm.
What would you have done?
That was me two days ago. Standing in a bathroom in my home - a bathroom several people were using because it was a holiday and they were guests - staring at a Caucasian, flesh-toned replica of the largest penis you could imagine...complete with appropriate (or so I'm told) color gradations to make it more lifelike.
Who would forget to take this from a bathroom?!!! It's not like leaving your tweezers on the sink.
I struggled with leaving it outside the door in a plastic bag...discreet? I considered asking specific people whether they had lost track of anything important? I considered putting it in our room and waiting for someone to confide in me. I also toyed with taking a series of funny pictures of it and texting the pix to my gay friend in Washington DC. (and putting it back where I'd found it afterwards, of course).
What did I do? Yup. You guessed it. They were great pictures. He and I spent hours captioning and re-captioning them. Laughing our butts off (so to speak) and considering all the possibilities and ramifications of ownership. It was a great way to ride out a snowstorm.
What would you have done?
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