Just do it, Grinch!

   After 50 years of trying, just steal Christmas already and let's be done with it, will ya, Grinch?? Because I HATE CHRISTMAS!
   I know, a lot of people will think I'm crazy or downright evil for saying this, but it's how I feel. Christmas sucks and here is why:

😒  Christmas lasts too damn long. As soon as Halloween is over, 'tis the Christmas season already. The stores start piling in all the decorations and overpriced merchandise that no one really needs anyway, spreading panic among gift-givers that there are only ___ shopping days left to jack up the credit card with debt in order to have the holiday spirit. One of Springfield's radio stations -- yeah you, KGBX! -- starts playing Christmas music before the final notes of "Monster Mash" are over. This year they started off slow, decking the musical halls only on weekends, but once Thanksgiving was over it's been wall-to-wall happy ho-ho-ho tunes 24/7. Seriously, how long can people listen to the same 27 songs sung by various artists without going absolutely bonkers? I was in three stores yesterday doing my errands and every one of them was playing Christmas music! I may have to order my necessities online until the new year. And the commercials! If I have to see another Lexus wrapped up in a red bow or Victoria's Secret model barely wearing anything but tinsel, I will scream and then ram a Christmas tree through the TV! I'm even beginning to miss all the political ads, and that is sad.

😒  The holiday expectations are too high. Everyone is supposed to be festive, and everything is supposed to be perfect, merry and bright. UGH! By this time of year, I am already depressed because it's cold and the days are dreary and short on sunshine. Top that with the fact that I work at a hair salon, which besides working retail or customer service for online shopping, is the craziest business to be in during the holidays. Believe me, women go INSANE needing to get their hair done to look fabulous for every event and photo-op from Thanksgiving to New Year's Eve! So now I'm not only depressed, I'm also exhausted from keeping our stylists booked and clients flowing so everyone is happy. Sometimes it feels like I'm juggling knives and monkeys at the same time and trying not to kill the monkeys. And I am expected to be festive during all this mayhem when what I really want to do is crawl under my electric blanket ALONE until spring? TOO MUCH PRESSURE!

😒  I suck at gifts. Giving and receiving. I don't know why, I'm generally a creative and thoughtful person, but deciding what gift to buy for someone makes my brain go into gridlock and nearly sets me into a panic attack. Is it enough? Too much? What color? What style? WHAT SIZE? It puts me to mind of the Big Bang Theory episode "The Bath Item Gift Hypothesis" when Sheldon buys an assortment of gift baskets so he'll be ready to match the value of whatever present Penny buys for him. Personally, I'd rather give and receive cash. That way the person can buy whatever the hell they want when all the leftover holiday merch is on clearance, and I don't have to stress. It never works out that way though. My boyfriend DMan is HUGE on opening presents, the more the better, with the unbridled excitement of a five-year old getting a pony. More stress, not only as the giver but as the receiver. Am I showing enough enthusiasm for what I got? What do I do with the gifted item if I don't like it without hurting his feelings???

   I honestly don't know what happened with me and Christmas. I used to like it, like a normal person. I decorated the house out the wazoo, pulled out my huge assortment of holiday mugs on Thanksgiving to start my Bailey's and coffee-drinking tradition, sang along with "Rudolph" and "Jingle Bells" in the stores, wrote out a gozillion Christmas cards to put in the mail by December 1. Not anymore. Christmas got too big and gaudy and Kardashian-like, and all the joy I used to feel just fizzled. I don't even think I'll pull out my favorite Christmas movies this year. I'm not in the mood. But I will celebrate the 50th Anniversary of the How The Grinch Stole Christmas by watching it one more time. I'll just fast forward through the end when he grows a heart and returns Christmas.
   Happy Anniversary, Grinchy!

         

If Millennials are our future, are we doomed?

   "Millennials this" and "Millennials that" is all I've been hearing about in the news lately. People are even taking classes on "How To Handle Millennials In The Workplace" these days. So I decided to find out what Millennials are all about.
   According to Wikipedia, people born from the early 1980s to the early 2000s fall into the Millennial generation, also called "Generation Me." From their upbringing as "trophy kids," where everyone gets a trophy or reward in competitions simply for participating, they have developed traits like narcissism and a sense of entitlement that set them apart from past generations. They live for social networking and are "digitally native," aka they can't live without their damn phones and texting and Instagramming 24/7. Generation Me is so right!
   Now I get it. Millennials are the college kids and young adults I am forced to work with that: carry their foot-sized phones in their back pockets, check them non-stop while they should be working, laugh at obnoxiously loud videos of cats falling off roofs and then walk around showing everyone the "hilarious" video over and over, and discuss their playlists as if they were crucial to life itself. My Millennial co-workers also spend more time chatting and giggling with each other than actually working, which may be the reason they continue to make the same mistakes and then just smile and say, "Sorry!" when they are shown the correct way to do something. Again.
   I can't seem to get away from these Millennial creatures! The other day I was in the speedy checkout lane at Walmart behind this high-schooler gal and her mother. The daughter checked out first with a basket full of makeup items for back to school. The checker told her the total was $64.56. The young gal said incredulously, "But how can that be right?"  The checker said, "Well, you had 12 items that were $5 each, plus tax." The puzzled look on the teenager's face stunned me. She couldn't believe that 12x5 added up to over $60! Then the gal started taking away one item at a time to see if that would make the bill equal the amount she had to spend (I think she had $20). One item at a time! To make it worse, the checkout lady told her she could by the same or similar items at the Dollar General for less, so the teenager TOOK PICTURES OF EVERY SINGLE ITEM THAT WAS BEING RETURNED so she could remember what she wanted to buy at the other store. This whole sitch was so ridiculous and took so long that I felt like I was on Candid Camera or being punked!
   After all this Millennial madness, I was beginning to think our society was doomed if these are our future leaders. Then I had a new girl start training the other day. Fresh out of high school and starting college this fall, this gal, I'll call her Bright Star, showed up 15 minutes early on her first day. She never pulled out a phone once, I wouldn't even know she had one except she said she would take a picture of the work schedule so she wouldn't miss a shift. She was attentive, learned quickly, asked intelligent questions, and gave max effort at everything she was asked to do. Bright Star probably would have kept working all night if I hadn't told her when it was time to clock out. And this wasn't a fluke, she's been the same every day she has worked.
   What a relief to know there are some Millennials that actually care and take pride in their work! They may be hard to find, but they are out there. Maybe we're not doomed after all!  

     

Music to my ears -- what do you hear?

   I hear music in my head all day long. Even when I'm not paying attention, music is still there. Sometimes it's a song I don't even like and I'm not sure where it came from, then I have to consciously change the channel and conjure up another song to make it stop. Still, I love having music in my head! Something as simple as a song can make me smile when I'm having a bad day or take me back to a happy time in my life.
   So I was thinking the other day: If I became deaf and could never actually hear another song again, what tune would I want permanently playing in my head? I had no trouble thinking of songs I dig, but picking just one? Impossible! So I settled on two: "Free Bird" by Lynyrd Skynyrd and "Wanna Be Starting Something" by Michael Jackson. "Free Bird" has always been my Southern-fried rock rebel anthem, and I've air-guitarred the "guitar army" riffs a gozillion times. "Wanna Be Starting Something" unleashes the dance diva in me and inspires me to "lift my head up high and scream out to the world, I know I am someone and let the truth unfurl. No one can hurt me now because I know what's true. Yes, I believe in me, so you believe in you!"
   What song(s) would you like to hear in your head forever?! Music is a powerful thing!



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=np0solnL1XY




https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Uj3zitETs4

Politics

   This is an excerpt from a new book of humorous personal essays I am working on called Life Be Crazy (so why should I be sane?!). Very timely for what is going on right now. Would love to have your feedback.

Politics

   It is now 2015 and Donald Trump is the new face (and hair, yikes!) of the Republican Party for the 2016 presidential election. For openers, he harangued Mexico for sending us their drug dealers and rapists in a speech announcing his candidacy. Trump's solution was to “build a great, great wall on our southern border and . . . have Mexico pay for that wall.” “Mark my words,” he said. I'd rather erase his words, and his rhetoric has only gotten more asinine after that speech. The USofA has enough problems trying to deal with increasingly complex world issues already; we don't need a power-hungry bully as President whose only job qualifications are buying and selling everything in sight for mega profits and saying, “You're fired.”

   Currently there are 38 declared Republican Party presidential candidates, so many that there had to be two initial debates held: an early-bird special with the I-don't-know-who-the-hell-that-is candidates, and the prime-time show featuring the ten front-runners. No, I did not watch. First of all, I lean toward the Democrats and I can't even stand to watch their debates. BORING! Second, the debate was on Fox News, which in my opinion causes brain damage. Just speak with someone who watches Fox News regularly, notice the vacant eyes and the Stepford-style mimicry, and you'll see what I mean. Third, I could not stand to watch Trump and his floppy comb-over embarrass himself and our country any more than he already has. So while I cannot speak firsthand about the debate particulars, I can report that The Donald is currently at the top of the Republican pack in the polls.

   America, we are in some seriously deep shit if this Trump-mania continues.

   Now to the Democrats. Obama is out, two terms and done. Nineteen candidates have officially declared they will run, with Hillary Clinton on top of the heap of mostly unknowns. The Republicans are doing all they can to knock her off that heap, currently focusing on missing data from the time she was Secretary of State. The most recent soundbite was a reporter asking whether Clinton's email server had been “wiped clean of data,” and Clinton snarkily responding, “What – like with a cloth or something?”

   I totally get her answer if she was being snarky because she doesn't like to clean. I abhor cleaning. But if she wasn't , then it makes her sound guilty, as if she's covering up something. We've had our first black President; now I think it's time for a woman as Pres, so I'm rooting for you, Hill. But for fuck's sake, keep the cover-up in your makeup bag and tell the truth.

   Speaking of truth, Vice President Joe Biden is currently testing the waters about running for President. While a likable but tough-as-nails fellow, Biden may be way more truth that this country can handle. The dude doesn't have a brain-filter that catches the don't-say-that shit before it flies out of his mouth and hits the fan. Case in point, at the signing of the Affordable Care Act, Biden whispered to President Obama, “This is a big fucking deal,” loud enough for reporters to hear and quote.

   Huh? Trump, who doesn't care what he says or who he offends; running against Hillary, who puts more spin on her comments than a washing machine; or against Joe no-filter Biden. This presidential race is going to be a wild ride, that's for sure.

   Regardless of who wins, if we “the people” did our jobs like most politicians, we'd all be unemployed. Come to think of it, it might be fun for The Donald to be President just so we could say “You're fired” when he screws up. And he will. Mark my words.

Copyright 2015 Roni Blanche

Postcards from the Hospital

   As some of you know, DMan and I have had a rotten run of luck lately, with both of us ending up in the hospital having unexpected surgery over the past couple of weeks. While none of our experiences seemed funny at the time -- oh SO not funny, I assure you -- looking back we've been able to have a few chuckles at the craziness of being held captive in the hospital. Thought I'd share, maybe give you a laugh too.
   DMan's story starts with a normal work night, progresses to a gut ache so severe he heads to the ER, and really gets going with him being admitted to Cox South for a small bowel blockage and possible surgery. The first day he existed on ice chips, the second day they upped him to the liquid buffet -- aka jello and broth -- hoping the blockage would clear itself. Um no, not so fast. All that liquid and the goo he had to drink for the upper GI test came shooting out of him on day three, filling multiple puke cups that looked like small movie popcorn containers. Don't think we'll be ordering popcorn at the movies any time soon. Time for surgery.
   He came through that fine. Turns out the mesh put in during a previous hernia surgery got adhered to his small intestine and caused the blockage, with no intestinal damage requiring resection. Good, best case scenario. Then he just had to deal with the twenty-three staples holding him together and all the post-surgery doodads hanging off of him. I'm talking an IV with multiple baggies flowing through, catheter, and NG (nasogastric) tube. If you've never had an NG tube, it is the experience from hell! Putting it in involves someone shoving a tube up your nose and down your throat while you try to drink water and throw up at the same time. After that, every time you swallow feels like a bottle cap is stuck in the back of your throat and won't go down. That's the nightmare for the person WITH the tube, but everyone else gets to share the nightmare by watching chunks of green slime shoot out your nose and down the tube while trying to have a normal conversation and pretending not to notice. I eventually told DMan how gross it was to watch -- big mistake, as you will find out. 

   Dman is a trooper. The day after surgery he was determined to get up and walk as much as possible to get Barry -- that's what I call his bowels because they sound really low and gravelly like Barry White singing -- working again. So we ask Wanda, his PCA, to help get him up and ready to walk. Instead of hanging his catheter bag on the IV pole like usual, Wanda carries the bag and walks in front of us. DMan said a couple of times, "That's a little fast," which I thought was odd because we were going pretty slow. When we got back to the room, DMan exploded and even said cuss words, when the strongest language he normally uses is "dadgummit." Turns out Wanda had been pulling DMan by the penis all around the halls with the catheter bag! I felt like kicking that wench in her woohoo to let her see how he felt, but he wouldn't let me. Wanda should be grateful that he's a much nicer person than I am. We decided she must be training for the catheter rodeo and dubbed her Wrangler Wanda. Thankfully the catheter came out the next morning and Wanda didn't come back.

   The NG tube was a constant source of irritation for DMan. He has a crooked nose, so there was only one nostril it would go up and it rubbed his nose raw. Plus the irritation caused drainage down his throat, which made him cough when he laid down, which hurt his incision. Night two after surgery, the nurse gave him something to calm him and help him sleep. Whatever it was, it didn't work. Poor DMan woke up in a coughing fit, did not know where he was or what was happening, had completely coughed out his NG tube, and had green slime all over his face and gown. After such a harrowing experience, the nurse let him rest for a couple hours without the tube before trying THREE TIMES to shove it back up there with no success. By this point, DMan's nose was saying "No, but hell no." That was the end of his NG tube nightmare.

   I get DMan home a couple of days later. He's glad to be home, taking it slow, working his way back to some kind of normal. Then I get a gut ache. I never get a gut ache. I go to bed to sleep it off, hoping it's just a virus. A word of warning: If you wake up doubled over in pain, have to crawl to the door to holler for help, break out in a drenching sweat, and then throw your guts up in a trash can because you can't get to the toilet, it's probably not just a virus. The next day I got up, napped, showered, napped some more, then worked the evening shift with my gut still aching. By the next morning, it was apparent I wasn't getting any better, so DMan hauled me to the Urgent Care. After multiple pokings, a non-revealing chest x-ray, and iffy blood work, I was sent to another building for a CT scan. I don't know if my experience is normal or not, not having had the displeasure of a CT scan before, but CT must stand for "Cruel Torture" because that's what it was. I'm already hurting from my ribs to my pelvis and feel about to explode from what little I've eaten for the past two days, then they make me drink nearly an entire container -- the exact same puke cup DMan had been using! -- of "contrast" mixed with cranberry and grape juice, sit for an hour in a cold room in a hospital gown, drink ANOTHER puke bowl full, then the torture really began when I'm lying on the scanner bed while the lady shoots more stuff in my IV AND up my backside and tells me to "hold it in." That, my dear, is impossible. Luckily I ran so fast to the nearby bathroom when she told me I could get up that I didn't see what a mess I'd made on her scanner table when my sphincter failed me. If I hadn't felt sick before, I was definitely sick now!

   Back to Urgent Care for more poking, then the diagnosis of possible ruptured appendix with small bowel blockage and the directive to get to Mercy hospital pronto for surgery. Turns out my "virus" was my appendix perforating and leaking into my gut. Even though I detest hospitals, I was tickled by this point to have surgery if it would make me feel better. And I did. When I woke up, I was feeling good, very little pain even from the incisions, and I thought "this is easy peezy." The doc even told me most appendectomies are done as outpatient surgery and patients go home the same afternoon. I wasn't so lucky.

   The next morning, which just happened to be my birthday, dawned with me puking up anything I'd ever eaten or drank, including the delicious "contrast" with juice from the CT scan. There is nothing I hate more than puking, or so I thought. When I couldn't stop upchucking, guess else I got for my birthday? An NG tube of my very own! Now poor DMan had to watch the green slime flying out of MY nose while we were chatting. Thankfully no one else came to see me that day because I was miserable -- Worst Birthday Ever!

   Besides the horror of being shot in the gut with Lovenox (prevents blood clots) every day and having my gown hiked up and my gut poked by every person that came in the room, there is no damn privacy in the hospital. I am a very private person when it comes to my bathroom habits, but there is no provision for that. I had to pee in the "party hat" (as DMan called it) container in the front of the toilet, then scooch back if I was lucky enough to make some magic (what I called going #2 because it felt like I would need magic to make it happen). Luckily I didn't have a roommate to hear all my grunting and groaning on the toilet and smell my deposits, but I couldn't even flush away the evidence before I had guests. I had to leave the toilet unflushed until the staff documented my "progress." It made me want to sneak down the hall and use the visitor bathroom just for the pleasure of flushing. Then the day I left I was on the toilet trying to make magic to relieve some severe gut cramping while DMan was visiting. He's a sweetie and was sitting by the outside door so he wouldn't hear me. I was wrangling my two gowns (to keep warm and hide my bootie) up and positioning myself to hit the back of the toilet and not the party hat when my IV tube pops out of the port and solution is squirting all over me. 

   "Um, DMan, can you call the nurse? My IV popped out."

   "Can't you pinch it off like you would a hose?" he asks.

   I wanted to kill him. "No, I can't pinch it off. I'm holding up my gowns with one hand and holding the tube with the other, I don't have another hand to pinch it off with. CALL THE NURSE." 

   Before long the nurse breezed in the bathroom, stuck my tube back in the port, and breezed back out saying it was "no big deal," but I was mortified. And magic doesn't happen when you're mortified, even magic bubbles. Somehow they finally let me out even though I couldn't fart on command and my bowels weren't gurgling like a fountain. I think they got tired of me walking circles around the nurses station and staring at them with eyes pleading to be discharged.

   So now DMan and I are home, recovering together. After an extensive tour of both local hospitals and the accumulation of a few funny memories -- plus many we'd just as soon forget -- we hope we don't see another hospital for a long, long, long time!

(A YouTube video of an appendectomy if you're into that sort of thing. I couldn't watch!)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AGQ-PTm4-HA 

Random rants and raves

   Oscar night is finally here! I'm jazzed and bummed at the same time. Jazzed to see all the fashion -- in fact I'm missing the E! channel's Countdown to the Red Carpet right now -- and find out who wins the Oscars. Bummed that this is the last red carpet event of the season. What the hell can I look forward to now to get me through the rest of this never-ending winter?! I'm also bummed that it's the first red carpet since my bestie moved to Virginia. We love watching the red carpet together, having a cocktail (or three), dishing on who looks fabulous as well as hideous, and maybe even watching a bit of the awards show itself. But not tonight. Tonight I'll be watching solo. Rather than letting a bummed mood spoil my red carpet fun, I am going to make it an event just for me, dress up in something other than sweats, and instead of a cocktail I'll have a big glass of wine. Cheers, Bestie, I know you'll be here with me in spirit!

    I am hooked on "Royals" by Lorde, the tune that won the Grammy for 2014 song of the year. In a time when every pop song on the radio has the same artificial techno sound, the lyrics have no heart, and the chick singers all whine like they are 15-year olds from New Jersey, this song made me turn it up and listen instead of change the channel. I was mesmerized, like when I first heard Adele's "Rolling In The Deep" (and still love it!), and I've wanted to hear "Royals" over and over. For being only sixteen years old, this Lorde gal has a unique, soulful voice that actually brings heart and deeper meaning to the song. I hope the music industry that wants everyone to be the same doesn't ruin her good thing. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pVB6np4qwG0 

   I'm tickled that today's big storm wasn't as bad (so far at least!) as predicted, but I am damn sick of this winter. Enough already. Please Mother Nature, bring on spring and give us a break!

   Time to get red carpet ready and fire up the E! channel. If you want to dish about the Oscar fashions or "Royals," chat me up!!  

What A Difference A Mantra Makes

   2013 may have been the Chinese year of the snake, but it was the Roni year of the black funk, aka depression. I will admit I am prone to being overly anxious and a "negative Nellie" anyway, but through the entire damn year nothing turned out the way I wanted. Nothing happened with my writing -- no fame, no fortune (hey, a writer gal has to dream a little to keep her writer mojo going), barely even any readers. My numbers didn't come up on the MegaMillions jackpot. My over-fifty body started sagging like a building about to implode, and my allergies tortured me regardless of the season. The closest this beach babe came to the beach all year was Biloxi, MS, which isn't a beach at all in my book. Even my new salon job, which I was hoping would turn my life around, had worn me slick by the time the holidays were over. I am not superstitious, but 2013 felt cursed to me. Then when 2014 started off looking just as black, and all I could see on the horizon was more fucuckta circumstances to keep me funked up -- i.e. my bestie moving clear across the country, plus more snow and arctic temperatures on the way to continue the Polar Vortex (un)fun we had all December -- I decided it was time for a fresh start. If I couldn't change my life, then by golly I could change my attitude about my life. And voila, my new mantras were born!

Mantra #1: I DO NOT CARE

   I'll give you some background here on where the mantras came from so you won't think I'm trying to act brilliant. Brilliant I am not, but I am smart enough to steal great lines from movies and morph them into mantras. This first one came from "Remember the Titans," an awesome movie I've seen a zillion times, when the white coach's football-crazy daughter Sheryl (played to perfection by a very young Hayden Panettiere) is droning on about the strength of certain players on their team and Nicky, the black football coach's daughter who couldn't care less about football, looks Sheryl in the eye and enunciates crystal clearly: "I do not care." As in, end of discussion. As in, back the "freak" off. That shuts Sheryl up without another word. I've loved that line since the first time I heard it -- the boldness, the fierceness of her conviction -- so I stole it. 
   Now I don't go around lighting incense and chanting "I do not care" all day. That isn't how my mantras work. But I do say the words in my head -- and sometimes even out loud when no one is listening -- when I need them as a shield to ward off things that threaten to annoy me, make me anxious, or worse yet piss me off. Things like the weather forecast, my bestie moving 1100 miles away, finding out my MegaMillions numbers didn't win AGAIN, or having to wait in the cattle call of poor folks like me to have VITA do my taxes for free -- things that in the past would have opened the door for the black funk to grab hold of me -- are vaporized by my IDNC mantra. How it works I really don't know, but it IS working. DMan even mentioned that I seem more at ease lately and don't go crazy and scream at the TV anymore when the forecast calls for snow or freezing temps.
   Don't think that my mantra has made me heartless, though, especially about things like my bestie leaving me. I miss her like crazy! But when I say to myself "I do not care," I mean that I am not going to let the hole her leaving has left in my life swamp me into the depths of the black funk. Instead, I am going to focus on the fact that her new life in Virginia is about making HER dreams come true and let it be a good thing. For both of us. Somehow.

Mantra #2:  No Day But Today
   
   This mantra came from lyrics from "Rent," the extraordinary play by Jonathan Larson, who died suddenly the day before the show's first off-Broadway preview performance, that was later turned into a movie. If you haven't seen it, please do. The music is some of the most powerful, moving, and life-affirming you will ever hear. And listening to the lyrics after knowing that Larson died without any warning before realizing the culmination of years of work on his dream piece, it truly hits home that there is no day but today.
   I come from a family whose motto is "prior planning prevents piss poor performance," so the here and now, but especially the future, has always been a source of trepidation for me. How can I plan for any contingency I might face? What more can I do to prepare, to insure I am in control of whatever I might face? Combine that mindset with being a first-born, type-A personality, perfectionist with great expectations and it is no wonder that contemplating the future, which was always foremost in my thoughts, was a source of dread and gut-clenching angst. So the "No day but today" mantra is my shield against worries about the future ruining my today, my reminder to relish the right now and forget about the tomorrow that I can't control anyway.

   These mantras may seem like no-brainers that shouldn't require repeating in my head just to get me through my day, but honestly, they have been life-savers. Literally. Before I often thought about dying. Not about wanting to "kill myself," just that death would be a relief from the black funks that clouded most of my life. But now my mantra reminds me that if "I do not care" then nothing can get to me. Unless I let it and I choose not to let it. Now my mantra reminds me to pay attention to "No day but today" so I am able to enjoy the little joys that flow through the day instead of squandering them by trying to plan for and control tomorrow. My mantras may be simple and stupid, but they've gotten me through nearly two months of 2014 without a black funk in sight. They feel like miracle mantras, and I'm sticking with them.
   If you've got a mantra or some other tool you use to help you get through your funks, I'd love to hear about it. It may help me, it may help someone else. Feel free to use mine if it suits you as well.   

"I Do Not Care" scene link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zrUMn6RS2Uk 

"No Day But Today" link:   http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bnOO7vy6DD4

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!"