I was staring at the coffeemaker this morning, wishing it were the weekend. Not because I had to get up at some ungodly hour to work, but because on the weekends, Billy-Bob fills my coffeemaker. My sweet hubby’s coffee is too strong for me to drink, so I have my own little machine to make my weak, but necessary, brew. Billy-Bob would never tell me my coffee was terrible, but he manages to convey the sentiment in subtle ways. I am not so kind about his brew. I watch him grind the beans that he roasted himself on the back porch, and as he stuffs the filter basket with an ungodly amount, I bring my hands up to encircle my neck and make strangled gagging noises. On the few occasions that I have attempted to drink his coffee, I have loaded it with milk and held my nose. Were Billy-Bob forced to drink my coffee, like that could ever happen, I’m pretty sure he would respond in much the same way as the Texas rancher in a romance novel I read. Forced to drink hospital coffee, this rancher commented in what is now one of my favorite metaphors of all time: “I could get stronger brew if I put a coffee bean up a duck’s ass and filled my cup downstream.” Thankfully, my hubby is not a Texan.
Billy-Bob gets up first on the weekend. When he’s awake, he’s up. He dresses, retrieves the paper from the end of the drive, and begins his daily grind. Rising from bed is a longer process for me. I tend to stretch and roll like a fat, pampered cat deciding if anything is really worth getting up from this warm, comfortable spot. After several minutes of yawning and bemoaning the necessity of getting up at all, I eventually slide myself out of the bed and over to the sink, only to see in the mirror what the fat cat dragged in. The temptation to return to the bed is barely resistible. By the time I am lured downstairs, still in my jammies, by the need for coffee, Billy-Bob is drinking his. He greets me with a smile, and occasionally throws caution to the wind by saying, “Good afternoon.” But all is forgiven when I walk over to my coffeemaker and find it filled with water, a filter jauntily perched atop the basket. Scoop in the coffee, press ON, and out comes the nectar of the gods. Sweet Jesus! Sweet hubby.
As I stared at the empty coffeemaker this morning, I imagined the maw of the empty reservoir was filled with fresh water, glistening with the light’s reflection, winking at the filter’s jaunty paper hat. I found myself entertaining the thought of asking my hubby to fill my coffeemaker before he goes to work! I could feel my own eyes widen in surprise. My god! I am a Spoiled Princess! I AM a Lazy Girl! My dad had tried to tell me for years, and I would bristle at his words. Now I knew. How did I react to this startling revelation? Did I set out to disprove it? Did I attack the crumbs on the counter or assault the clutter on the kitchen table? Did I destroy the dust on the furniture or decimate the detritus on the floor? Did I decide to vigorously vacuum or launch a load of laundry? No. Lord, no. I made my coffee and turned on my laptop to write this piece, once again passing up a distasteful task for something I enjoy doing. It’s been twenty years since I went into therapy and learned to embrace my Inner Bitch. Certainly I can do the same for Lazy Girl. I’ll learn to wear her like a badge. Complaints can be sent to Imalazygirl@email.com. That and a bean up a duck’s ass will get you cup of coffee.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Toggle Town Toity
There was trouble in Toggle Town. Everyone knew it.
But each Toggle questioned how Toggles could do it.
They’d enter the privy, and the Toggles would find,
That a Toggle before them left empties behind!
Each Toggle would cry, “Oh, there’s nothing to wipe with!
What to do now? There’s no TP to swipe with!”
There were rolls kept in boxes, spare rolls on the hook,
But some weren’t replacing the rolls that they took!
And each weary Toggle found each empty roll
A terrible burden. It took quite a toll.
Till at the next meeting, one said with a glare,
“Stop leaving the privy with no TP there!”
A He-Toggle snickered, one laughed with a blast he
Just couldn’t imagine how awful, how nasty
It was to be stuck with no TP in sight.
He-Toggles so rarely are found in this plight.
Some Toggles protested and said, sounding snotty,
“I won’t be in charge of TP in the potty!
So few Toggles bother, you might as well face it.
It just isn’t Toggle-folks’ job to replace it!”
Up spoke a Toggle, “We need to be kind.
We all need to act just as if OUR behind
Were the one in the stall seeking TP while bared
And wishing the previous Toggle had cared.”
So the Toggles agreed they would all take the minute
It took to make sure the stall had TP in it.
So let’s do what’s kind, like the Toggle Town clan did.
Replace the TP and leave no Toggle stranded!
But each Toggle questioned how Toggles could do it.
They’d enter the privy, and the Toggles would find,
That a Toggle before them left empties behind!
Each Toggle would cry, “Oh, there’s nothing to wipe with!
What to do now? There’s no TP to swipe with!”
There were rolls kept in boxes, spare rolls on the hook,
But some weren’t replacing the rolls that they took!
And each weary Toggle found each empty roll
A terrible burden. It took quite a toll.
Till at the next meeting, one said with a glare,
“Stop leaving the privy with no TP there!”
A He-Toggle snickered, one laughed with a blast he
Just couldn’t imagine how awful, how nasty
It was to be stuck with no TP in sight.
He-Toggles so rarely are found in this plight.
Some Toggles protested and said, sounding snotty,
“I won’t be in charge of TP in the potty!
So few Toggles bother, you might as well face it.
It just isn’t Toggle-folks’ job to replace it!”
Up spoke a Toggle, “We need to be kind.
We all need to act just as if OUR behind
Were the one in the stall seeking TP while bared
And wishing the previous Toggle had cared.”
So the Toggles agreed they would all take the minute
It took to make sure the stall had TP in it.
So let’s do what’s kind, like the Toggle Town clan did.
Replace the TP and leave no Toggle stranded!
Monday, October 6, 2008
Sweet Caroline
She teases me from a distance,
Her blue eyes flashing,
Her smile like sunshine.
Her laughter is a gift,
A tonic for my soul.
Slowly she approaches, and
Without a care in the world,
She leans her sweet body into mine.
I savor her nearness, then boldly
I slip my hand up her back
And run my fingertips over her warm, soft skin.
For a moment, she is still,
Her face frozen in pleasure.
She presses closer, and
My breath catches as
She leans over to share a sweet kiss.
For one brief moment,
The world is perfect, and
I sigh with a light heart.
I’m in love.
Sweet Caroline,
Just one year old.
Her blue eyes flashing,
Her smile like sunshine.
Her laughter is a gift,
A tonic for my soul.
Slowly she approaches, and
Without a care in the world,
She leans her sweet body into mine.
I savor her nearness, then boldly
I slip my hand up her back
And run my fingertips over her warm, soft skin.
For a moment, she is still,
Her face frozen in pleasure.
She presses closer, and
My breath catches as
She leans over to share a sweet kiss.
For one brief moment,
The world is perfect, and
I sigh with a light heart.
I’m in love.
Sweet Caroline,
Just one year old.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Perchance To Dream
Sleep has become the enemy.
It’s once warm embrace has turned cold and menacing.
It has become a macabre dance of traumatic memories,
Halls of death, corridors of insanity.
Once a wellspring of renewal,
It now holds demons that can only whisper
At the edges of wakefulness.
Demons, pushed aside by the brightness of open eyes,
Lurk in the deep shade of slumber.
Lingering at the edges of consciousness,
They wait for exhaustion to lower the lids
And offer up their prey.
Then they begin their haunting.
Their tendrils weave into scenes of horror,
Building terror
In a throat that cannot scream,
In limbs that will not move,
In eyes that cannot shut against the onslaught.
It’s once warm embrace has turned cold and menacing.
It has become a macabre dance of traumatic memories,
Halls of death, corridors of insanity.
Once a wellspring of renewal,
It now holds demons that can only whisper
At the edges of wakefulness.
Demons, pushed aside by the brightness of open eyes,
Lurk in the deep shade of slumber.
Lingering at the edges of consciousness,
They wait for exhaustion to lower the lids
And offer up their prey.
Then they begin their haunting.
Their tendrils weave into scenes of horror,
Building terror
In a throat that cannot scream,
In limbs that will not move,
In eyes that cannot shut against the onslaught.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Collateral Damage
She careens down the highway intent on her destination. Her vehicle responds only to her own signals and needs. There are no side mirrors, no rear view mirror, no headlights. Even the windows lack transparency. She sees only her goal ahead. She sees no one and nothing around her. And no one can see her coming.
Cars veer to avoid her. Some are forced off the road, and their drivers sit in stunned silence. Some collide with her and sustain unspeakable damage. There are other drivers on this road. Other vehicles that are being ruined. Other lives that are being destroyed by her carelessness. She leaves nothing but chaos in her wake.
No one can make her understand the danger. No one dares get in front of her, because she will run them over. No one can signal to her to slow down, because she does not see. No one can tell her to stay in her lane, because she does not hear. No one can tell her to watch out for other drivers, because she does not care.
She continues blindly at high speed until her energy is spent. Only then does she exit her vehicle. But she does not look around her and see the mangled bodies and broken souls of those she has left behind. The suffering of those that have crossed her path. She sees only her goal, and she has reached her destination. She smiles. For her, it is over.
But we have only begun to grieve.
Cars veer to avoid her. Some are forced off the road, and their drivers sit in stunned silence. Some collide with her and sustain unspeakable damage. There are other drivers on this road. Other vehicles that are being ruined. Other lives that are being destroyed by her carelessness. She leaves nothing but chaos in her wake.
No one can make her understand the danger. No one dares get in front of her, because she will run them over. No one can signal to her to slow down, because she does not see. No one can tell her to stay in her lane, because she does not hear. No one can tell her to watch out for other drivers, because she does not care.
She continues blindly at high speed until her energy is spent. Only then does she exit her vehicle. But she does not look around her and see the mangled bodies and broken souls of those she has left behind. The suffering of those that have crossed her path. She sees only her goal, and she has reached her destination. She smiles. For her, it is over.
But we have only begun to grieve.
Cruise Control
I pull out onto 127 and set the cruise for 65. If I pull my leg up off the accelerator, the back pain will ease up some. Curse of the squished disk. Twenty minutes later I loop onto 69 and hit resume on the cruise. Ten minutes gets me to town, another five to the rehab. I fight the nausea as I approach the door. I don’t know why I feel queasy. There were no calls from the nurse this morning. No falls reported. No ambulance called. No decisions to be made. We’re past that. We’re on cruise control.
I walk slowly through the parking lot, taking the long way through the building to loosen up the back. Mom is waiting. I get the aide to load her into the wheelchair and we head to the atrium. We check on the baby finches, greet the cockatiel with the usual “pretty bird,” and set up at our little table in the corner. I pull the wheelchair legs to the side, push the chair up to the table and lock the wheels. I’m getting pretty good at it. We play cards until dinnertime, and then cruise back to the room. An aide will guide Mom to the dining room. She rolls her walker down the hall at a snail’s pace, the aide loosely holding a strap around her to catch her if she stumbles or falls. It’s a torturously slow process, but valuable movement to a recovering elderly patient. I head to a nearby restaurant for dinner. Then I lay across the back seat of my car to read, giving my spine time to decompress and stop pinching the nerve in my leg.
I pull into the parking lot of the rehab and repeat my long walk to my mother’s room. We cruise once again to the atrium for cards. I greet patients I have begun to know. My mother doesn’t hear us chatting – she resists using her hearing aids – but they ask me how she is doing, and I tell them she is doing better. Even when I’m not sure she is. She often beats me at cards, so some part of her is still working. We say goodnight to the finch babies and the “pretty bird” and cruise back to the room. I press the call button to summon the aide for Mom’s bedtime rituals. I tell her goodnight, I love you, I’ll see you tomorrow. Back in the car, I head for the highway and put the car on cruise control, taking 69 to 127. As I turn onto the long farm road that takes me to the house, I recall part of the conversation I had with my mother at the end of our evening together.
Are you tired, Mom? I asked her. Not so much tired as weary, she replied. You know?
I know, Mom, I know.
I walk slowly through the parking lot, taking the long way through the building to loosen up the back. Mom is waiting. I get the aide to load her into the wheelchair and we head to the atrium. We check on the baby finches, greet the cockatiel with the usual “pretty bird,” and set up at our little table in the corner. I pull the wheelchair legs to the side, push the chair up to the table and lock the wheels. I’m getting pretty good at it. We play cards until dinnertime, and then cruise back to the room. An aide will guide Mom to the dining room. She rolls her walker down the hall at a snail’s pace, the aide loosely holding a strap around her to catch her if she stumbles or falls. It’s a torturously slow process, but valuable movement to a recovering elderly patient. I head to a nearby restaurant for dinner. Then I lay across the back seat of my car to read, giving my spine time to decompress and stop pinching the nerve in my leg.
I pull into the parking lot of the rehab and repeat my long walk to my mother’s room. We cruise once again to the atrium for cards. I greet patients I have begun to know. My mother doesn’t hear us chatting – she resists using her hearing aids – but they ask me how she is doing, and I tell them she is doing better. Even when I’m not sure she is. She often beats me at cards, so some part of her is still working. We say goodnight to the finch babies and the “pretty bird” and cruise back to the room. I press the call button to summon the aide for Mom’s bedtime rituals. I tell her goodnight, I love you, I’ll see you tomorrow. Back in the car, I head for the highway and put the car on cruise control, taking 69 to 127. As I turn onto the long farm road that takes me to the house, I recall part of the conversation I had with my mother at the end of our evening together.
Are you tired, Mom? I asked her. Not so much tired as weary, she replied. You know?
I know, Mom, I know.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Psych Ward
She didn’t expect to have to come back here. Two long weeks and seven hundred miles later, here she was again. Three different medicine combinations had been tried, and Mom wasn’t back yet. She could see hints of her somewhere behind those 87-year-old eyes. Mom was in there somewhere. Come back one more time, Mom, she thought. Even if it’s just to say good-bye.
She walked off the fourth floor elevator and passed an elderly gentleman. He seemed a little dazed. It’s a madhouse in there, he said. She smiled. Yes, yes it is. She laughed to herself. What did you expect? she asked him silently. There are crazy people in there! Perhaps this was his first visit to the psych ward. Perhaps he had to leave his wife there, and it was breaking his heart. She knew that feeling well. This was her fourth or fifth time. She had lost count. It never got any easier.
She waited at the door to the locked unit for someone to let her in. She stated her mother’s name. Sign in at the desk, the aide said. Like they do every single time. She recognized some of the patients. Ruth was doing her usual silent pacing, leaning slightly forward in her determined gait, marching the unit perimeter over and over. Heaven knows where Ruth is going, but she’ll be pretty fit when she gets there. Black Chris was in his wheeled recliner in the Group Therapy room, near the window so the nurses could see him. He must have been yelling profanities again. White Chris was reclined in the hall in front of the station, with a handful of other non-ambulatory patients. The nurses like to bring them out where the action is. Sometimes White Chris smiled when she looked at him. Not today. Phil was in the hall. He must be in time out. Did you pinch another nurse, Phil? she asked as she passed him. He winked at her.
She walked to her mother’s room and Bob followed her in. You can’t come in here, she told him for the umpteenth time. This is a woman’s room and you’re not allowed in here. She guided him out and he planted himself in a chair in the hall. She and Mom headed for the lounge, and Bob followed them in and sat in the corner. The usual litany followed. The food is bad. The doctor is a bitch. No one comes when you call. I’ll never be well enough to leave here. I’ll never go home again. She uttered some reassurances, trying not to make empty promises, forcing herself to be optimistic. If she truly believed Mom would get better, if she refused to accept the alternative, maybe she could make it happen. Clapping for Tinkerbell.
After a few hands of rummy, she walked Mom back to the room. She waited at the unit door for someone to let her out. She heard a woman moaning loudly. She heard it most days, but she never saw the patient. She didn’t know if they were wails of physical pain or emotional despair. A man’s voice reached her as she tried to clear the thought from her head. Isn’t anyone going to help me? he bellowed over and over. She heard him a lot, too. Why do they call them patients? she wondered.
An aide unlocked the door and let her out. She smiled and thanked the woman, relieved to be able to escape. She didn’t know how anyone could work there, but she was grateful that somebody could. She walked to the elevator and pushed the button. She thought of the old man she had passed earlier.
Yes, sir. It’s a madhouse in there.
She walked off the fourth floor elevator and passed an elderly gentleman. He seemed a little dazed. It’s a madhouse in there, he said. She smiled. Yes, yes it is. She laughed to herself. What did you expect? she asked him silently. There are crazy people in there! Perhaps this was his first visit to the psych ward. Perhaps he had to leave his wife there, and it was breaking his heart. She knew that feeling well. This was her fourth or fifth time. She had lost count. It never got any easier.
She waited at the door to the locked unit for someone to let her in. She stated her mother’s name. Sign in at the desk, the aide said. Like they do every single time. She recognized some of the patients. Ruth was doing her usual silent pacing, leaning slightly forward in her determined gait, marching the unit perimeter over and over. Heaven knows where Ruth is going, but she’ll be pretty fit when she gets there. Black Chris was in his wheeled recliner in the Group Therapy room, near the window so the nurses could see him. He must have been yelling profanities again. White Chris was reclined in the hall in front of the station, with a handful of other non-ambulatory patients. The nurses like to bring them out where the action is. Sometimes White Chris smiled when she looked at him. Not today. Phil was in the hall. He must be in time out. Did you pinch another nurse, Phil? she asked as she passed him. He winked at her.
She walked to her mother’s room and Bob followed her in. You can’t come in here, she told him for the umpteenth time. This is a woman’s room and you’re not allowed in here. She guided him out and he planted himself in a chair in the hall. She and Mom headed for the lounge, and Bob followed them in and sat in the corner. The usual litany followed. The food is bad. The doctor is a bitch. No one comes when you call. I’ll never be well enough to leave here. I’ll never go home again. She uttered some reassurances, trying not to make empty promises, forcing herself to be optimistic. If she truly believed Mom would get better, if she refused to accept the alternative, maybe she could make it happen. Clapping for Tinkerbell.
After a few hands of rummy, she walked Mom back to the room. She waited at the unit door for someone to let her out. She heard a woman moaning loudly. She heard it most days, but she never saw the patient. She didn’t know if they were wails of physical pain or emotional despair. A man’s voice reached her as she tried to clear the thought from her head. Isn’t anyone going to help me? he bellowed over and over. She heard him a lot, too. Why do they call them patients? she wondered.
An aide unlocked the door and let her out. She smiled and thanked the woman, relieved to be able to escape. She didn’t know how anyone could work there, but she was grateful that somebody could. She walked to the elevator and pushed the button. She thought of the old man she had passed earlier.
Yes, sir. It’s a madhouse in there.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
What Fresh Hell
I wake in the morning, enjoying only seconds of peace before my heart is filled with dread. I lay in bed caught between my desire to begin the day and my fear of what the day will bring. Minutes pass as I work up the courage to rise, breathing deeply to calm my racing heart. Tempted by the book on my nightstand, I consider escaping for just a few minutes, immersing my mind in some fictional universe where the real world does not exist. Just a few minutes. Please. Just a few minutes and then I will face the day and whatever fresh hell it brings.
I rise, unrested from a dreamless sleep. The need for coffee drives me forward. I should eat something, I know. But I can’t. A mild nausea is haunting me. A nebulous fear. The phone rings and I freeze as the machine answers. My heart is racing, I forget to draw a breath. A beep and… nothing. A hang-up. Thank you, thank you god. It’s one of those irritating calls from solicitors, pollsters, computers that abort their mission when they connect with my machine. Once reviled, they are now my best friends. Their silence means no fresh hell.
There are places to go today, things that must be done. I don’t want to go. I want to stay here where I feel safe, where there is no constant sense of urgency, where I am briefly protected from life’s ugly realities. But am I, really? There is no safe place from their insurgence. They travel with me, in my mind, in my heart, a pressure on my chest that will not ease. My fear. My dread. Will I be strong enough? May as well go about the day. There may be brief normal moments out there waiting for me. Brief respites from the grip on my heart. I could turn off my cell, so no fresh hell can find me. But I won't
I dress. I skip the watch. I do not want to see the time passing. No baubles call to me to adorn an ear, a wrist. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Do I care enough to tame my hair? Do I look as weary as I feel? I look closer. My god. What fresh hell is this? A giant, red zit beams from the end of my nose.
Screw it. I head out the door.
I rise, unrested from a dreamless sleep. The need for coffee drives me forward. I should eat something, I know. But I can’t. A mild nausea is haunting me. A nebulous fear. The phone rings and I freeze as the machine answers. My heart is racing, I forget to draw a breath. A beep and… nothing. A hang-up. Thank you, thank you god. It’s one of those irritating calls from solicitors, pollsters, computers that abort their mission when they connect with my machine. Once reviled, they are now my best friends. Their silence means no fresh hell.
There are places to go today, things that must be done. I don’t want to go. I want to stay here where I feel safe, where there is no constant sense of urgency, where I am briefly protected from life’s ugly realities. But am I, really? There is no safe place from their insurgence. They travel with me, in my mind, in my heart, a pressure on my chest that will not ease. My fear. My dread. Will I be strong enough? May as well go about the day. There may be brief normal moments out there waiting for me. Brief respites from the grip on my heart. I could turn off my cell, so no fresh hell can find me. But I won't
I dress. I skip the watch. I do not want to see the time passing. No baubles call to me to adorn an ear, a wrist. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Do I care enough to tame my hair? Do I look as weary as I feel? I look closer. My god. What fresh hell is this? A giant, red zit beams from the end of my nose.
Screw it. I head out the door.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Dirty Little Secret
I had lunch with a friend last week. I've known her for years and count her among my dearest friends. I don't know EVERYTHING there is to know about her, but I DO know that she is extremely intelligent and very caring and giving (for a person of her political persuasion.) I admire her greatly, and the fact that she chooses to be in my company on a regular basis makes me feel ever so better about myself. But at lunch, I learned that she has a dirty little secret - one that made my jaw drop, quite possibly with food still in my mouth, and rendered me speechless. That doesn't happen to me often, to which my poor, beleaguered husband will attest.
Speaking of husbands, my friend's is a keeper. He is tall and charming, and has a lightning quick wit that can be wickedly edgy and I find it hilarious. I can't keep up, my mind becoming muddled with age and my wit not so quick on the giddy-up anymore, so I just sit back and enjoy it. He has a bad back, so I feel a certain camraderie, though I have never been flown home immobilized by back pain, nor have I had surgery on my back. I concede that he has suffered far worse than I. All the more surprising that he shares in this dirty little secret.
Speaking of bad backs, I was in The Healthy Back Store recently to purchase an inversion table. I have lost at least a half-inch from spinal compression, otherwise known as GROWING OLD, and one of my disks is squished enough to cause regular pain. I'm willing to try anything. The store manager, Don, was very knowledgeable and set me up for a test run. As I hung from my ankles, he made sure my face did not get red, my head did not explode, and my feet did not lose all feeling. Don checked on me often, but I was utterly relaxed and found being upside down heavenly, which proves what I have suspected for some time - I am now an OLD BAT. I was later treated to 30 minutes in a new, state-of-the-art massage chair that left me feeling a bit as if I had cheated on my husband. I was so relaxed, and Don and I had formed such a bond, that I told him my friend's dirty little secret. His jaw dropped, his eyes widened, and he was momentarily speechless. He had never heard of anything so alarming. I nodded smugly, feeling justified in my initial reaction. In Don's informed judgement, this was a sin against all that is holy. Also the Phylum Chordata.
Speaking of judgement, I try not to do that to my friends. Possessing, as I do, an opinionated controlling, OCD genetic heritage, this is a constant battle for me. Did I overreact to my friend's revelation? Did I hurt her feelings? Normally, these questions would drive me to distraction until I could apologize for my rude behavior and beg for forgiveness. But in some cases, like those that could cause severe bodily harm, being a friend means putting your foot down. I cannot live with myself if I do not insist that this matter be addressed. I go to bed at night worrying that my friend and her husband lie sleepless, tossing and turning in agony, unable to restore their souls with peaceful slumber, sinking into the depths under the weight of this torturous truth. I want to be supportive, but I have to follow my conscience.
Speaking of being supportive, or NOT, this is the dirty little secret: My friend and her husband are sleeping on a 37-YEAR-OLD mattress! And I am simply putting my foot down!
Speaking of husbands, my friend's is a keeper. He is tall and charming, and has a lightning quick wit that can be wickedly edgy and I find it hilarious. I can't keep up, my mind becoming muddled with age and my wit not so quick on the giddy-up anymore, so I just sit back and enjoy it. He has a bad back, so I feel a certain camraderie, though I have never been flown home immobilized by back pain, nor have I had surgery on my back. I concede that he has suffered far worse than I. All the more surprising that he shares in this dirty little secret.
Speaking of bad backs, I was in The Healthy Back Store recently to purchase an inversion table. I have lost at least a half-inch from spinal compression, otherwise known as GROWING OLD, and one of my disks is squished enough to cause regular pain. I'm willing to try anything. The store manager, Don, was very knowledgeable and set me up for a test run. As I hung from my ankles, he made sure my face did not get red, my head did not explode, and my feet did not lose all feeling. Don checked on me often, but I was utterly relaxed and found being upside down heavenly, which proves what I have suspected for some time - I am now an OLD BAT. I was later treated to 30 minutes in a new, state-of-the-art massage chair that left me feeling a bit as if I had cheated on my husband. I was so relaxed, and Don and I had formed such a bond, that I told him my friend's dirty little secret. His jaw dropped, his eyes widened, and he was momentarily speechless. He had never heard of anything so alarming. I nodded smugly, feeling justified in my initial reaction. In Don's informed judgement, this was a sin against all that is holy. Also the Phylum Chordata.
Speaking of judgement, I try not to do that to my friends. Possessing, as I do, an opinionated controlling, OCD genetic heritage, this is a constant battle for me. Did I overreact to my friend's revelation? Did I hurt her feelings? Normally, these questions would drive me to distraction until I could apologize for my rude behavior and beg for forgiveness. But in some cases, like those that could cause severe bodily harm, being a friend means putting your foot down. I cannot live with myself if I do not insist that this matter be addressed. I go to bed at night worrying that my friend and her husband lie sleepless, tossing and turning in agony, unable to restore their souls with peaceful slumber, sinking into the depths under the weight of this torturous truth. I want to be supportive, but I have to follow my conscience.
Speaking of being supportive, or NOT, this is the dirty little secret: My friend and her husband are sleeping on a 37-YEAR-OLD mattress! And I am simply putting my foot down!
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Keeping Appearances Up
I went to buy new bras last week. Like buying a bathing suit, this is a task most women dread. As it turns out, you need to be fitted by an expert. That is how complicated it is. Now, you can go to any store, grab a bunch of bras, try them on, settle on something, and pay very little or a whole lot for it. But if you are coming home at the end of the day and have walked past the bloated dead body of your cat to get out of your bra, you are probably wearing the wrong size. And it’s little wonder you need an expert to figure it out.
First you need the band size. Your personal expert (and it does get personal) will measure you around the chest just under the girls. But that is NOT your band size. That would be too simple. You must add a specific number of cubits to that measurement, as put forth in Chapter 6, Verse 26 of the Book of Ruth found in the Old Testament. THAT is your band size. Your very personal fitter will then measure you at the fullest part of your bust. This is where it gets really tricky. She, and let’s hope it’s a she, measures you with your old bra on. Now, you may think this defies logic, and you would be right. If you are wearing a bra that is the wrong size, chances are your girls are either stuffed into too small a cup or padded in foam like a Waterford crystal fingerbowl. That is not really the measurement you want to use for your new, expertly fitted bra, is it? Let’s consider the alternative. You remove your old bra for the measurement. A couple of problems present themselves. One, no way in hell are you standing naked in front of a stranger and letting her wrap a tape measure around your girls! But just in case that is NOT a deal breaker for you, you may have another problem. The fullest part of your bust is now somewhere near your waistline. Sir Isaac Newton himself could not get an accurate measurement of that parabolic arrangement, though no doubt he could tell you exactly why your bust is now pointed toward the center of the earth. So let's just leave the old bra on, shall we?
With these two numbers and an algebraic equation derived from Einstein's Theory of Relativity, your expert will determine your true size, and you can grab a bunch of bras and try them on. OK, that's pretty much what you did before, but now you have a vague idea of where to start. Then, all you have to do is choose between back-closure and front-closure, smooth cup or seamed, underwire or wire-free, nipple revealing or discreetly padded, sexy-lacey or iron maiden, and 2-, 3-, or 4- hook closure. Once you settle on something you like, you may wish to purchase extras to rotate for wearing and washing, or perhaps some different colors to wear under certain clothes. You may think: same exact style, different color, same fit. But I am here to tell you, do NOT take those tags off until you have jockeyed those girls into the stirrups! I recently purchased a darker color of the style that fit me like a glove, and I felt like Alice after she went through the looking glass. Had I suddenly bloated up to gigantic proportions? Why no, the caramel-colored bra was smaller than the white one of the exact same size! Every brand, every style, and indeed, every individual bra is from a different planet on which a cubit is a completely arbitrary measurement.
As arduous as the process may be, you will eventually come up with a bra that will lovingly caress your ribs and your girls. The struggle will be worthwhile when you slide into your brand new, expertly fitted bra and go through the day without tugging, pulling, stuffing or yanking. I would still walk by a dead, bloated body to remove my bra at the end of the day, but I no longer have the urge to burn it in a conflagration of hellfire. And I don’t cry anymore when I have to sling one on in the morning. So trade in that “over-the-shoulder boulder holder” for the best friend your girls will ever have. And don’t forget to feel good about yourself for navigating these treacherous waters. Imagine if men had to go through this process to buy their underwear. I can hear the whining now. “What do you mean I’m a B-cup? These jewels are no less than a double-D!!”
First you need the band size. Your personal expert (and it does get personal) will measure you around the chest just under the girls. But that is NOT your band size. That would be too simple. You must add a specific number of cubits to that measurement, as put forth in Chapter 6, Verse 26 of the Book of Ruth found in the Old Testament. THAT is your band size. Your very personal fitter will then measure you at the fullest part of your bust. This is where it gets really tricky. She, and let’s hope it’s a she, measures you with your old bra on. Now, you may think this defies logic, and you would be right. If you are wearing a bra that is the wrong size, chances are your girls are either stuffed into too small a cup or padded in foam like a Waterford crystal fingerbowl. That is not really the measurement you want to use for your new, expertly fitted bra, is it? Let’s consider the alternative. You remove your old bra for the measurement. A couple of problems present themselves. One, no way in hell are you standing naked in front of a stranger and letting her wrap a tape measure around your girls! But just in case that is NOT a deal breaker for you, you may have another problem. The fullest part of your bust is now somewhere near your waistline. Sir Isaac Newton himself could not get an accurate measurement of that parabolic arrangement, though no doubt he could tell you exactly why your bust is now pointed toward the center of the earth. So let's just leave the old bra on, shall we?
With these two numbers and an algebraic equation derived from Einstein's Theory of Relativity, your expert will determine your true size, and you can grab a bunch of bras and try them on. OK, that's pretty much what you did before, but now you have a vague idea of where to start. Then, all you have to do is choose between back-closure and front-closure, smooth cup or seamed, underwire or wire-free, nipple revealing or discreetly padded, sexy-lacey or iron maiden, and 2-, 3-, or 4- hook closure. Once you settle on something you like, you may wish to purchase extras to rotate for wearing and washing, or perhaps some different colors to wear under certain clothes. You may think: same exact style, different color, same fit. But I am here to tell you, do NOT take those tags off until you have jockeyed those girls into the stirrups! I recently purchased a darker color of the style that fit me like a glove, and I felt like Alice after she went through the looking glass. Had I suddenly bloated up to gigantic proportions? Why no, the caramel-colored bra was smaller than the white one of the exact same size! Every brand, every style, and indeed, every individual bra is from a different planet on which a cubit is a completely arbitrary measurement.
As arduous as the process may be, you will eventually come up with a bra that will lovingly caress your ribs and your girls. The struggle will be worthwhile when you slide into your brand new, expertly fitted bra and go through the day without tugging, pulling, stuffing or yanking. I would still walk by a dead, bloated body to remove my bra at the end of the day, but I no longer have the urge to burn it in a conflagration of hellfire. And I don’t cry anymore when I have to sling one on in the morning. So trade in that “over-the-shoulder boulder holder” for the best friend your girls will ever have. And don’t forget to feel good about yourself for navigating these treacherous waters. Imagine if men had to go through this process to buy their underwear. I can hear the whining now. “What do you mean I’m a B-cup? These jewels are no less than a double-D!!”
Friday, May 16, 2008
I Miss Dave Barry
I miss Dave Barry. More specifically, I miss reading Dave Barry’s columns in the paper. It’s been several years since he retired from his syndicated vocation, and no humorist has come close to replacing him. Not with me, anyway. Dave Barry has the brand of wit that I adore: Irony and gross exaggeration. I employ these in my own writing, but never to as great an effect. When I would read a Dave Barry column, seldom did I make it through without laughing out loud. More often than not, I would have to stop reading and wipe away tears of laughter. Occasionally, I would wet my pants laughing. You’d think I would have learned to visit the powder room before picking up his column, but when you’re sitting comfortably in your chair with a cup of coffee, you just don’t think you have to go.
My husband can attest to my overzealous responses to reading Dave Barry. My high-pitched laughter would interrupt his own reading, as would my foot stamping the ground or my hand slapping the table -- my body’s attempt to dissipate a build-up of laughter that I could not release fast enough through my mouth. At times, I would writhe in my chair like a child being ferociously tickled. Bill would go back to his reading, knowing that when the outburst abated and I caught my breath, I would tell him exactly what was so funny. And even though he had already read and enjoyed the column himself (without the pant-wetting part) he would at least pretend to listen to my giggle-laced rendering of the bit that set me off.
Dave Barry could target my funny bone. His sense of the ridiculous has endeared him to me forever. I would shake my head and wonder how he comes up with such off-the-wall ways to describe things, that while conjuring up the most ridiculous image in your mind, would nevertheless hit the nail right on the head. Whether it was the relationships between men and women, parents and children, or golfer and golf ball, he could find the hilarity in it. And though he was often self-deprecating, he could describe a behavior with which we could all identify and make us laugh at ourselves. I have clipped my favorite columns from the paper and purchased collections of his writings for my bookshelves. Short bursts of cheer that are always readily available. For me, it is like hoarding laughter in a treasure box that you bring out from under your bed when you need comfort.
Why the sudden nostalgia for Dave Barry columns? I recently acquired a used book-on-tape that was a four-cassette collection of “The Best of Dave Barry.” Since my beloved used car has only a cassette player, and since most books-on-tape are now in CD format, I am always thrilled to encounter anything that will save me from the drivel of FM radio. And because I do not enjoy listening to suspense thrillers and bodice-ripping romances in the car, I rarely find titles that interest me. But what could be better than little helpings of humor delivered as you drive alongside all the morons that, regardless of their apparent inadequacies, have been able to obtain a driver’s license? This very morning, I popped the first of the tapes in as I set out on my errands. Even though it was not Dave himself doing the reading, I pressed the start button with great anticipation. After all, could anyone make a Dave Barry essay seem not funny? Well, as it turns out, someone can.
I will not mention the actor by name. I’m sure he did his best. After fifteen minutes with barely a chuckle, I realized that something was very wrong. It wasn’t the material that was unfunny (as if Dave Barry could BE unfunny!) but the way the person was reading it. I began to heckle him from the driver’s seat. “ You are reading that with way too much expression! You are making this sound ridiculous! It’s not supposed to hit you in the face like watermelon at a Gallagher show! It’s supposed to float in and sneak up on your sense of the ridiculous! You are being too flamboyant with that exaggeration! It should seem perfectly normal for that golf ball to weigh as much as Rush Limbaugh! My god, my god, you are totaling ruining this! Why didn’t Dave read this himself!! It is so much more hilarious when I am reading it in my head! What a disaster! You are a total hack!” Breathless with rage, I popped the tape out and threw it in the back seat. Only I could be driven to rage listening to humorous essays.
I really miss Dave Barry.
My husband can attest to my overzealous responses to reading Dave Barry. My high-pitched laughter would interrupt his own reading, as would my foot stamping the ground or my hand slapping the table -- my body’s attempt to dissipate a build-up of laughter that I could not release fast enough through my mouth. At times, I would writhe in my chair like a child being ferociously tickled. Bill would go back to his reading, knowing that when the outburst abated and I caught my breath, I would tell him exactly what was so funny. And even though he had already read and enjoyed the column himself (without the pant-wetting part) he would at least pretend to listen to my giggle-laced rendering of the bit that set me off.
Dave Barry could target my funny bone. His sense of the ridiculous has endeared him to me forever. I would shake my head and wonder how he comes up with such off-the-wall ways to describe things, that while conjuring up the most ridiculous image in your mind, would nevertheless hit the nail right on the head. Whether it was the relationships between men and women, parents and children, or golfer and golf ball, he could find the hilarity in it. And though he was often self-deprecating, he could describe a behavior with which we could all identify and make us laugh at ourselves. I have clipped my favorite columns from the paper and purchased collections of his writings for my bookshelves. Short bursts of cheer that are always readily available. For me, it is like hoarding laughter in a treasure box that you bring out from under your bed when you need comfort.
Why the sudden nostalgia for Dave Barry columns? I recently acquired a used book-on-tape that was a four-cassette collection of “The Best of Dave Barry.” Since my beloved used car has only a cassette player, and since most books-on-tape are now in CD format, I am always thrilled to encounter anything that will save me from the drivel of FM radio. And because I do not enjoy listening to suspense thrillers and bodice-ripping romances in the car, I rarely find titles that interest me. But what could be better than little helpings of humor delivered as you drive alongside all the morons that, regardless of their apparent inadequacies, have been able to obtain a driver’s license? This very morning, I popped the first of the tapes in as I set out on my errands. Even though it was not Dave himself doing the reading, I pressed the start button with great anticipation. After all, could anyone make a Dave Barry essay seem not funny? Well, as it turns out, someone can.
I will not mention the actor by name. I’m sure he did his best. After fifteen minutes with barely a chuckle, I realized that something was very wrong. It wasn’t the material that was unfunny (as if Dave Barry could BE unfunny!) but the way the person was reading it. I began to heckle him from the driver’s seat. “ You are reading that with way too much expression! You are making this sound ridiculous! It’s not supposed to hit you in the face like watermelon at a Gallagher show! It’s supposed to float in and sneak up on your sense of the ridiculous! You are being too flamboyant with that exaggeration! It should seem perfectly normal for that golf ball to weigh as much as Rush Limbaugh! My god, my god, you are totaling ruining this! Why didn’t Dave read this himself!! It is so much more hilarious when I am reading it in my head! What a disaster! You are a total hack!” Breathless with rage, I popped the tape out and threw it in the back seat. Only I could be driven to rage listening to humorous essays.
I really miss Dave Barry.
Monday, May 12, 2008
A Whole Lot of Self-Help Goin' On
I was perusing the non-fiction section of the library the other day, because I want to be able to do something, besides bore people, with my 2500 Italy pictures. Most of the computer books were about systems and programs unheard of by me, but I found one that I thought I could handle: “Digital Photo Editing for SENIORS” (emphasis theirs, like old people can only read capitals!) I can get red-eye out and brighten up dark pictures, but not much beyond that. I have a picture from a cathedral of an exquisite bas-relief sculpture with a stupid water bottle in front of it! It would be really nice to get that sucker out of there. I would eventually like to use Power Point to make a presentation, so I picked up a manual on its use. I’m hoping I can quickly glean the basics from the 400-page book, because if I have to read the whole thing, Italy and the rest of Europe may have, in the interim, completely succumbed to plate tectonics.
I wandered through the rest of the non-fiction and came upon the section that offers medical and psychological advice for the common folk, otherwise known as “self-help.” It turns out we need a lot of help, because this is a huge section. Guidance gurus are making quite a tidy profit pointing out all of our inadequacies, and it seems that very few of us are living as we should. It’s a good thing there are so many people with greater insight that are willing to share the truth with us. I, for one, am grateful to find out that teenagers can be difficult to live with and that families are very often not the pictures of harmony presented in the family sitcoms of yesteryear. I was raised on Father Knows Best and The Donna Reed Show, so my expectations were high. I’d been wondering for years why my alcohol consumption doubled during family visits.
I’m all for self-improvement. Sadly, many who need it most think they are perfect and will never grace the aisles of the self-help section. At least there are plenty of books to help the rest of us deal with them. There are a plethora of titles and subjects. I like the ones with a limited timeframe in which to reach a desired result. For instance, Self Magazine's 15 Minutes to Your Best Self, The 3-Hour Diet, 7 Days to Confidence, and 40 Days to Personal Revolution. And to think people spend years in therapy! If you have a little more time to invest, there is Body for Life: 12 Weeks to Mental and Physical Strength or Seven Weeks to Sobriety. (If your not that committed, you may prefer 7 Weeks to Safe Social Drinking.) These are my kind of books. After a specified time period, I can admit defeat and go back to my regular life. Or I can turn to my handy copy of Accepting Yourself: Liking Yourself All of the Time.
Many self-help authors have boiled their philosophies down to a finite number of steps. This can be very helpful for those of us who can manage only a little self-improvement at a time. Five Simple Steps to Emotional Healing sounds easy enough as does 7 Steps to Being Happy from the Inside Out. I can even handle 21 Guides to Emotional Self Control. But you are just pushing the limit with 100 Essential Steps to Less Stress and Anxiety. Oh my god! I think I may have missed a step! Or 365 Steps to Self-confidence. What? This is going to take a whole frikken year? Can I do them all in one day? How about the monstrous 611 Ways to Boost Your Self-Esteem. Come on now! Really? You couldn’t make it an even 600?
I found myself drawn to titles that seemed to contradict themselves. The Complete Idiot's Guide to Enhancing Self-Esteem. Is calling me a complete idiot really supposed to make me feel better about myself? Anger Management For Dummies. Who are you calling a dummy?? How about saying that to my face, you SOB!!! 500 Ways to Simplify Your Life. If I do them all, will I be Amish? The Relaxation & Stress Reduction Workbook. Relaxing as work. Interesting concept. Speaking of workbooks, there were plenty of them on the self-help shelves. Mastery of Your Anxiety and Worry Workbook. I’m pretty good at being anxious and worrying, but I could probably be better. The Memory Workbook: Breakthrough Techniques to…Improve Your Memory. Now, if I could only remember where the hell I put that thing…
There were some titles that really made me stop and think. Children of the Self-Absorbed: A Grown-up's Guide to Getting over Narcissistic Parents. In case you didn’t find this book before you chose a partner, Loving the Self-Absorbed: How to Create a More Satisfying Relationship with a Narcissistic Partner. I’m OK, but you’re better? Real Men Don't Lay on the Couch All Day. What if he’s lying on the couch, but he’s reading this book? Etiquette For Dummies. Rule #1: It is NOT polite to refer to people as “dummies!” The Procrastination Workbook. I need help with this, so I checked it out to work on later. You Mean I'm Not Lazy, Stupid or Crazy?!…Adults With ADD. Ooooh…I think I’ve finally been diagnosed. 31 Words to Create a Guilt-Free Life: Finding the Freedom to be Your Most Powerful Self - A Simple Guide to Self-Care, Balance, and Joy (39 Power Words.) Damn! Just a couple more, and there would have been 31 words in the title! Surviving a Borderline Parent. Borderline parent? Isn’t that like being a little bit pregnant? Or are we talking about people raised close to Canada or Mexico?
The catchy or quirky titles always brought a smile to my face. With an industry this size, it’s important to find a title that jumps off the shelf at you. Why Men Love Bitches: From Doormat to Dreamgirl. I am looking at my husband in a whole new light now. How to Eat Like a Hot Chick: Eat What You Love, Love How You Feel. This sounds like something I can get behind. (Or will it get me a behind?) Don't Shoot Yourself in the Foot. This could be about self-defeating behaviors or a guide for masochists. Nuances of Nasal & Sinus Self-Help. Poetic alliteration, don’t you think? For those who have just a hint of congestion? Or a subtle snort from post-nasal drip?
Are there self-help books to help you with self-help books? You betcha! Overcoming Your Addiction To Self-Help Books is a great companion to The Last Self-Help Book You'll Ever Need. If you just can’t give them up, there are books to tell you which ones to read, like 50 Self-Help Classics, and even HOW to read them, as in How to Read How-To and Self-Help Books: Getting Real Results from the Advice You Get. And if you’re beyond reading them, you may want to try your hand at writing them. Choose from Writing Successful Self-Help and How-To Books or the inspiring How an Idiot Writes a Self-Help Book. And you don’t have to confine yourself to helping people. I found one in the pet section. Heeling the Canine Within: A Dog Self-Help Companion... The very witty Liane Leshne helps dogs “confront feelings of mixed-breed inadequacy, stop burying the past (and digging it up again) and resist owner-inflicted cross-dressing” I’m too busy reading other people’s books to write a self-help book, but I did employ my perverse wit to come up with some titles. Feel free to use these, or add a few of your own.
Attacking Your Angry Self
Timeless Tips for the Chronically Late
Bet on Yourself: Stop Your Gambling Addiction
Access Your Higher Self And Overcome Acrophobia
A Frame Of Reference For Borderline Personality Disorder
Follow Me To The Leader Within You
Facing Change With Multiple Personality Disorder
And yes, Virginia, there is a Ventriloquism For Dummies.
I wandered through the rest of the non-fiction and came upon the section that offers medical and psychological advice for the common folk, otherwise known as “self-help.” It turns out we need a lot of help, because this is a huge section. Guidance gurus are making quite a tidy profit pointing out all of our inadequacies, and it seems that very few of us are living as we should. It’s a good thing there are so many people with greater insight that are willing to share the truth with us. I, for one, am grateful to find out that teenagers can be difficult to live with and that families are very often not the pictures of harmony presented in the family sitcoms of yesteryear. I was raised on Father Knows Best and The Donna Reed Show, so my expectations were high. I’d been wondering for years why my alcohol consumption doubled during family visits.
I’m all for self-improvement. Sadly, many who need it most think they are perfect and will never grace the aisles of the self-help section. At least there are plenty of books to help the rest of us deal with them. There are a plethora of titles and subjects. I like the ones with a limited timeframe in which to reach a desired result. For instance, Self Magazine's 15 Minutes to Your Best Self, The 3-Hour Diet, 7 Days to Confidence, and 40 Days to Personal Revolution. And to think people spend years in therapy! If you have a little more time to invest, there is Body for Life: 12 Weeks to Mental and Physical Strength or Seven Weeks to Sobriety. (If your not that committed, you may prefer 7 Weeks to Safe Social Drinking.) These are my kind of books. After a specified time period, I can admit defeat and go back to my regular life. Or I can turn to my handy copy of Accepting Yourself: Liking Yourself All of the Time.
Many self-help authors have boiled their philosophies down to a finite number of steps. This can be very helpful for those of us who can manage only a little self-improvement at a time. Five Simple Steps to Emotional Healing sounds easy enough as does 7 Steps to Being Happy from the Inside Out. I can even handle 21 Guides to Emotional Self Control. But you are just pushing the limit with 100 Essential Steps to Less Stress and Anxiety. Oh my god! I think I may have missed a step! Or 365 Steps to Self-confidence. What? This is going to take a whole frikken year? Can I do them all in one day? How about the monstrous 611 Ways to Boost Your Self-Esteem. Come on now! Really? You couldn’t make it an even 600?
I found myself drawn to titles that seemed to contradict themselves. The Complete Idiot's Guide to Enhancing Self-Esteem. Is calling me a complete idiot really supposed to make me feel better about myself? Anger Management For Dummies. Who are you calling a dummy?? How about saying that to my face, you SOB!!! 500 Ways to Simplify Your Life. If I do them all, will I be Amish? The Relaxation & Stress Reduction Workbook. Relaxing as work. Interesting concept. Speaking of workbooks, there were plenty of them on the self-help shelves. Mastery of Your Anxiety and Worry Workbook. I’m pretty good at being anxious and worrying, but I could probably be better. The Memory Workbook: Breakthrough Techniques to…Improve Your Memory. Now, if I could only remember where the hell I put that thing…
There were some titles that really made me stop and think. Children of the Self-Absorbed: A Grown-up's Guide to Getting over Narcissistic Parents. In case you didn’t find this book before you chose a partner, Loving the Self-Absorbed: How to Create a More Satisfying Relationship with a Narcissistic Partner. I’m OK, but you’re better? Real Men Don't Lay on the Couch All Day. What if he’s lying on the couch, but he’s reading this book? Etiquette For Dummies. Rule #1: It is NOT polite to refer to people as “dummies!” The Procrastination Workbook. I need help with this, so I checked it out to work on later. You Mean I'm Not Lazy, Stupid or Crazy?!…Adults With ADD. Ooooh…I think I’ve finally been diagnosed. 31 Words to Create a Guilt-Free Life: Finding the Freedom to be Your Most Powerful Self - A Simple Guide to Self-Care, Balance, and Joy (39 Power Words.) Damn! Just a couple more, and there would have been 31 words in the title! Surviving a Borderline Parent. Borderline parent? Isn’t that like being a little bit pregnant? Or are we talking about people raised close to Canada or Mexico?
The catchy or quirky titles always brought a smile to my face. With an industry this size, it’s important to find a title that jumps off the shelf at you. Why Men Love Bitches: From Doormat to Dreamgirl. I am looking at my husband in a whole new light now. How to Eat Like a Hot Chick: Eat What You Love, Love How You Feel. This sounds like something I can get behind. (Or will it get me a behind?) Don't Shoot Yourself in the Foot. This could be about self-defeating behaviors or a guide for masochists. Nuances of Nasal & Sinus Self-Help. Poetic alliteration, don’t you think? For those who have just a hint of congestion? Or a subtle snort from post-nasal drip?
Are there self-help books to help you with self-help books? You betcha! Overcoming Your Addiction To Self-Help Books is a great companion to The Last Self-Help Book You'll Ever Need. If you just can’t give them up, there are books to tell you which ones to read, like 50 Self-Help Classics, and even HOW to read them, as in How to Read How-To and Self-Help Books: Getting Real Results from the Advice You Get. And if you’re beyond reading them, you may want to try your hand at writing them. Choose from Writing Successful Self-Help and How-To Books or the inspiring How an Idiot Writes a Self-Help Book. And you don’t have to confine yourself to helping people. I found one in the pet section. Heeling the Canine Within: A Dog Self-Help Companion... The very witty Liane Leshne helps dogs “confront feelings of mixed-breed inadequacy, stop burying the past (and digging it up again) and resist owner-inflicted cross-dressing” I’m too busy reading other people’s books to write a self-help book, but I did employ my perverse wit to come up with some titles. Feel free to use these, or add a few of your own.
Attacking Your Angry Self
Timeless Tips for the Chronically Late
Bet on Yourself: Stop Your Gambling Addiction
Access Your Higher Self And Overcome Acrophobia
A Frame Of Reference For Borderline Personality Disorder
Follow Me To The Leader Within You
Facing Change With Multiple Personality Disorder
And yes, Virginia, there is a Ventriloquism For Dummies.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Billy Bob Battles The Bees
We cleaned our screened porch Saturday. This is a spring ritual that is undertaken only after the surrounding loblolly pines have divested themselves fully of their greenish-yellow pollen. A two-week dust storm of lemon-lime Kool-Aid leaves the world covered in a pervasive neon powder. Your eyes feel like you walked through a sandstorm, and you live life in a yellow haze, but the loblolly species will survive for another year. Chances are you will be pulling them up like weeds in the summer. But I digress. Billy Bob wrestles the furniture off the porch to be hosed down and scrubbed for summer duty. The leaf blower clears most of the pollen out through the screens. Then I come out with the Big Gun: the central vacuum system powered by a jet engine mounted in the garage.
No particle of dust, no iota of pollen, no trespassing arachnid can withstand the power of this vacuum. When we first had it installed, we entertained ourselves for hours watching the dirt dance before the powerful beater bar before being drawn, inexorably, into the mighty vortex of irresistible suction. This household duty eventually returned to its mundane routine, but when defending myself from invading insects, I still enjoy the power of capturing the enemy remotely with my patented two-wand extension! Such satisfaction! Again, I digress. With my magic wand (and hose) I was able to remove nearly every remnant of pollen from the floor and frame of our porch, and using the aforementioned double-wand, even cleared the rafters. Spider webs and winter's detritus disappeared into its mighty maw. I cut the engine and paused to enjoy my handiwork.
A residual, low-pitched buzzing sound teased my ear. Had I failed to completely turn off the system? No. Had a hungry hummingbird, growing impatient, braved the gauntlet of human activity to reach the sweet nectar on the deck? No. Then I spotted the source. Not one, not two, but three bellicose buzzers, their rotund black bodies laboriously hovering near the roof of the porch, their tiny wings straining to maneuver for landing. The dreaded carpenter bee. The behemoth of bees. Zeppelins of destruction, they have drilled a dozen holes into the eaves. And they were back. Like the swallows of Capistrano, they return to the eaves of our porch and drill their giant holes into the wood. They squeeze their corpulent bug bodies into the holes to lay their fat little eggs. But not today. Not on my watch.
I alerted Billy Bob to the presence of the enemy. We had tried before to swat at them, but they exist in a different dimension, able to move through time at will and remain just out of our reach. We knew no spray would deter them. But they had picked the wrong time. We were there, and we had the Big Gun. These elephantine bees are persistent, but they are slow. We might have a chance. I passed the wand through the screened door to Billy Bob. The bees hovered just over his head, trying to gain purchase on the eave. Billy Bob turned on the vacuum and pointed the wand at the first bee. It hovered in mid-air, just beyond the end, weaving and bobbing in a drunken dance against the pull. But its tiny wings could not save that tubby buzzer. We heard a click as he began his warp-speed trip through the walls of the house on his way to the canister of the damned. Billy Bob met my gaze with a sly smile as he pointed at the second bee. You have stayed too long at the fair, my friend. The wand again danced through the air. At first unsteady, the bee easily danced away. But Billy Bob tightened his grip on the wand and CLICK. Two down, one to go. Failing to heed the warning cries of his late friends before their demise, bee #3 hovered nearby. He was an easy target for Billy Bob, who now skillfully wielded the wand like the sword Excalibur. Victory.
Hours later, from upstairs, I could hear the familiar zip of the vacuum hose being dragged from its lair. I came downstairs to find my husband contentedly reading the paper on the screened porch. At his feet lay the sword Excalibur. Billy Bob had battled another bee. And won.
No particle of dust, no iota of pollen, no trespassing arachnid can withstand the power of this vacuum. When we first had it installed, we entertained ourselves for hours watching the dirt dance before the powerful beater bar before being drawn, inexorably, into the mighty vortex of irresistible suction. This household duty eventually returned to its mundane routine, but when defending myself from invading insects, I still enjoy the power of capturing the enemy remotely with my patented two-wand extension! Such satisfaction! Again, I digress. With my magic wand (and hose) I was able to remove nearly every remnant of pollen from the floor and frame of our porch, and using the aforementioned double-wand, even cleared the rafters. Spider webs and winter's detritus disappeared into its mighty maw. I cut the engine and paused to enjoy my handiwork.
A residual, low-pitched buzzing sound teased my ear. Had I failed to completely turn off the system? No. Had a hungry hummingbird, growing impatient, braved the gauntlet of human activity to reach the sweet nectar on the deck? No. Then I spotted the source. Not one, not two, but three bellicose buzzers, their rotund black bodies laboriously hovering near the roof of the porch, their tiny wings straining to maneuver for landing. The dreaded carpenter bee. The behemoth of bees. Zeppelins of destruction, they have drilled a dozen holes into the eaves. And they were back. Like the swallows of Capistrano, they return to the eaves of our porch and drill their giant holes into the wood. They squeeze their corpulent bug bodies into the holes to lay their fat little eggs. But not today. Not on my watch.
I alerted Billy Bob to the presence of the enemy. We had tried before to swat at them, but they exist in a different dimension, able to move through time at will and remain just out of our reach. We knew no spray would deter them. But they had picked the wrong time. We were there, and we had the Big Gun. These elephantine bees are persistent, but they are slow. We might have a chance. I passed the wand through the screened door to Billy Bob. The bees hovered just over his head, trying to gain purchase on the eave. Billy Bob turned on the vacuum and pointed the wand at the first bee. It hovered in mid-air, just beyond the end, weaving and bobbing in a drunken dance against the pull. But its tiny wings could not save that tubby buzzer. We heard a click as he began his warp-speed trip through the walls of the house on his way to the canister of the damned. Billy Bob met my gaze with a sly smile as he pointed at the second bee. You have stayed too long at the fair, my friend. The wand again danced through the air. At first unsteady, the bee easily danced away. But Billy Bob tightened his grip on the wand and CLICK. Two down, one to go. Failing to heed the warning cries of his late friends before their demise, bee #3 hovered nearby. He was an easy target for Billy Bob, who now skillfully wielded the wand like the sword Excalibur. Victory.
Hours later, from upstairs, I could hear the familiar zip of the vacuum hose being dragged from its lair. I came downstairs to find my husband contentedly reading the paper on the screened porch. At his feet lay the sword Excalibur. Billy Bob had battled another bee. And won.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Why do I have a blog?
I have been subjecting friends and family to my creative compositions for many years now. Why? Because I can. I insert my sarcastic sentiments into emails, my didactic diatribes into letters, my eclectic exaggerations into Christmas cards and my flippant philosophies into regular conversation. I can't help myself. There is something in my brain between thought and expression that twists the words into something more (or less) than merely declarative.
Occasionally, when I have nothing in particular to say or am too lazy to put it to paper, I am compelled to put new words to old songs. Christmas carols. Broadway tunes. The occasional standard. These things often come to me unbidden when I hear a tune at some performance, but most often they are something to put in my Christmas cards when life has been mundane and I have nothing interesting to say. This doesn't happen often, because my life is incredibly exciting (you will learn to recognize these moments of sarcasm,) but it does happen.
I could never write professionally. I can't take the pressure. I can't just sit down and be creative on demand. The Christmas card deadline alone often drives me to drink (OK, drink MORE, are you happy?) Plus, my propensity for procrastination sabotages some of my best efforts. I may get a great idea in April, and even type an outline and some random thoughts as a guideline, but in December, I return to it and draw a complete blank. If only I had looked at it in the intervening seven-month period, I might have had something I could polish up and use. But that would take some holiday pressure off of me, and what fun would that be? I once started a birthday song for my niece for her 21st birthday. I set words to the fight song of the university she attended. She's 23 now. That ship has sailed.
In a way, this blog will actually spare a lot of my victims. Instead of writing a long newsletter about my travels or experiences, bragging about my amazing offspring, ragging on my husband when everyone knows he is a saint to put up with me, or spewing forth on some political or philosophical topic, I can just refer anyone who cares to my blog. Of course, all former victims have always had the choice NOT to read what I've sent them. But let's be realistic. I have never refused to read anyone else's letter that has come to me, even when I knew in advance it was going to annoy the crap out of me. It's like driving by the scene of an accident. You just have to look. So I go ahead and read it and then bitch about it. The circle of life.
My daughter has a blog. It's part of her study-abroad assignment, but it also allows us to keep up with her and feel connected while she is halfway around the world. My friend (and neighbor next door) has a blog, and is working toward becoming a published author. I am a copycat. My daughter wore braces, by neighbor got braces, so I had to get braces. My daughter went to Italy, my neighbor went to Italy, so I had to go to Italy. My daughter blogs, my neighbor blogs, so I have to blog. My daughter runs half-marathons, my neighbor practices extraordinary self-discipline in the presence of food, so I have to blog. OK, so my copycatting has limits.
In the future, I will write about my trip to Italy, post pictures for my fellow travelers, float some new ideas and possibly dig up some old stuff to share. Who knows? But I've made a start, and I'm feeling pretty good about it!
Occasionally, when I have nothing in particular to say or am too lazy to put it to paper, I am compelled to put new words to old songs. Christmas carols. Broadway tunes. The occasional standard. These things often come to me unbidden when I hear a tune at some performance, but most often they are something to put in my Christmas cards when life has been mundane and I have nothing interesting to say. This doesn't happen often, because my life is incredibly exciting (you will learn to recognize these moments of sarcasm,) but it does happen.
I could never write professionally. I can't take the pressure. I can't just sit down and be creative on demand. The Christmas card deadline alone often drives me to drink (OK, drink MORE, are you happy?) Plus, my propensity for procrastination sabotages some of my best efforts. I may get a great idea in April, and even type an outline and some random thoughts as a guideline, but in December, I return to it and draw a complete blank. If only I had looked at it in the intervening seven-month period, I might have had something I could polish up and use. But that would take some holiday pressure off of me, and what fun would that be? I once started a birthday song for my niece for her 21st birthday. I set words to the fight song of the university she attended. She's 23 now. That ship has sailed.
In a way, this blog will actually spare a lot of my victims. Instead of writing a long newsletter about my travels or experiences, bragging about my amazing offspring, ragging on my husband when everyone knows he is a saint to put up with me, or spewing forth on some political or philosophical topic, I can just refer anyone who cares to my blog. Of course, all former victims have always had the choice NOT to read what I've sent them. But let's be realistic. I have never refused to read anyone else's letter that has come to me, even when I knew in advance it was going to annoy the crap out of me. It's like driving by the scene of an accident. You just have to look. So I go ahead and read it and then bitch about it. The circle of life.
My daughter has a blog. It's part of her study-abroad assignment, but it also allows us to keep up with her and feel connected while she is halfway around the world. My friend (and neighbor next door) has a blog, and is working toward becoming a published author. I am a copycat. My daughter wore braces, by neighbor got braces, so I had to get braces. My daughter went to Italy, my neighbor went to Italy, so I had to go to Italy. My daughter blogs, my neighbor blogs, so I have to blog. My daughter runs half-marathons, my neighbor practices extraordinary self-discipline in the presence of food, so I have to blog. OK, so my copycatting has limits.
In the future, I will write about my trip to Italy, post pictures for my fellow travelers, float some new ideas and possibly dig up some old stuff to share. Who knows? But I've made a start, and I'm feeling pretty good about it!
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