My WalkFit Nightmare!

   If you are sitting on the couch late at night clicking through channels, thinking about how much your feet hurt from being on them all day, have a credit card handy, and stumble onto an infomercial for WalkFit Platinum Orthotics, CHANGE THE CHANNEL PRONTO before you get sucked into an automated-ordering-system nightmare like I did!!
   It went like this. I wore brand new blingy, bejeweled sandals to work with my Halloween costume, which caused my feet to hurt like the dickens by the end of the day. So my tootsies are propped on the coffee table, lubed up with Mentholatum Rub in comfy socks in order to find some relief, and I click on a program called "Oh, my aching feet" or something like that. Right there on the screen, straight from the Mall of America with a crowd of enthusiastic fans, is a real doctor telling me I can have immediate relief from foot pain -- as well as ankle, knee, hip and back pain! -- if I would only order a pair of WalkFit Platinum Orthotics. Plus, if I order in the next 20 minutes, I will get a bottle of soothing peppermint foot lotion, a sandal adaptor kit, and a plush pair of Memory Foam slippers for FREE! My feet screamed out, "Get your phone and credit card," so I did.
   Big freakin' mistake!! What ensued was 30 minutes worth of aggravation stuck in the neverending-robo-ordering-loop-from-hell! At first, the recorded lady, I'll call her Robo-bitch, was pleasant and accommodating. She asked me to say "yes" or press 1 to confirm everything I entered into the phone or wanted. How kind of her. Then when she asked for my shoe size for the WalkFit orthotic, I said, "eight-and-a-half," but she repeated "eight." Um, no, I didn't say "eight." She didn't ask for confirmation or wait for me, though, she just barreled into her next spiel about all my "free" gifts if only I will pay for additional shipping and handling. When she got to the part about my free slippers, I was so pissed off that I didn't hear what shoe sizes corresponded to their small, medium or large options. I asked her to repeat, she wouldn't. I asked her again to repeat the sizes, she ignored me and there went my slippers straight into the cyber-suck zone! At first, I am pleasant and calmly say, "Customer service, please." Robo-bitch won't stop talking. I start pressing zero, the universal code for "customer service, please," but she only speeds up her non-stop tirade of additional "free" offers of Glucosamine (a 30-day supply, then only $19.95/month automatically billed to my credit card after that), $50 Visa-shopping card (if only I'll try their store-coupon program "that will save me tons of money on valuable items for only a $29.95/month automatically billed charge"), and I don't know what all else she was offering me because by that time I was screaming "DECLINE" into the phone and pushing any button that my spastically twitching fingers could find. The more I screamed and hit the buttons, the faster Robo-bitch talked. When she finally said, "Your order will ship in 7 to 10 days, thank you for choosing WalkFit," I was hoarse and shaking so from frustration that I had to slam some wine with my allergy pills to get to sleep. Thank God, the nightmare was finally over!
   But wait, the nightmare was far from over. Yesterday I got to spend 20 WalkFit-fun-filled minutes trying to cancel my order with Sam, the customer service lady, and Joey, her supervisor. They were actual people but no less aggravating than Robo-bitch because they barely spoke English except to say, "We regret that your order cannot be canceled because the automated transaction has already been processed." They repeated this over and over until I finally gave up. At least they did assure me that my WalkFit Platinum Orthotic in size eight will fit my size eight-and-a-half feet and they added on the free slippers in a small -- for only $7.95 additional shipping and handling. Of course. So I'm getting a pair of orthotics. And, I get to endure the phenomenally frustrating WalkFit customer service system again on Monday when I have to call back in order to get the $7.95 refunded on my credit card as compensation for my "unfortunate experience."
   I just hope wearing the orthotic hurts less than ordering it did!
          

Free at last . . .

. .. .. free at last, thank God Almighty, I be free at last!! Sister S was released from the hospital last night, and my niece went home. Finally, after 12 days! Of course, it took nearly four hours to get her discharged and loaded up in my car (thank God Almighty as well for the buff cutie Nurse Aide Brandon who somehow finagled my sister cross-ways in the back seat of my dinky Cavalier!); get her out of my car and into her house using a walker because she can't put any weight on her metal-plate-fortified broken leg; remove her toilet seat and install a commode chair (I never thought I'd need to know how to do that!); and load up and deliver all of my niece's clothes, accessories, and left-over groceries to her home, plus the assorted errands my sister needed done. When I got home to MY quiet house, sans teenager, I was too exhausted to do more than scarf down a Sonic burger (I felt I should have some sort of splurgey treat to celebrate!) with a petite glass of wine and fall into bed.
   The ordeal isn't over. Since Sister S is without a car and probably couldn't drive anyway with her leg held straight-as-a-board in a heavy brace, I will be called upon to tote her to multiple follow-up doctor appointments, get groceries, and run miscellaneous errands. I'm okay with that. At least my life feels like my own now when I come home, and that's the way I like it.
   With all that's happened, I have a greater appreciation for caregivers in general and mothers in particular. How they can manage having no life of their own and no privacy, being run ragged with endless grocery-buying and errand-doing and back-and-forthing to school and activities, plus keeping up with laundry and cooking and cleaning -- and not go bat crap crazy -- I do not know. But I applaud you, Mothers Everywhere! You are severely overworked and under-appreciated!! I also have a renewed gratitude for the services of Planned Parenthood and plan to stay on birth control pills until my Social Security kicks in just to be safe!
   Thanks for the prayers and well-wishes, Readers! 
      

. . . and it continues!

   We survived week one and are into week two of "surrogate mama" Roni. This "sh*t happens" situation hasn't been easy for any of us, but we're making it work. 
   My niece and I have fallen into a routine: I get up at 5 a.m. (UGH!) to get ready for work; at 6 I wake her up, wake her up, wake her up until she finally rolls out of bed, gets dressed, and slurps down some cereal while watching TV; then I get her to school by 7:30 so I can get myself to work by 8. She walks to her house after school and I pick her up there after I finish work at 4 p.m., she gathers clothes for the next day, then I drop her off at the hospital for a visit with her mom until 6:30. The rest of the evening we do our own thing -- she watches "The Voice" or some other teenager-type program in the sitting room and munches "her food" (how she can exist on baloney, cottage cheese, pickles, and Reese's Puffs cereal, I do not know!) while I sip wine (for purely medicinal purposes, it's much cheaper than Prozac!) in the living room and veg out on "Big Bang Theory" or read. DMan has been a gem through all of this, cooking us hot dogs and home fries one night when he was off work so we could eat as a "family," even picking up my niece one day after school when I had a doctor's appointment.
   My family has also stepped up to help out. This weekend my sister K kept my niece so DMan and I could take a road trip to some wineries that we had planned a long time ago. Man, did we need a break! And I'm sure my niece enjoyed the break from me. Sister K has three boys, so she knows a lot more about kids than I do. They made jewelry together, watched scary movies and had pizza night, so my niece really enjoyed her weekend too. Even though my parents and Sister S (with the broken leg) still aren't speaking, they have provided a walker and commode chair for when Sister S can go home.
   Speaking of going home, we had a major scare last week. Mercy Hospital was going to send her home with NO corrective surgery and that evil looking rod-and-screw contraption on her leg. Their thinking was the swelling needed to go down before the trauma team could operate. What a nightmare that would have been, her trying to take care of herself and my niece when she couldn't even move around. Mercy eventually came to their senses and kept her in the hospital (I'm guessing they feared the liability of sending someone home with no insurance or job or means to get follow-up care, but regardless, I'm thankful they didn't make a bad situation even worse), but days went by and nothing happened. Then she was supposed to have surgery last Friday, but the trauma team had emergencies come in overnight and she got bumped. Finally, she had the corrective surgery yesterday, which entailed putting a plate on her tibia and repairing the knee cap as best as they could. Now her leg is bandage-wrapped and in a brace that's even heavier than the rod contraption, complete with drainage tube and measuring container (EEW!). Someone from the trauma team is "supposed" to come by tomorrow (so far nothing the trauma team said they would do has happened when they said it would) to take off the bandages and check her progress. Then we'll know more about when Sister S can go home, my niece can get back to her normal teenage life, and I can get back to my hopefully-less-crazy one.

Sh*t Happens!

   Believe me, sh*t happens. Just when you are coasting along, thinking life is going pretty good -- K E R B A M -- everything changes in a nanosecond and you might not even recognize your own life on the other side.
   I started a new job last week, which was stressful even though I love it. Then my low back locked up on me on my first day, which got progressively worse as the week wore on. I finally broke down and got a chiropractic adjustment on Friday, which gave some relief, so I was really looking forward to a relaxing, be-good-to-myself weekend, the first weekend I didn't have to work in forever. The plan was to help out at Aids Walk Saturday morning -- I love volunteering at Aids Walk, such a fun crowd and everyone brings their dogs in costumes! -- then come home to a quiet house and nap as long as my heart desired since my sweetie DMan was golfing. My intention for the rest of the weekend was to read, chillax as much as possible, sip some wine, maybe have some romantic time with DMan, and do nothing more stressful than take my bestie to the airport on Sunday morning. Perfect! Until BAM, my phone rings on the way to Aids Walk and I find out my sister (I'll call her Sister S) fell and broke her leg/knee during the night and has to have emergency surgery. AND, that my 13-year old niece has been alone with Sister S (her mom) all night at the hospital. This is bad. This is very bad.
   Let me give you a bit of background here. Sister S is a single mom and has recently lost her job and her car. Besides having my niece, whose father is nowhere to be found and who has multiple other kids in multiple other states that he also provides no support for, my sister has an 18-year old hooligan son that has been in trouble with the law and stays with her when he needs a place to crash but the rest of the time runs with a bad (and scary!) crowd. Plus, my family is a mess. If you've seen the cartoon that says, "My family puts the 'fun' in dysfunctional," well, MY family sucks the fun right out of dysfunctional! And there's been very recent ugliness between our parents and Sister S, so much so that they aren't even talking. See what I mean? This is very bad.
   So my wonderful weekend turned into back and forths to the hospital (which I loathe hospitals!) and Sister S's house to pick up necessities, hanging with my niece and trying to convince her that her mother falling was not her fault, and trying to prepare my un-kid-friendly world to have a teenager living in it. I've never had kids, never wanted them. I don't "do" kids, and now I've got one living in my guest room. There was nowhere else for her to go. She's a sweetie, don't get me wrong, and I am enjoying spending time with her which we rarely get to do, but it just feels weird having someone besides DMan and me living here. Even though I've been exhausted the past two nights, after I go to bed I lie there listening for every odd noise and wonder what the hell she is up to since she's a teenage night owl and not an old fart like me that likes to get 8-hours-plus of sleep. And even though she is family, I feel stressed at having to take care of someone besides myself, especially since I have no clue how to do it.
   But, so far, we're making it work. I've now got the fridge stocked with some food that my picky-eater niece will eat, that's a start. She is digging all the channels we get on U-verse, so she's not bored out of her mind. I got her up and delivered to school on time this morning with no crisis or drama. Plus DMan has been extra thoughtful and wonderful about the whole thing, and he and my niece are getting to know each other. And, my new job schedule will allow me to take her and pick her up from school -- something that would have been impossible with my old library job -- for as long as this "sh*t happens" situation lasts. So far Sister S has had one surgery, leaving pins and rods poking out of her leg to stabilize the three breaks in the tibia and the break in her knee cap. The trauma team is coming today to schedule the corrective surgery, then we'll know more about how long we'll be a threesome and my life will be crrr-azy.
   The moral of this story is: Pay attention and truly savor those life-is-good coasting moments because SH*T WILL HAPPEN when you least expect it.            

My First

   I'm sitting at the computer contemplating yet again deleting my Facebook account, sick to death of seeing nothing but Pinterest quotes and "yummy" recipes and "suggested pages" trying to sell me something, when a Facebook miracle occurred: I received a friend request from my very first love. At first the name didn't click in my brain and I nearly deleted it, thinking it was one of those phishing requests where next comes a weirdly worded message like "I respectably asking to communicate friendship with me." You know the ones. Then I looked at the name again. My breathing stopped. Could it really be him after all these years? I clicked on the request and saw his picture. No doubt, it was him! Older, more gray hair than black now, but in his face I could definitely see glimpses of the sexiest guy in my world when I was 14. If there had been a "HELL YES!" button I would have clicked on it, but "confirm friend request" would have to do.
   Let me set the scene for you. 1976. My family had moved to Maryland, where my Army dad got transferred. We lived in Aberdeen in civilian housing for three months, then moved into post housing on Aberdeen Proving Grounds. I didn't know anyone there, and the three girls my age that lived nearby were a tight clique, not welcoming to an outsider. Then by some stroke of luck, the group had a falling out and the coolest one of all, Sherri, became my friend. Eventually my best friend -- we were inseparable! She had two younger sisters the same ages as two of my sisters, so we all hung around together. AND, she had an older brother, Brian, that I fell madly in love with. He was the dreamiest -- six feet tall; muscular and lean; long, dark hair that fell over his eyes and gave him a sultry, bad boy look; a thin black mustache that grazed his luscious top lip; smoldering dark eyes, almost black, that were too intense to stare at for long -- like my very own David Cassidy in the flesh.
   Whether he knew it or not, Brian was involved in several of my firsts. On the occasion of my first drunk, when our friend Patty's parents were out of town and a bunch of us raided their liquor cabinet, he was my first drunk dial. While my intention was to use my buzzed bravado to call him up, explain my feelings, and ask how he felt about me, it came out: "I love you, I love you, I love" probably a hundred times, then I hung up and cried because I felt so stupid. I never mentioned the call to Brian, so maybe (hopefully!) he never knew it was me, but recalling that humiliation has probably saved me from many more drunk dials over the years.
   He took me to my first boy-girl dance. I was in ninth grade, he was in tenth, but God, he seemed so much like a man! My aunt Peg loaned me a long red dress -- one she had made herself and I'm sure looked great on her petite frame but was high-water on me -- to wear with my black platform shoes. I probably looked hideous, but Brian made me feel beautiful, pinning a corsage on me, holding my hand. The only thing I really remember about our date is we slow danced to Hall and Oates' "Sara Smile," and I wrapped my arms around his narrow waist and pressed my face tight against his chest like I'd seen in the movies, not even caring that my corsage was getting crushed. He smelled so damn good, and his big hands touching my back made me hot in a way that had nothing to do with dancing. I never wanted that dance to end! Even now, just hearing the opening notes of the song sends my body swaying and reliving that dance all over again. When it did end, he kissed me. Soft, slow, with those melty hot lips and the barest tickle from his mustache. My first kiss from my first love -- does it ever get any better than that?! Nope, not the way I remember it anyway.  
   I was crazy for that guy! I even got grounded to my bedroom for a whole week for having a pack of Brian's Marlboro Reds jutting out of the back pocket of my shorts so he wouldn't get caught with them. When Mom spotted them, I told her they weren't mine (no, I didn't tell her that my Kools were hidden in my panty drawer!), but I wouldn't rat him out when she wanted to know whose they were, so I did the punishment. That meant I couldn't see Sherri or Brian for a week -- which in the middle of summer feels like eternity to a 14-year old! -- but I was proud I took one for my man.
   Did he ever love me, or even think of me as anything other than an annoying tag-along friend of his sister? I don't know. We moved away in early 1977, and even though Sherri and I wrote letters for a while, we eventually lost touch. I kind of hope so, but it really doesn't matter. He was MY first love, still is, regardless of whether he loved me back. I've got tons of wonderful memories of him and Sherri and one of the best years of my life spent at APG. I've got a new Facebook friend and now a way to reconnect with my old best friend Sherri. And I'll always have "Sara Smile." In fact, I can hear it in my head right now and I'm smiling!          
    

This Can't Be My Life

   I made a comment in my 8/14 "Walmart" blog about ruminating all night at work on "this can't be my life," and a commenter suggested I should write about that subject. As this was my first -- and only! -- actual blog content request, here goes.
   Do you ever have moments when you are jolted by the thought "Whose life is this I'm living? It sure doesn't feel like mine!" Seems like I've been jolted by this same thought nearly every day of my adult life. Why? I know I've been making the choices that have shaped this life, but it feels like some evil demon has possessed the outcomes because nothing turned out like I expected. There, that's the damn demon -- my expectations. I expected:

• that there was something special about me. Since I was a kid, I felt I had some special purpose, a calling all my own, that would someday magically appear and make me feel worthwhile and fulfilled. Nope. Hasn't happened. I've done a lot of jobs and tried a lot of things, but the closest I've come to feeling worthwhile and fulfilled is when I am writing, when I get in the "flow" of thoughts and words so deeply that I forget to pee until I am in pain. The flowing exhilaration is short-lived though. Once I'm done and what I've written is "out there," nothing happens. Or not much, anyway. I've published two books and given away more than I sold. I write three blogs, supposedly the platform that brings instant connection to your readers and solidifies your status as an author, and I rarely get a comment or a "like" on Facebook. Basically, what my business card says is true: I write so my head won't explode from word overload. I have to write whenever I can or I'll go crazy (crazier). And I write because nothing else I do makes me feel as good, despite the disappointments. But my writing, my special purpose if I have one, isn't bringing me fame or fortune or even fulfillment, so it doesn't feel like anything special to me.
• that I would be successful. I was brainwashed with the American Dream adage, that if I just worked hard enough I could be anything I wanted to be, and my parents hammered that home anytime I would slack off. What bullshit! I've worked hard all my life and where has it gotten me? I'm 51, working a part-time job that by the end of the day makes every joint in my body hurt like a toothache and that if I didn't show up, someone else could take over and no one would even know I was gone. I have no health insurance, not much in savings. I have no idea how I could support myself if my health fails, no light at the end of the work tunnel that I might someday be able to retire and relax. I was even voted "Most Likely To Succeed" in high school. Too bad they didn't give me a clue at what to "succeed." I've given my best at everything I've ever done -- job-wise and otherwise -- but it sure doesn't feel like I've been successful.
• that I would be happy. Even after realizing I'm nothing special and not successful, somehow hope prevailed that I would hit on the right combination of relationships, job(s), spiritual practices, and life bling (not jewelry, I'm talking hobbies, or travel, or whatever makes your life sparkle), and for once everything would click in my world. Then I would be happy, content with my lot in life. That hasn't happened either. Most days I have to think up a reason to keep on breathing. Don't get me wrong, I have snippets of happiness, but not nearly enough to give me contentment. I know it's possible. My grandparents had very simple lives, my grandpa working the same job most all his life while my grandma kept the house, but they were happy, content with what their lives were and weren't. I wish I knew their secret.

   These are the reasons why I feel like this can't be my life. Nothing has turned out the way I expected. It pisses me off, but then fool that I am, it also fuels me to keep trying and dreaming. So twice a week, I buy a MegaMillions ticket with my special numbers. Somebody has to win, I tell myself, and maybe one of these days my numbers will come up and I will be the next successful lottery millionaire. Then I will live at the beach as often as I want, I'll travel and have whopper-size adventures, and I'll write until my heart is content, whether I make any money or anyone reads it. AND I WILL BE HAPPY, or spend a million bucks trying. I figure, if I'm gonna be a fool and keep dreaming, I might as well dream huge!      

How old do I look?!

   Sometimes life be crazy, but sometimes life just be MEAN!

   I stopped in at my bestie's new office this afternoon to surprise her, and I got the surprise. When I asked if she was there, they said she had worked a short day and was already gone. Then one of the gals at the counter asked, "Are you her mom?"
  "What the frankin' frank?! Do I look old enough to be her mother?!" ran through my head immediately -- thank God it didn't come blurting out of my mouth as well -- and I covered my shock (at least I hope so) with a laugh and a "No, I'm her bestie." Then I got the hell out of there. I even called Bestie and made a joke of it. But it so wasn't funny. 
   I felt like I'd taken a bullet to the gut. I sat in the car for a while and fought back tears. All I could think of was: how old do I really look to people? I wanted to crawl under a rock until I died and became worm food.
   In all fairness, my bestie is still in her thirties but appears much younger. And her mama is a lovely, very youthful looking woman. I shouldn't take offense at the comment, but dammit, I do. I mean, I moisturize religiously. I stay hydrated. I keep my roots freshened up. I put on eye shadow to give my eyes some sparkle and wear gloss to keep my lips plump and lush. I wear bling and funky clothes. I don't even own a pair of stretch pants or squishy-soled granny shoes. But I guess it doesn't matter. The jig, that I am old, is up.
   I am baffled by how to continue from here. Should I give up completely, quit working out and trying to eat healthy, save cash and stop coloring my hair, forget the funky outfits and go for comfy clothes all the way, and let mother nature have her way with me since people see me as old anyway? Should I take down the "SEXY" pendant from my rearview mirror and hang a "SAGGY" instead? Or is this a fight I should keep on fighting, doing whatever it takes to make me feel good about myself despite how other folks see me?
   This aging business is HARD and UGLY and MEAN! And I'm barely over the 50 mark. How much worse it's going to get, I don't want to know.
   If anyone is reading, I would love to hear your thoughts on this. And if you've had a similar situation, how did it make you feel? What did you do with those feelings?
   Even in my bafflement with this slap in the face (figurative, but it felt quite literal), I can tell you one thing: I won't be making any more surprise visits to Bestie's office! And if I do see that mom-comment co-worker of hers again, I may just get all sassy old-gal on her and tell her to "Kiss my saggy ass! I'm the bestie, not the mama!"     

Walmart

   Last night after a grueling shift at the library, I found myself sitting in the Walmart parking lot waiting for my sister and niece to buy back-to-school supplies (and groceries, which weren't mentioned when I was asked to take them, but nonetheless there were bags and bags of groceries as well). Why they waited until the night before school started to get supplies, I won't go into here (that's a family drama that would take up a whole other blog!), but I waited A LONG TIME while they were getting them. Instead of ruminating on my black funk thoughts of "this can't be my life" -- which I'd already done all night at work -- or focusing on the ever increasing rumble of my empty belly, I watched people. Um, people-watching at Walmart at ten o'clock at night. What might I see?
   I was expecting to see some of those "people of Walmart" from the internet pictures. You know the ones, the butt-crack people and the bad cross-dressers and the show-off-your-hooters ladies. Nope, didn't see anything like that. Maybe I was at the wrong Walmart. What I did see was a lady pushing three carts hooked together like a train using the child-protection seat belts. Each cart was loaded down with bags, yet she was pushing them like it weighed no more than a stroller. I could tell she's done this train thing A LOT. Whether her load was all groceries or a little something something from every department, I couldn't tell, but she must've spent a fortune to rack up that many bags.
   I watched a cart-pusher tote load after load of carts from the parking lot. That dude was amazing in how smoothly he maneuvered those carts! I always seem to get the one with the cock-eyed wheel that goes the opposite of the others and makes me run into things. People kept bringing him stray carts, which at first I thought was a nice gesture. Then it made me mad. People, I wanted to say, this man is hunkered down and dragging those carts with a strap across his shoulder like a donkey pulling a plow. Get off your lazy ass and push that stray cart into the store, since you're headed in there anyway, and give that man a break. But I didn't. I just sat there and watched, shaking my head.
   I don't know what was going on in that Walmart, but people were coming out laughing and carrying on like it was a party. Walmart is no party to me. I dread shopping there like the plague. I wander around and can't find the one thing I'm looking for, then I end up buying other crap I can't afford because of all the wandering. In fact, I've taken to shopping at the Walmart Neighborhood Markets if at all possible. I can get in and get out in a flash, especially if I use the self check-out, with no cashier chit chat or temptation to overspend. 
   Since I had SO MUCH TIME to kill, I also noticed the Walmart sign on the store, probably for the first time in years. What the hell happened to the hyphen? And when? Didn't it used to be Wal-Mart?? And what is up with that yellow sun-looking logo? I worked there for six months, cashiering and later in customer service (yes, the dreaded returns desk!), and I wanted to die every day. There was absolutely nothing sunny about Walmart. The one decent thing about working there was when my TV died and I got a 10% employee discount on buying a new one. Of course, they still got $400 of my hard-earned dollars in the deal. Even the discount wasn't enough "sunshine" to make me want to continue to work there. And what happened to their "Always low prices. Always" slogan? Did they give that up because they are so ginormous now that they figure people are going to shop there no matter what their prices are? Unfortunately, they are probably right.
   Finally, after a milk spillage in the cart which necessitated finding a new round of school supplies to replace the sopping ones, my sister and niece finished their shopping and I was able to go home, eat a sandwich, and fall into bed exhausted. I do not plan on seeing a Walmart again for some time. Except, damn, I used up all the bread for my sandwich. No way am I going back -- I'll go to Food 4 Less instead. They still have a slogan: "Our name says it. Our prices prove it."

NO THANKS, I'LL PASS

No thanks, I'll pass on passing out, that is. Have you heard about these folks that pass out on purpose? Auto-asphyxiation it's called, or erotic-asphyxiation if done during sex. From what I've read, the pass-out junkies put something over their faces or clamp off their windpipes until the sudden loss of oxygen creates an endorphin-release high and sense of giddiness. In the erotic version, the black-out process reportedly increases sexual pleasure and amps up the orgasm. Now I've passed out three times in my life – not during sex, though, I try to stay awake for that! – and all I ever got was perspiration, puke, and pee. And embarrassed. Maybe I wasn't doing it right. You be the judge.

Pass Out #1

   A hot September, definitely Indian summer, found me living back home in Missouri with my parents after leaving my first husband. In need of a job and place to live in a hurry – I love Mama and Daddy, I do, but not to live with! – I decided a spiffy new hairdo would boost my confidence and be a first step into my new solo life. I tracked down an old friend from high school who had become a super stylist, and she gave me the glam treatment: cut, mousse job, blow dry, curling ironing, and a final shellacking with hairspray that could withstand a wind tunnel. I looked fabulous!

   Before meeting Mama at her work at Montgomery Ward and then having lunch together at Orange Julius, I took my new “do” out to run errands, check out apartments, and give blood. That last item might seem like an odd thing to do, but since I had moved away I hadn't donated blood once and felt guilty. Word of caution: Be careful what you feel guilty about because it may rear up and bite you in the ass.

   Even though I was running around like a chicken with its head cut off, I got everything done and made it to the store even before Mama's lunch break. She parked me in an empty back office to wait for her. No problem, I can amuse myself and rest a bit. I plopped on a 1950s metal desk, dangled my legs, and hummed a Skynyrd tune so as not to hear my stomach growling. I had declined the offer of a post-donation snack to save my calories for lunch. The Red Cross had some fine snacks, too – Little Debbie Nutty Bars and Oatmeal Creme Pies, Goldfish crackers, orange drink that tastes just like Tang – what a dummy I was to skip all that.

   I grabbed a Ward's sales circular and began thumbing through to get my mind off food. Not a good distraction, though, too much reminder of the clearance-rack clothes Mama always bought that made me feel even more uncool than I already was in high school. I decided to head on down to Orange Julius and wait for her there.

   I jumped off the desk to go tell Mama my plan and WHOA NELLIE! The room started to spin and take me with it. My gut bottomed out, leaving me feeling hollow as a gourd inside. Intense heat radiated from my empty belly through my entire body. Sweat beads popped out like a dam burst, especially on my freshly-coiffed scalp. The store sounds turned muffled as if I had dove underwater. The last thing I heard was a dull thud as my forehead slammed into an Army-surplus steel filing cabinet, which was just my height. Wasn't that nice for it to “catch” me like that and save me from falling face down onto the concrete floor?

   Faces I didn't know were staring down at me when my eyes opened. A lady was fanning me with a summer catalog, another wiped my face with a damp paper towel. I wasn't sure where I was, but I was sure every piece of my clothing was stuck to whatever I was lying on like I had just showered fully dressed. The faces' mouths were moving, but my ears still weren't working right. I tried to unstick myself and get up when black splotches floated before my eyes and even more sweat poured out of me, a river of it ran down my scalp and pooled under my neck. I stayed put.

   After more fanning and dabbing and a couple sips of ice water brought to my lips by a grandmotherly gal, my ears cleared and the splotches stopped floating. 

   “Are you alright?” I heard from the water lady. “My goodness, we heard a racket of banging and crashing in the receiving office and found you keeled over flat on the floor. You must've hit your head hard, look at that welt coming up on your forehead. What in the world were you doing in there? And who in the world are you?”

   Making no sense of all those words, I croaked out Mama's name and somebody went to fetch her from major appliances. Without needing a mirror, seeing Mama's face told me “whatever happened was bad and I looked even worse.”

   Her face wasn't kidding. When I was finally able to extricate myself from the sweaty vinyl sofa in the ladies lounge, bathroom mirrors were everywhere. My fancy hairdo was plastered to my head in the back and on one side, shellacked now with hairspray and sweat, while the other side was still poofy and styled. I looked like both the “before” and “after” pictures in a makeover magazine. The filing cabinet impression on my forehead was plumping like a hot dog under the skin, quickly morphing from blood red to bruised plum. My eye makeup, which I took extra time with that morning to accent the new hairstyle, had run halfway down my face in a waterfall of sweat. And my clothes? They hung on me as if I'd put them on straight from the washing machine.

   Turns out you shouldn't run around all morning on a hot day and empty stomach, give blood, and then get up too fast. Not unless you want to pass out cold, ruin your “do,” and resemble a drowned rat. Not unless you like being carried to the ladies lounge by two burly warehouse dudes you don't even know, driven home by your daddy because you can't see straight, then fill your belly and crash for five hours before you feel like yourself again. Take my word for it.

Pass Out #2

   Trying to pack too many to-dos into too little time makes me crazy, but it's just my way. This day was no exception.

   I was scheduled to do a one-to-five shift at my receptionist gig at a day spa, then I would see two massage therapy clients of my own there afterward. That would shoot the afternoon and evening, but I could still cram more into my morning. After the household chores I deemed “necessary” – most likely laundry or grocery buying, I don't remember – I got in an hour of aerobics with a workout DVD and worked up a hellacious sweat. And appetite.

   Besides all that it was time to give blood again, and today was the day. The Community Blood Center's promo to kick off the summer donation drive was on its last day, and I wanted a free t-shirt. Bad. The caption read, “'Iguana' give blood. I did, I did give blood!,” surrounding dancing iguanas in fiesta-colored sombreros and serapes. Just my kind of funky casual wear. So, after a quick shower, I hauled ass to the CBC to donate. My heart must've been pumping like an oil derrick at warp speed, because I was done in record time. Having learned my lesson from the Monkey Ward's incident, I even sipped Tang and nibbled a few Goldfish crackers before leaving.

   Perfect. I still had time to grab a mini-bun tuna sandwich and Cheddar Sun Chips at Subway on the way to work. Perfect day as well, cloudless blue sky and low humidity, to have my lunch picnic-style on the stoop outside the spa's back door and soak up some sun.

   The tuna and chips were delish, at least what I tasted while scarfing them down and watching my watch. Still had time for a quick cigarette before work. Nothing like a smoke to settle my stomach after a meal, which was a bit jumpy from all the running around.

   If you're not a smoker, you wouldn't have experienced that having a cigarette after a couple of drinks (of the alcoholic variety) seems to intensify the buzz. It's true, light up and all of a sudden you feel more drunkety drunk. So I'm not sure if it was the effect of having a smoke, smoking too fast, eating too fast, or all of the above plus pumping out my blood sprint-style, but when I stood up to go into work it was WHOA NELLIE time again. Here came the popping sweat, racing heart, hollow gut, and underwater ears. This time I knew exactly what was happening. It didn't help. I plopped down on my butt hard on the stoop, and that's all I remember.

   Some time later, I do remember thinking I was dead. I heard soft, heavenly music when my ears woke up. Everything was dark except for a faint glow around me. I was lying on something cushy, cocooned by a blanket. This is my funeral, I am in a coffin popped into my head, even though I had expressly asked to be cremated. Then someone touched me on the shoulder. I sat up with a jolt and the room spins. I wasn't dead but wished I was. Especially after Sheila, the spa owner who had come to check on me, filled in the disgusting details I had been thankfully blacked out through.

   According to her, when I plopped down I must have keeled over sideways, my face coming to rest ever so UN-gently on the cement. Despite the crimson bull's-eye on my cheek, this was really quite fortunate as I then upchucked my picnic all over the stoop. Had I passed out on my back, I might have drowned, or if I had slumped forward, I certainly would have soiled my outfit. So it could have been worse.

   When I wasn't at my desk at one o'clock, Sheila came looking for me in my usual smoking spot and found me when the back door hit my inert body. She and another massage therapist helped me to a therapy room – she claimed I was walking but that was news to me – put me on the massage table, lit some candles, covered me up because I was drenched in sweat, and let me sleep it off.

   I'm proud to say I did manage to finish the last two hours of my shift after my doze, even with hair that looked like a cow had lick-styled it and smelling of eau de sweat. Luckily, there is dim lighting for ambiance in the reception area so maybe none of the clients noticed my “hair-don't,” and I kept a candle burning on my desk to squelch my stench. I'm embarrassed to say I didn't have enough mojo to massage my clients and I bailed on them. And I'm ashamed to say I did not thank the person who policed up my puke. I didn't even ask who did it; I just couldn't. But the next time I had a stoop smoke the evidence was gone, leaving only a whiff of tainted tuna in the sweltering summer air to remind me of the picnic-upchuck pass-out.

Pass Out #3

   My blood-giving days are over. No, I wasn't banned for being an idiot and passing out twice, although I probably should have been since my post-donation dramas, while amusing (now), don't bode well for enticing new donors. Now I would still love to be able to offer my blood, but I am considered a “permanent deferral” due to a diagnosis I was given when a doctor was trying to rule out my having tuberculosis. Damn doctors don't know how to mind their own business. I don't have TB, never did have. I don't consider myself to have the diagnosed ailment either. But still I was honest in my disclosure, therefore the ban stands. So now I donate plasma. And get paid for it. I guess honesty does pay off in the long run.

   I've got this plasma-donation routine down too. My appointments are scheduled for my days off or after work, that way I'm not overtaxing my body. I take a quickie nap afterward, leaving me feeling refreshed and not drained the rest of the day. Plus, I amp up my hydration and protein on plasma days, two key components of a successful donation. Over a decade had passed since my last pass-out, and I'd never had an issue with donating plasma until . . . I monkeyed with the routine.

   Why I did things differently, I don't recall. Probably a case of post-plasma pass-out amnesia impeding my memory. Instead of sleeping in that day, I got up early and rushed around working out and writing. Instead of having my protein smoothie just before leaving to donate, I drank it right after I woke up and ate nothing else. Despite feeling a might hungry and tired, my donation went fine. I was feeling so fine, that I had a quickie smoke on the way home even though they recommend waiting an hour afterward. No problem, I thought, I have this down pat.

   I thought wrong. Getting up out of my car when I got home, the woozies set in. DMan came into the kitchen to greet me, and his sturdy hug settled me down. I just need to eat something, I told myself, and I'll be all better. Wrong again. I slapped chunky peanut butter on a slice of bread and nibbled it over the sink. My knees buckled after three bites, and I grabbed the sink. The sound of DMan's noon news from the TV started fading in my ears. After a fast flash of heat, sweat started to pour despite my being chilled from the donation-ending flush of saline and frigid temperature outside. I was right about this – I was going down.

   But I didn't hit the ground, that was a good thing. Otherwise DMan would have heard the thud, come running, and witnessed the unfolding spectacle. No, my body jackknifed into the sink, my feet barely touching the floor while my forehead came to rest on the plastic mat on the garbage disposal side. Somehow my mind was working enough to say, “Chew, chew. Don't swallow or you'll choke.” I kept chewing in sloooow motion, the wad of doughy peanut butter swelling more in my mouth with every chew. Then I felt another flash of warmth, this time down my thighs. My bladder had blacked out as well, and I was powerless to stop the trickle of pee saturating my jeans. When things go wrong for me, they go WAY wrong. But at least my bowels didn't buckle like my knees and bladder.

   I have no idea how long I was “inSinkerated.” My ears waking up are always my sign that I'm coming to, and eventually I could hear DMan laughing at “The Andy Griffith Show” that comes on after the news. Thank God, he doesn't know I keeled over into the sink. I slowly un-jackknifed myself, the half-eaten sandwich still in my fist, my back stiff from being bent over. The chaw of peanut butter had grown to the size of a lime – but I hadn't swallowed! I tried to spit, then flick it out with my tongue. Nothing happened. It was stuck. Finally I had to rake two fingers along the inside of my cheek to extricate the gluey glob. My jeans had trapped the tinkle so I wasn't standing in a puddle, but by now the wetness was cold. Shivery cold.

   As quietly as I could with soaked pant legs rubbing together, I slipped through the sitting room and into the bathroom. DMan didn't notice, still engrossed in Mayberry antics in the living room. Dear Lord, I was a fright: hair plastered with sweat back from my face, showcasing a red checker-boarded forehead the spitting image of the sink mat; mascara smeared into raccoon eyes; sweat rings surrounding my armpits; and a dark rainbow of urine on my jeans from crotch to calf. After cleaning myself up and hosing down my pants in the shower, I took a long nap, more like a mini-coma, and vowed never to monkey with my plasma routine again. Never.

   So now you understand why I say, “No thanks, I'll pass on passing out.” I don't know about those “asphyxionados,” but I never had a bit of fun doing it. No endorphin high. No giddiness. And I sure as hell never got an orgasm out of the deal.   

TIT FOR TAT

When you think about it, life is a tangle of trade-offs, a karmic tit for tat that is paid with every choice we make. While I try not to think about my trade-offs too much – dwelling on them only makes them seem worse – lately I can't escape them. Maybe it's because the older I get the clearer I see that my life has been shaped by the trade-offs I've made and, as my gal pal Carrie Bradshaw would say, I couldn't help but wonder if I made good trades.

   Two years ago I left my full-time workaday “normal” life and skedaddled to the beach to be a writer. These dreams, of being a beach babe and writing, had been festering under the surface for years until they finally spewed over and I made them my reality. I loved that life: walking the beach and having things to write about hit me like seagull plop; being nurtured by Mother Ocean when I felt lonely; my days bookmarked by coffee sunrises and wine sunsets, flowing in between with the rhythm of the tide; the wild swings of weather and writer mojo. And I hated it too. The disappointment of winter finding me even at the beach and the sting of receiving rejections, or worse yet no response at all, to all my writer efforts sapped my spirit of the joy of living my dreams. Even though I lived a modest beach existence, the teeny cash cushion I had from my recent divorce dwindled into the danger zone, my lottery tickets were all losers, and my writing cost money in contest entry fees and postage for submissions while never earning a dime. I had shot my financial wad. Plus I missed my sweetie DMan. It was time to give up the beach babe dream and go home.

   So here I am once again living in land-locked Missouri. Sure, there are lakes close enough that I can be near the water, find some peace in the splish splash of ripples hitting the shore from time to time. But visiting a lake can never match the mighty roll of Mother Ocean's waves, the serenity of soft warm sand on bare feet, the cooling of the beach breeze while the sun melts like butter on my skin.

   Good trade or not? Was I right to go and experience my dream life even if only for a short time, store up memories, and short-circuit the regret of never having tried? Or would I be better off to have never lived the beach life, never realized how perfectly it fit me and that I felt home finally, and never be missing it all the more now because it was my existence, my reality?

   I let go of the beach life so I wouldn't be homeless and starve, but I couldn't give up being a writer. There is a scene I love in the movie “Thelma and Louise” when the ladies are contemplating giving up running and Thelma says, “It's like something's crossed over in me and I can't go back, you know? I just couldn't live.” Yes, I do know. I couldn't fathom going back to the spirit-sucking eight-to-five grind and not having any time or mental mojo left to write. So I took a part-time job at the library, at first shelving books and later checking them in and out. The work doesn't pay much and offers no benefits. My body feels rode hard and put up wet by the time my eight-hour shift ends – despite what folks may think, library work ain't for wussies; it's a full-body workout of bending, squatting, lifting, pushing heavy carts and walking – but when I clock out, I'm done. No work or worries to take home that would interfere with my creativity.

   Sounds pretty great, huh? It is. And it isn't. Fear gets a grip on me every time I have an unexplainable pain, every time my allergies flare up and I'm headed for asthmatic bronchitis again no matter what I do. I have no insurance, no extra cash to pay for a doctor. So I worry, concoct my own over-the-counter cocktail of remedies, and hope that someone in my family ends up with bronchitis, too, so I can bum an inhaler and breathe again. Even though I know it's coming, my gut clenches when my car insurance bill arrives in the mail, my oil needs changing, or my brakes need work. Some other bill (or food or my OTC arsenal) will have to wait in order to cover the extra expenses. No car = no getting to work = no money, period. My life buddy DMan would help me out financially in a heart beat if I was in dire straits, a blessing many in my situation don't have. But I already feel like Freida Freeloader, relying on him to cover the majority of our rent and household expenses. For an independent woman like myself, that's a choking chunk of pride to swallow without asking for even more help. The faint light at the bottom of the poor-me pit is the MegaMillions lottery ticket I buy twice a week. I kiss it, tuck it under the hot pink Myrtle Beach magnet on the fridge, and say a little prayer: Come on, Baby, be a winner. Roni needs to go to the dentist; Roni needs a mammogram.

   Good trade or not? Is the freedom of part-time not-all-consuming work, which allows me the time and energy to write, worth the constant fear of what-ifs that I can't afford or control?

   Speaking of work trade-offs, I have a friend who has worked in the insurance industry for 30-plus years. The job is demanding, but he gets paid well, gets to travel and enjoy perks like a company car. He is very good at his work and seems to like it fine most days. Yet my friend cannot wait to retire and counts down the weeks even though several years remain. He's not pining for the big pension checks or free time though. He can't wait to smoke pot again. Yes, you read it right. His retirement nirvana is to be free of drug tests and fire up a big old joint any time he wants. Now I have never been a big pot fan (if you've read “Who The Hell Am I?” already, you'll understand why), but it seems sad to me to devote all your working life to a job which requires you deny yourself something you enjoy so much that you can't wait to retire to be able to enjoy it again. That is one whopper of a sentence but it nutshells one whopper of a tit for tat!

   Instead of feeling sad for him, though, I imagine the huge grin on his face as he fires up his first post-retirement Cheech-and-Chong-worthy doobie and inhales deeply. What I can't imagine is how he will score some pot after being out of the “scene” for 30 years. Will I spot him hanging around outside a middle school looking like a grandpa while he's trying to spot the “heads” with a dime bag to sell? (Which is probably 50 bucks now, considering inflation.) Will he be googling old partying pals to see if they are still alive and, if so, do they still have pot or connections? Or maybe I should look more closely at the “herb” garden he's been cultivating all these years. There may be way more than parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme in there. No matter how he gets his dream doobie, I hope the trade was worth it and the high is the best of his life.

   If I thought giving in or giving up dreams made for tough trade-offs, that is nothing compared to the minefield of tit for tat in intimate relationships. Could this be the reason break-ups and divorces get so explosive? You make what you think are good trades for the sake of love, then when the relationship goes bad you're resentful as hell and feel like a sucker. You want back what you traded, but there are no takesies-backsies in break-up-land.

   I'm reminded of a scene from “Sex And The City – The Movie” when the ladies are lamenting about their men troubles after Carrie got jilted by Big at the alter. Samantha Jones, the original I-only-want-men-for-sex Ms. Independent who had now been in a five-year relationship with hubba hubba Smith Jerrod, opens up to the gals:

“As long as we're going down this road, I can't believe my life revolves around a man. On what planet did I allow that to happen?”

Sweet Charlotte, who believes in love at any cost, says, “But you love him.”

Samantha continues, “Does that mean saying his name 50 times more a day than I say my own? Does it mean worrying about him and his needs before me and mine? Is it all about the other person? Is that love?”

   Now, besides being the girlfriend, Samantha is also superstar actor Smith's PR person, so that brings a whole new tangle to their relationship tango, but she makes valid points. It's those little everyday “tits” that can stick in your craw and go sour. Like always saying “he” or “we” instead of “me.” Like making sure he has 2% milk for his coffee because he won't drink your soy milk. Like yawning every other breath through “Jay Leno” – who you find so NOT funny – even though you're dog tired because he likes to stay up late and fall asleep together while you much prefer falling asleep when you are sleepy, even if alone. Like making yourself watch golf or baseball or Nascar on TV yet again – and being bored out of your gourd yet again – in order to spend time with your man while a fabulous book you're dying to read lies unopened on the coffee table right in front of you. On the flip side, my sweetie DMan has silently suffered through several viewings of “Sex And The City – The Movie” and listened patiently as I pointed out my favorite scenes (what scene isn't my favorite?!) and quoted the dialogue out loud when I know he'd rather be watching golf, baseball, or Nascar. Even The Weather Channel. Anything but “SATC.” And those trade-offs are nothing compared to what he puts up with when I fall into one of my black funk depressions! I've often thought the man must be a saint. Or sometimes I think there's some deep, dark karmic debt he's paying off by being with me. That makes me feel better about being such a pain in the patootie to live with.

   Back to the issue of living together: what about giving up soloness for togetherness? For some folks, that would be a dream come true. For me, it's another tit for tat. DMan and I often pined for those extraordinary ordinary shared moments that you miss when you live apart: a spontaneous dance while we clean house together listening to 70s tunes; seeing a cardinal land on a snowy branch outside the kitchen window as we unload the dishwasher on a dreary day; a giggle-fest and water fight erupting while we wash our cars side by side in the driveway. So we moved in together. And now we enjoy tons of shared moments, but besides those moments, work, the news, weather and “what kind of wine shall we drink tonight?,” we don't have much to talk about. I miss that “I can't wait to see him to tell him something that happened” feeling. I miss craving him. I miss getting that jolt of tingles when he pulled in my driveway because I knew in a minute he'd have his big hot hands all over me. I miss the urgency, the intensity that comes from missing him.

   If piddly things like these stick in your craw and go sour, the big things can eat at your craw like battery acid until eventually they devour you completely. Big things like moving somewhere you don't want to live, making a home in a place that doesn't feel anything like home so he can take a promotion. Important things like having kids because that's what couples are supposed to do, then finding that your whole life together revolves around the kids' lives and, besides braces and soccer games, you have absolutely nothing to say to each other. Monumental things like leaving your career to be a mom and wondering when your oldest graduates high school whether you'd have made vice-president by now, or finally getting the huge partner office with a spectacular view and your gut aches when you have nothing to hang on the wall but diplomas and certificates. Those are some big tits to have to live with, no matter how good the tats seem.

   But the ultimate in trade-offs comes with death. Or life, and the choices between the two. Because Mama and I are what she calls “prayer warriors,” always exchanging names of folks in need of prayer, I am constantly bombarded with details about these folks' serious health problems, surgeries, treatment regimens, and prognoses. The ones that get me the worst have cancer. What kind of choices are they given?

   Should they choose to fight and, in doing so, mangle their body with surgery, poison their cells with chemo, and burn their flesh with radiation; accepting indiginities and suffering as part of the battle in the hope they can beat the cancer and win? For how long? At what cost?

   Or should they surrender to the havoc of cells gone crazy, to an unknown path that may meander through pit stops of organ failure, bloating, wasting, suffocating, and dementia; accepting indiginities and suffering as a condition of armistice with the Big-C in the hope that it will miraculously retreat or mercifully kill them quick. How long will they wait to know their fate? At what cost?

   In my mind, there is no question of choice. I've pondered long and hard over the years about what I would do if I got a cancer diagnosis – either a natural side-effect of praying for so many with cancer or I am one just morbid chick with too much time to think – and, unless the invader is something small and easily removed, I will surrender. Screw surgery. Screw treatments. Whatever time and health I have left will be spent laughing and celebrating with my special peeps; playing disco music too loud and dancing until I collapse satisfied; eating, drinking and smoking to my heart's content; and spending every last buck I've got to scratch off every last want-to-do from my bucket list. Since life for death is the final trade-off, I'm going to be sure I make every trade I have left a good one and hopefully make peace with the not-so-good trades I've already made along the way.

   My terminal tit for tat. Hope I get it right. Or better yet, hope I get hit by a big-ass bus and . . . SPLAT! Just like that, the end of me and tit for tat.

(P.S. I don't know what happened with the type changing sizes; it was not intentional and I couldn't figure out how to fix it. Sorry!)

You never know what you'll see

   I was waiting to meet a friend yesterday and, as is my nature, getting impatient because he was running late. Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, I look up and see Leo and Max. Have you heard about them? Leo is an older gentleman, wearing long hair and past-their-prime clothes, that rides a beat-up bike laden with all he owns (I'm guessing) and his shaggy brown dog Max riding in a basket on the back. You can't miss them with the American flag waving from the back of the bike and a sign that says "Leo and Max Across America."  I'd had seen them about a week ago in the same area -- near the Wal-Mart on Independence in Springfield -- on a day when we were expecting severe storms, and I'd been worried about them ever since. If my friend had been on time, I would never have seen them again and known they made it through the storms and were doing fine.
   Finally my friend made it to town but went to the wrong McDonald's. Rather than make him drive farther in unfamiliar surroundings, I went to him. Right there in the drive-up line at the other McDonald's was a burgundy car with the hood made entirely of DUCT TAPE. I swear, I'm not kidding. If there WAS an actual hood under the tape, I couldn't see it. The pieces of tape were intricately woven together covering the entire engine, as if the "hood's" construction had been building over a long time. I nearly ran into a car backing out from staring at the duct-tape mobile so intently. I just hope they don't have to lift the "hood" to check their oil or replace their windshield fluid any time soon.
   My lesson in all this was: pay attention even if things aren't happening just like you want them to. You never know what you'll see.
   By the way, I found a Facebook page for Leo and Max in case you want to know more.  Here's the link: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Leo-Max-Across-America/367253580894
   Have a fabulous day, Yall!  

True Purpose

   I've felt like a failure for most of my life. Since I was a kid, I thought I had this big purpose, that I was going to do something super special in my life. And I never did. Oh, I've done a lot of things -- been a massage therapist, managed a retail store, done administrative assistant work a bunch, worked at the library, been a social worker, even wrote two books -- and I didn't totally suck at any of them. But none of the things I've done seemed big or special, hence my recurring feeling that my existence was a waste of the planet's oxygen.
   Then last night my bestie Sara and I were sipping cocktails and having a chick chat. Since we've both struggled at times with this "purpose" issue, she shared an epiphany she had recently. She said (and I'm paraphrasing here, I wasn't in any state to actually write it down word for word):

Maybe we don't have some big purpose, like a job or something we'll do. Maybe we are making ourselves nuts for thinking that. Maybe it's just who we ARE that is our purpose. Like you, totally changing DMan's life by introducing him to so many things and ideas and adventures he never would have had without you. And for your mom, you being there as her confidant every day so she doesn't have to carry all the troubles of your family alone. And you make me laugh, especially when I need it so bad. And me, for the way I keep my mom from going crazy over all the things my dad does. And for how our dogs go wild when I come home, like they just couldn't wait for me to be back. And how I got you into "Sex And The City" and now you like fashion and even watch "The Fashion Police." Maybe we don't have to DO anything, just be ourselves and that's enough.

   I loved it! If what she said is true, then I haven't been a failure all along because I do try to be myself, even when myself is crrr-azy. Then today I was reading "Love For No Reason" by Marci Shimoff (love it, too! -- look for a review on bookcrrr-azygal.blogspot soon) about a man named Johnny Barnes in Hamilton, Bermuda. Well into his eighties, Mr. Barnes stands for six hours at a roundabout intersection waving at people, calling out "Good Morning!" and "Have a good day!" and "God bless you!" with a huge smile for everyone. He started doing this in the 1940s every morning before work, then upped his time 30 years ago when he retired. People drive the roundabout just to see Johnny every day. The city even erected a statue of him on the opposite side of the intersection so no one would miss his smile or wave. Mr. Barnes said, "When the good Lord wakes me up mornings, puts a song in my heart, joy in my soul, and a smile on my face, I just have to give it away." Now that is sharing the best of himself with the world!
   I doubt that I'll never feel like a failure again. It comes too easily for me. But I'm hoping that this new idea of true purpose that Sara turned me on to will help me relax a little about the "big" thing I'm not doing so I can enjoy just "being" a whole lot more.
   What's your idea of true purpose? I'd love your feedback!   

It's beginning to look at lot like Christmas . . .

. . . but wait, isn't it almost Memorial Day? Yup, but it's been snowing, sleeting and raining -- and sometimes all at the same time -- all day long. And it's snowing harder now than before, covering the freshly mowed grass. The new leaves on the trees and rose bushes are starting to get weighted down. I'm hoping the limbs don't break. Hasn't been over 35 degrees all day. On May 3rd! Anyone that doesn't believe in climate change should come to Missouri.
   Look out Kentucky Derby, this mess is headed your way. I've heard of horses being mudders, but are their snowers?? If the racing form calls one of the entrants a snower, I'd bet all my money on that horse to win!

I'm Addicted

Hi. My name is Roni and I'm a Fashion Police-aholic.

   If there were a 12-step program for people addicted to the "Fashion Police" show, I would make it to every meeting. Not because I want to quit watching -- unh-uh, no way am I giving it up -- but because I would love to meet other addicts so we could watch together and dish about the show. My Sweetie DMan has watched with me a time or two and thinks it's downright mean the way they talk about other people's clothes. So he's out as my Fashion Police buddy. And my bestie Sara doesn't get the E! channel. There are no Fashion Police bars with the show blaring from every TV screen and the patrons cheering for their favorite looks and booing for the worst. There are no Fashion Police parties (think Super Bowl) with everyone wearing their favorite designers, drinking Cosmos, and nibbling canapes while glued to a marathon of FP episodes. I'm all alone with my addiction, a lone Joan Ranger, oohing and ahhing and you've-got-to-be-kidding-meing at the TV every Friday night from nine o'clock to ten.
   In case you don't know the show -- and where have you been, hiding out in a cave in Montana?? -- "Fashion Police" showcases the best and worst celebrity looks of the week, gleaned from photo shoots of everything from red carpet events to airport sightings. Joan Rivers hosts, joined by Guiliana Rancic, Kelly Osbourne, and George Kotsiopoulos (Georgie Porgie, as Joan calls him), and do they have fun! Joan is caustically hilarious, throwing out naughty zingers about the fashions and celebrities like Christmas candy at a parade, and sparing no one, even herself. Sometimes the jokes are so raunchy the FP crew can only roll their eyes, but most of the time they roll with laughter right along with the audience of Joan Rangers -- salute! (Every time the Joan Rangers are mentioned, the gang gives a salute. It's cute.) As mentioned, they count down the top five must-see looks of the week, then at the end of the show they pick their best and worst looks. The worst look is dubbed "Fash-hole" of the week, and Guiliana, Kelly, and George each get ten seconds of direct camera time to convince Joan and the Rangers of their pick. The comments can get mighty snarky, and sometimes the bad-word bleeper gets quite a work out! Besides all that, the "Police" has regular segments called "Bitch Stole My Look," "Rack Report," and "Starlet or Streetwalker," which I won't spoil for you by going into all the details but suffice it to say they are a HOOT! 
   For any of you that know me, you might wonder why I'm addicted to this show. I wonder too. If I were ever a celebrity, I'm sure I would be crowned the Fashion Police Fash-hole Queen. To paraphrase the old "Hee Haw" show song: if it weren't for bad style, I'd have no style at all. I guess it's like someone that wants to be a writer but can't write worth a squat and ends up being a book reviewer -- I have no fashion sense but love admiring those who do and jeering at those who don't (or do but make the occasional very public fashion faux pas). Take a recent episode, for instance. There was total FP consensus that Beth Chapman, wife of Dog the Bounty Hunter, won Fash-hole of the week for her look at the American Country Music awards. OMG it was B-A-D! She wore a sleeveless pale pink diaphanous gown with the neckline plunging so deep it looked like Kevin James's ass crack popping out. Instead of resembling red carpet-worthy couture, the gown looked like it was ordered from the clearance page of the Plus-size Frederick's of Dollywood catalog. Now I've watched the "Bounty Hunter" show before (unfortunately a favorite of my ex-husband's), and even though Beth's usual style is part tough biker chick and part buxom sex goddess, it always worked for her. Her style looked right on her. This ACM award's dress? It looked like something someone that never met her before picked out as a cruel joke. Needless to say, I concurred with their Fash-hole of the week pick. And they were tough on Ms. Chapman, but Joan and the gang always try to say something upbeat about the Fash-hole, too, maybe mention previous looks that were winners or diss the stylist that put them in the God-awful outfit instead of the celeb. So, no matter what DMan thinks, the show is not all mean.
   Some days when I come home feeling beat like a tied-up dog from work, knowing I have the "Fashion Police" to watch is the only thing that keeps me from going straight to bed. That and a big glass of wine. So, yes, I am addicted to a silly, snarky TV show, and no, I will not swear off it. But I would love to have you join me in my addiction. Catch "Fashion Police" on E!, Fridays at 9:00 PM (Central). If you can't wait -- and sometimes I can't either -- check out their website http://www.eonline.com/shows/fashion_police. Then let's dish!

     

How are you "treating" yourself?

"One of the secrets of a happy life is continuous small treats." 
                                            -- Iris Murdoch

   I read this quote in a book recently and loved it, even penned it on a Post-it note for the message board near my writing table so I would be continuously reminded. I need all the secrets I can learn about being happy because I am prone to having the black funks. A black funk, as defined in my book "Life Gone South," is: death of the soul; wanting to crawl in a hole and never come out; a fortress around my heart that blocks out joy; can't taste food -- yes, even chocolate, and yes, I tried every kind -- don't even crave sex. Feeling low, low, low, down dirty low. As you might imagine, these black funks are no damn fun so I do everything I possibly can to avoid them. I figured if throwing continuous small treats into my life will help, then sign me up.
   Today was the kick-off of my "CST" therapy. I was off work and had errands to do, and some not so fun (gyno exam and groceries -- YUCK!). Instead of only doing the have-tos, I wheeled into $1 Jewelry Galore (on Battlefield, near National) and splurged on some bling. I got a tiger striped belt with hot rainbow colors, a six-pack of various sized silver hoops, a bangle bracelet, and a funky chunky wood necklace. Plus they had the cutest little mood rings -- I got the one with peace signs -- that must have made me happier because it changed to blue (calm, relaxed) and purple (sensual) the rest of the day. And all that happiness cost less than eleven bucks!
   Besides the bling treats, I sipped a Diet Coke as I was cruising around (something I love but rarely do), sang along with the radio, and really paid attention to my surroundings instead of rushing and being stressed out by traffic. I noticed the Bradford pear blossoms falling down like snow, that a lot of drivers are actually courteous and not jerks, and two red Mini Coopers. It may be silly but DMan and I trade "Mini Cooper kisses" for every one we see, so I got two extra kisses just from paying attention. Turned out to be a pretty happy day despite the not-so-pleasant errands.
   Feel free to give the CST therapy a try, see if you end up a bit happier. I'd love to hear if it works for you too. Now I'm going to give myself one more little treat and pour a big glass of wine to enjoy while I finish the laundry. Just because it's a small treat doesn't mean it has to come in a small glass! Cheers!    

Who The Hell Am I?

     My sister K and I were hanging out the other day and out of the blue she says, “I don't know who I am anymore. I don't fit in anywhere. I'm not young, but I'm not old either. So who the hell am I?”

     My first thought was, “Is menopause bitch slapping her too?” But the more we talked, the more I understood her quandary had nothing to do with menopause and realized I felt exactly the same: middle age is no (wo)man's land. Halfway between birth and death (we hope), being in our forties and fifties is confusing. And frustrating. We literally are not young anymore, nor are we old (except we seem like it to those that are young).

     When we were young, things were much simpler. Being young meant having big fun and little responsibility, like hanging out with friends at the drive-in movie after working part time slinging burgers at the Tastee-Freez, forgetting your worries by topping off a Big Gulp with Everclear or taking a hit off a passed-around joint (but don't mix the two unless you want to end up buzzed out of your gourd in the backseat of your date's car, take my word on this!). It meant cruising in the nearest big town to check out cute boys and blast your newest cassette tape. With gas at .79 cents per gallon back then, driving up and down Kearney Street (our preferred cruising spot) was cheap entertainment.

     We young'uns wore bell bottom Levis and feathered hair, drove Pintos or Vegas or VW Bugs, parked on country roads to make out with our sweeties, then snuck in past curfew with hickeys we passed off as curling iron burns.

     We knew we weren't “old” because old folks had bursitis and mortgages, smoked pipes and cigars and drank instant coffee, and went to church socials or PTA meetings for “fun.” Oldsters wore polyester pants, knee-high hose that bagged at the ankles, and spongy-soled shoes; got perms or a weekly wash-and-set; drove tank-like Buicks and Plymouths; and the closest they got to making out was a goodnight peck on the cheek. Those old people were in their forties or beyond but they seemed ancient. It was simple then – when you got to a certain age, you dressed and acted “your age.”

     But no more. If you could meet my Sister K, headed toward the far side of 40 herself, you would see she is the antithesis of old: dark chocolate hair swinging in a CHI-sleeked “Rachel” do, body-hugging shirts and sequin-pocketed jeans showing off her curvaceousness, a mishmash of Christian and biker chick tattoos decorating her arms and legs. She rode a Harley until it finally went kaput and says “wicked cool” about everything. No way could she be described as old.

     By outward appearance, I'm not as wicked cool as she but I'm still wearing low-rider jeans without sporting a belly-flopping hangover or plumber's crack. My signature look funky cap toe sneakers and peace sign earrings give me a youthful flair. And the only polyester pants that have ever been on these thighs were part of my college job Kentucky Fried Chicken uniform. Those pants were mandatory, and I hate, hate, hated them.

     Okay, so our look is still in the young(ish) realm. Good. What about our actions?

     Sister K has teenage boys, which brings with it the requisite mommy baggage, but that's not all she's about. Besides making a living driving a school bus like an expert truck rodeoer – and I'll bet she is the sexiest bus driver those adolescent boys ever had and fodder for many fantasies – she is a faux painting diva, wine blend connoisseur, disco dancer extraordinaire, and super seamstress. She creates and wears these diaphanous ponchos, blinged out with sparkles and feathery trim, that can turn the most blah outfit into a party. She also saved my favorite Gap jeans from ending up in the trash by adding zazzy flame patches to the threadbare knees. I get more compliments on those ancient jeans than anything else in my closet. The woman can do it all, and she does. The Energizer Bunny on steroids couldn't keep up with her. She's definitely not living the oldster life.

     Me? I'm not so talented or creative, but I try. I try everything to try and find that one thing that's going to be my thing. Here's the “I Tried” short list: guitar, harmonica and keyboards (I swear I've got the music in me, I just can't make it come out); working as a massage therapist (a real one, not a quasi-hooker); being a beach babe (loved it but couldn't afford it forever); and skateboarding. I still have my pin-tail longboard Pinkie and she's gorgeous, with hot pink wheels and her underside decorated with groovy stickers like “I'm not perfect, but parts of me are incredible.” I mostly look at her these days, spending my spare time writing instead of boarding. But I could ride her if I got the urge. And I don't spend all day discussing my aches and pains and surgeries, planning my next meal at the senior-price buffet, or knitting gift afghans that will be hidden in a closet until I come for a visit.

     So we don't look old, at least fashion-wise. Wrinkle-wise? Now that's a whole different subject (see my earlier "Get Off My Face" blog). And we don't act old. Then why the hell can't we figure out who the hell we are?

     As I pondered this, I remembered my grandma saying to me, “Honey, I don't feel old. My body may be falling apart and I may look old, but I don't feel it, not inside anyway.” Bazinga! Grandma was one wise woman. I realized I don't feel old, at least not on the inside. My body sure feels 49 Part Two, some days more like 69 Part Two, but my inside feels 24 tops.

     Sister K had her own bazinga moment when I asked her how old she felt: “That's it! My body may feel like I'm in my late thirties, but my spirit is still 21. I think like a kid, that's why I'm more comfortable around kids than people my own age. I've got the wisdom of an older person with a young spirit.”

     That's true for me as well. While I don't do little kids – never had any, never wanted any, and no, I don't babysit no matter how cute the little devil is – I feel simpatico hanging with 20-somethings way more than oldsters. I try not to be an old-age bigot, but I have a phobia about visiting senior habitats ever since my 45^th birthday. My parents, bless their well-meaning hearts, got sick of me bitching about getting older and surprised me with a birthday lunch at the Senior Center. The Senior Center! The place where everyone had blue hair or no hair, the hot topic around the table was who had what removed, and the drill sergeant center director spent ten minutes lecturing the lunchers on the proper protocol for the new self-serve salad bar as if they'd never hit the senior buffets before. Needless to say, I don't mention aging around my folks anymore. Or let them take me out for my birthday. And I prefer not to hang out with an older crowd if I can help it.

     Besides me and Sister K, others weighed in on the “how old do you feel outside versus inside” question and it seems almost universal that the disparity between body age and spirit age keeps our minds totally confused. Most reported feeling younger in spirit than body, and the older the person, the wider the gap between the two.

     Some examples:

                        Body feels         Spirit feels          Age

Roberta               60ish                 23/24              50s

Mikey                  50                     30                   50s

Deb                    45                     23                   50s

Eli                      35                     20                   20s

(Actual ages are approximate – I'm not out to out anyone's age.)

     I wanted to better understand the disparity and the reason behind it, so I asked my sweetie DMan for his opinion. He said, “I guess I feel under 40 all over. If I tried to do things I did when I was 30, I'd probably feel older.” And he's older than I am. I do love him to death, but sometimes I just want to wring his neck to choke off his Pollyanna attitude that makes me feel like his “old” lady. Plus his answer didn't help my understanding one bit.

     Then I tried asking Mama and Daddy to tell me their body versus spirit ages to use for something I was writing. Big mistake. I got righteous soliloquies as if they were having their fifteen minutes of fame on “Oprah.” In a nutshell, Mama's version was “wake up every day with a sunny outlook and you'll feel your best no matter what age you are,” and Daddy spouted off on “I've worked hard all my life and I damn well deserve to feel how old I feel.” Spoken with good intentions on their part, I'm sure, but no help at all.

     Looks like I'm on my own to explain the “who am I” disconnect. Could it be that our bodies keep on aging but our spirits hold at some prime time when we were at our peak? That's how my memory seems to work anyway. It must have peaked in the 1970s because I can sing every blame word of the “Green Acres” theme song but can't remember when I last changed my sheets. (See, that song is playing in my head right now – “Green Acres is the place to be, farm living is the life for me . . . .” The sheets? I don't have a clue how long they've been on the bed. Guess it's time for the sniff test.)

     If the spirit peak supposition is true, maybe what we see as middle-age crazy isn't crazy at all. That paunchy balding man with newly implanted hair plugs is only acting his spirit age, and his spirit paused as a testosterone-fueled teenager with the hots for well-endowed Corvettes and 22-year old blondes. And maybe a lot of oldsters diagnosed with senility are perfectly fine. Their spirits just choose to hang out at the age when having a teddy bear as their lunch companion and calling everyone “Mama” feels right. Life was much simpler with a cuddly friend and Mama around all the time, wasn't it?

     Or could it be that the way we feel inside reflects our true soul age, in cosmic terms? What if there is no arrested spirit development involved and that no matter how old we get to be or how many times our soul gets to hang out in bodily form (if you believe in that sort of thing, which I do – Sorry, Mama, for disappointing you), we'll forever stay at our unique and perfect soul age?

     That sounds right to me, and my uncle Jesse is a prime example of why. He's on the express train to turning 87 and lives in a nursing home due to Parkinson's and the residual effects of several mild strokes, but his soul is forever youthful. Those honey brown eyes of his exude orneriness. He may not be able to get a forkful of peas to his mouth without spilling half, but he is still the biggest flirt I've ever known. And the best. He's got every female in the facility wrapped around his little finger and loving it. He wise cracks. He plays practical jokes. His soul isn't a day over 25. Never has been. Never will be.

     Now it makes sense why most folks I talked to feel they are in their twenties or thirties no matter what their birth date says. If all souls were kid souls, the world would be one giant messy playground and nothing would get accomplished. If oldster souls dominated, the world would creak to a cantankerous halt on oh-my-aching-whatever woes and remember-when-life-was-better bitchfests. At least our 20-something souls still have hope enough to believe we can make the world better, the energy to keep plugging away until we do, and the smarts to have some fun along the way.

     So, who the hell am I? I'm a 24-year old soul making the best of life in a 49 Part Two-year old body. Let's see, what was my life like at 24? I was a nearly-single gal, after the breakup of my first marriage, with my very own place and a decent paying job. When I wasn't working hard or sleeping soundly, I was boogieing with my sisters every chance I got, wearing jean mini skirts and fringey short boots, drinking cheap beer by the pitcher, and partying with good friends hearty and often.

     Being 24 forever? I can live with that.

 (Me and Sister K rocking our young souls!)