What I haven’t done

Recently I conducted my first jump-start of a car using those confusing cables. Not that it was a successful attempt, but I’m patting myself on the back anyway for at least trying. Until now, I’ve always deferred to whomever was the fastest to act, usually whatever man was around. Dead batteries are one of those let’s-see-how-much-of-a-manly-man-you-are kind of moments. Who am I to get in the way of that? Except when there’s no one else around but you, your daughter’s car with the dead battery on the faraway subdivision street, and your very-much-alive car purring away behind you.  In the spirit of doing new things or of procrastinating on things that you don’t really want to do — ever —  and inspired by Suniverse’s post on the matter, I submit my top 10 ne’er-do-well  list:

1. Sang Karaoke. It’s so popular. Everyone loves to sing. Everyone has such a good singing voice. Not really, but if feels that way sometimes. I always feel like a party pooper when the equipment is pulled out and plugged in. Recently, I’ve decided I need to practice a go-to Karaoke song so that, if forced, I can fake my way through. How about  Meg White singing “In the Cold, Cold Night?”  Can’t mess that up too much, can I?

2. Skied down a big hill. Never made it off the bunny run. Childhood traumas are hard to overcome. It’s cross-country all the way for me.

3. Paid for a manicure or pedicure. But maybe I will someday. I used to think I never would, but after my first session with an esthetician as a birthday gift, I realized it’s really more than just a frivolous indulgence, it’s about taking care of your body. I have skin problems. This has kept me away from places where people might scrutinize it.

4. Had the good drugs at the dentist. The “laughing gas” was pooh-poohed by my mother and the post-surgery pain pills were always flushed down the toilet. “Those things will turn you into an addict,” she’d say as we watched the colorful dots swirl to their watery grave. For whatever reason, the dentists I’ve gone to as an adult don’t use laughing gas, or their shots don’t seem to work on me, or they’ve deemed my procedures below the need for the “good stuff.”  Dentistry = pain. What’s up with that? Am I on some list?

5. Dated a man outside my race. Not by choice.  I would have been open to it if it were the right guy. It just never happened. I was quasi-stalked by a guy of another race, but it was more of a family effort at matchmaking. Did I mention I was a sophomore in high school at the time?

6. Seriously played a drinking game. Even at the nadir — or would it be zenith? — of my youthful stupidity, I backed away from those games. I had a deep fear of projectile vomiting in public.

7. Mowed a lawn, used a weed-whacker or one of those loud, exhaust-spewing blowers. I feign ignorance around garden implements requiring gas and oil. I do what I can by hand and leave the rest to the experts.

8. Visited the tropics. I’ve been to the semi-tropical areas of Florida and the Mediterranean region, but never to a place with rain forests, bird-eating spiders, and sassy monkeys that jump out of the jungle and throw fruit. I’m not sure why it doesn’t appeal to me.

9. Walked a picket line, crossed a picket line (I should note that I was asked to do so but would not.) or engaged in a public protest. For many years, as a member of the media,  this was expressly prohibited. Now? I feel unless I’m on fire for a cause, I’d rather do good works (plant trees, pick up trash, tutor children, feed the homeless) that have tangible results.

10. Watched one episode of ‘Oprah’ except that time when I was called for jury duty and sat in that big room half the day waiting for my number to be called. ‘Oprah’ was on and I admit to peeking at the screen for a few minutes. Which reminds me, I’ve never served on a jury. I’ve been called three times and dismissed three times. I’m sure it’s because I never watched ’Oprah.’

And because my list is so awesome it goes to eleven:

11. Participated in NaNoWriMo. Not that I didn’t entertain the idea for a few days, poll friends on Facebook, develop an outline and a chapter plan, set up an account on the site, name the book, and be struck with a great plot idea on Nov. 1, the first day.  LIfe, however, got in my way. In addition to many other things, our Internet went out yesterday. Not that it should stop me, but all my notes and plans were hidden online. When I considered packing up and going to a local coffee house, the school called to tell me one of my kids was sick and needed to come home. Later that evening, after a new Internet wireless router was purchased and installed, the words would not come. I was tired. I was beaten. I gave up. Not on the idea in some form, but on NaNoWriMo itself. Damn.

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Snake charms

Garter Snake, close up, taken in North Ontario...

It's NOT gardener snake. It's garter snake. Without arms or legs you cannot effectively raise crops.

Having been reared by a person rife with irrational fears, I’ve had to work hard all my adult life to reign in the crazy. Two things I’m still working on in the fear department: packs of feral dogs and small electrical appliances spontaneously combusting. (I’ve had an unfair share of freak accidents involving home appliances.) The former is a justifiable fear as I live one-half mile from a particularly mean part of Detroit that regularly expels feral dogs. The latter, well, that’s what therapy is for, right?

I do not have a fear of snakes, per se, but when I go West I take measures to avoid rattle snakes.  LIttle did I know some folks keep them as cuddly pets. (Stop goofing around and click on over to The Bloggess; you won’t get what I’m saying unless you do. Plus, she’s so funny.)  I showed this post to my husband and he gave me “the look.” Even though our marriage is so good it goes to eleven, I know my husband doesn’t always get a certain side of my humor.

The Bloggess’s post about snakes — or is it about signs? — reminded me of period in my life when posting crazy signs all over the place was a major part of my weekly routine. The best ever? Removing all the toilet paper rolls from the ladies room (two floors up from our office in a crumbling old high-rise), posting explanatory signs on the stall doors about paper rationing and how employees could earn squares on the merit system, and stashing the emergency supply on the 23rd-floor fire escape. (Wow. Who knew wind could unravel toilet paper so quickly?)

The Bloggess’s post about signs — or is it snakes? –begs me to share this:  On a bike ride through a thickly forested park last week, my friend and I happened upon two women walking their dogs. Suddenly, they began shrieking and waving their arms. We pedaled over to see if they needed help.

“Snake!” they shouted and pointed toward this bitty little striped garter snake slithering silently past my front tire and over a bed of fallen leaves.

“It’s harmless, only a garter snake,” I told them.

Then, (It was not my goal to be a bitch, but I knew it was bitchy the minute it came out.) I said to the snake: “Go on, little snake, before someone runs over you or steps on you.” Because I knew, just knew, that if we hadn’t come along, a foot or a log was coming down on that snake.

Silence.

“Well, we’re not afraid of snakes,” one of them finally said.We just didn’t expect to see one out here.”

Of course not. The dense Michigan woods is no place for a small snake.  They belong in the Wal*Mart pet department next to the goldfish.

Now, if I were shivering in a paper gown at the hospital awaiting a colonoscopy and I saw one slinking along the carpeted floor, I might scream and wave my arms because there was nothing in the pre-procedural literature about snakes. Nothing.

 

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Why blogs are important

While on blogus hiatus I didn’t publish, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t write. Here’s a draft from mid-August:

My first blog

I am in a world of pain today.

The kind of pain delivered bedside, on a cold platter, following a night of alcoholic indiscretion.

My breakfast of regret consists of humble pie baked with the fruits of worry, stress and fear. Weeks before, I planned a night out with friends* that did not happen because hours earlier I could not access my bank account.  Today, I opened a stern letter from the IRS explaining everything.

The letter says the games are over. Since I didn’t pay up like they asked, they have my lunch money and they’re not giving it back. Oh, and if I don’t comply with all their terms, they’ll come back and take more toys.

Life feels very unfair. We work hard. We live very frugally. If we go on vacation, out to eat, do anything, it’s with cash, and planned with careful consideration of our household budget.

Simply put, our brown rice days are rarely spiced with spontaneity.  We landed in trouble a few years ago when the economy severed our main sources of income. I tried for almost a year to find work. Here and there I had odd jobs with expiration dates. We drained our savings and retirement accounts to keep our home. We relied upon the help of family and friends and the food pantry at our community center until we could get above water.

Then, my daughter with asthma lost her medical insurance.

I’ve gotten really good at reducing, recycling, and the wonderful world of resale. (Really, we have some fabulous second-hand shops around here.)  We grow vegetables. We take part in clothing and household item swap parties and freecycle with our neighbors.

Slowly, things have gotten better. I found a solution for my daughter’s health care. Things are not what they once were and won’t be until I find full-time work to replace the lost income. We’ve made good on most of our problems except one. And that isn’t an easy fix. Finally, it seemed we had a solution. All we needed to do was sign the papers. But before we could uncap our pens, they swallowed my modest little bank account.

*Meanwhile, I live in this wonderful community of people who really do hold one another up. Many of us are paddling the same straits. That is why we often go out, not expensively, to boost morale. Most of this spring and summer I’ve been too preoccupied or sick to join the group outings. I so badly wanted to go out on this night. Most of all, I wanted to save face.  

And I almost made it. But I didn’t get past the ATM. My shame and fury sent me home that night.

Five days later, at book club, I am a raging river. I want to apologize for not showing up the week before. One thing led to another. Suddenly I was really drunk.

Usually I go to the gym or ride my bike or meditate or clean.
Usually I know better than to hit the bottle.
I was too drunk to drive, to make any rational decision. The host sat with me for an hour after the meeting, on her couch, talking, while I sobered up enough to drive the few blocks to get home.

I woke this morning to a cup of hot coffee waved under my nose and the worried faces of my family.
I suffered through this day without taking so much as a Tylenol to ease the throbbing.
I sat with it, with what I did, what I said, all of it.
This is why blogs are important.
This is why I am back.

Pictures of my life, Part IV

Girl, you have no faith in medicine.
Is there a way to find the cure for this implanted in a pill? 
Is it just the name upon the bottle That determines if it will? 
Is the problem you're allergic to a well familiar name? 
Do you have a problem with this one if the results are the same?
-- Jack White, The White Stripes

 

In black and white, I’m on  a regimen of crap that I hate. The pills get stuck in my throat. The one I take at night sometimes makes me nauseated. I resent the idea that I need these things to feel/appear normal. Sometimes they don’t work at all. I’ve prided myself on being medication-free for years. I told myself that it meant I was healthy. Was I? Am I now? Today I heard a common-sense talk about wisdom and knowing when to let go of control. Wisdom is knowing when to take the medicine. Wisdom is knowing there isn’t a fix at a nearby big-box store for every problem in life.

In the world of color, I added some red to my hair.

Still haven’t mastered the art of self-portrait photography

 

 

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I've got red on me — again

No, not The Hives ...

... but these hives

 

Allergies are hell.

They killed my father.

I’m not sure why, unless it’s psychosomatic or a hell of a coincidence, that a (suspected) severe allergic reaction has colored the last 12 days of my life. Each morning I awake to a new batch of itching, screaming hives, an angry mob swarming somewhere on my body. By noon, if I’m lucky, the swelling calms to an angry skin flush. I look like I fell asleep in the sun.

Nothing has been spared. Nothing. Today my whole face is swollen and hot to the touch.  My husband and I noted that I would not look good with those coveted collagen-injected lips so many women of Hollywood are sporting.

I’ve been to the doctor twice.

I’ve had a cortisone shot.

I’m living on anti-histamines.

I have an appointment for a full line of tests. But that’s not until next week.

I must wait.

Suspecting the lavender-infused laundry detergent I bought a month ago, I’ve been washing and rewashing everything.

Suspecting certain foods, I’ve been eating cautiously, making note of everything that crosses my lips.

Suspecting my overgrown yard and all its pollen and mold spore glory, I’ve not set food outside to tend to any of it.

I’m inside, slightly drugged, with ice packs where they need to be.

What a life.

Allergies are hell.

 

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Is that a pear in your pocket?

By cwbuecheler via Creative Commons

Age moves on stealth feet. Except that tip-toeing is getting noisier with each passing year. In a few years I imagine it’ll be like Gene Simmons, in full Kiss regalia, stomping all the juice out of my youth.

It’s getting harder to hide the signs, such as the under-eye circles (Just how much of that caulk they sell at Sephora can you cake under each eye?) and that flotation device permanently attached to my waist.

Years of smoking and tanning have etched lines on my once-perfect skin. Yes, I once had perfect skin. No makeup needed. Ever. I quit smoking 17 years ago. More than anything I hope my lungs have somewhat regenerated. But my skin, well, the damage is done. I wish every young person lighting up and buying a tanning club membership would consider this. I know I didn’t.

If anyone is guilty of thinking youth would last forever, it’s me. I had it so easy for so long. I always looked far younger than my years. I was carded for alcohol well into my 30s. (I was carded at Target last week for buying NyQuil but that’s something different entirely.) But now? My knees ache and throb after I run on the treadmill. They require ointments to feel better.

I’m getting the hereditary veiny, twisted hands of my mother and grandmother. I don’t sleep well at night anymore. I no longer feel sexy. My body cannot produce a baby. My silhouette no longer forms the hourglass figure of youth.

I am a pear.

I am the pear-shaped princess of perimenopause.

Inside I feel young. I have good energy. I am strong. I have will and fight. Most of the time. I still swing on the swings at the playground and laugh at poop jokes and The Three Stooges.

I don’t want to fight  gravity with shots and creams and endless slices under the knife. Yet, if the money were available, I’d probably submit to “just one” procedure. I’d have my eyes fixed. They are aging me faster than a carton of Marlboro Reds. But, I know one procedure begets another and another. Younger eyes would beg for a smoother forehead and taut cheeks and a tight neck. On and on it goes until you are a cartoon character named Joan Rivers.

So, what’s gotten the pear-shaped princess singing the blues lately? I’m surrounded most days by much younger women. Women at the starting end of the fertility curve.  Women who are worried about getting pregnant while they are pregnant. One day I did the math. Some of these mothers were flying out of their mother’s uterus as I was peeling rubber out of the high school parking lot on commencement night.  I am — gasp — the old mom.  I don’t even know where everyone my age is hanging out anymore. Are they all dead?

God knows, I try to go out and party like it’s 1989. I’m almost always the first to check out. I was called on it at the last girls’ night out. I’d been up since 5 a.m., had one too many glasses of red wine, and had a date with my pillow.

“Lame, lame, lame,” said one of the young moms as she slapped my drooping shoulders.  She had the fiery intensity of a woman determined to get her way.  ”You are coming this time.”

So I did. If only to save face, to prove them wrong about being the old mom. I found a second wind and together we christened the newest wine bar in town. I’m glad I did. Even if it meant I had to wear dark glasses to school drop-off the next morning and go home and put an ice pack on my face before taking a three-day nap. The rest of those young things? They looked fresh as morning dew on an Easter lily.

Damned youth.

 

If you aren’t already a fan, check out Bossy’s take on a wishy-washy friend named Peri.

Glad I didn't NaBloPoMo this month

Why I’m not posting as much:

1. Our Internet service is on. Then it’s off. Then it’s back on again. Then it’s on but really, really slow.  What’s up with that, Wide Open West?

2. My free, uninterrupted time is on. Then it’s off. Then it’s back on again for a second. Then it’s off. By the time I have free time again, I’m really, really slow.

3. All my good post ideas come to me at the most inappropriate moments. One day, I wrote the idea in pen on my bare thigh. Another day, I scribbled it with my right hand while my left hand steered the car down the expressway. Another day I tried to write a post on toilet paper.  I  can’t figure out what “whe whit xhxik. shee. I hoo gon tably aa vaie” means.  I’m sure it’s something brilliant.

4. Lately, I’d rather be trying to reverse the signs of aging with restorative sleep and reverse the effects of eating with heavy-duty exercise. Also, I have a lot of stuff simmering on the back burners but lack the cojones to publish. Maybe soon.

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Go away, homecoming

Can I say a few things about homecoming?

Whew.

Aaaaargh!

WTF?

OK. Now that I have that out of my system, I’ll say this: I’ve never cared much about homecoming. I know to some folks it is the biggest deal ever. In my high school days, the biggest thing about homecoming was using float-building parties as an excuse to be out of the house doing things that made us feel, er, floaty.

Homecoming has changed. My mother and in-laws tell me back in their day it was just a dance. Maybe you wore your good wool skirt. While I never went to a homecoming dance, my friends did. I saw the pictures. It was a night to dress up, no question, but not on the scale of your wedding or a debutante ball. I don’t recall stretch limousines, party buses, full-length beaded gowns and elaborate up-dos, either. For prom, yes. Homecoming, no.

Am I showing my age?

The first hurdle in homecoming is selecting a dress that is neither a budget-breaker nor a vomit-inducer. Luckily, my Girl from the West did a pretty good job of staying within the bounds of taste and decency. There were a few times I had to leave the dressing room in frustration due to disagreements about the proper size and fit. What I saw parading around in the dressing area was both amusing and shocking. First, that some of these dresses were made at all. Second, that they were under consideration for purchase.

The second hurdle is keeping your teenager from slipping into the abyss of senselessness and divahood.  Like wedding No. 2 and baby No. 2, you learn that most of the stuff you thought you had to have for event No. 1 was unnecessary. I had a much easier time this year getting Girl from the West to realize that she had most of what she needed in her closet.

The third hurdle, perhaps the biggest one of all, is my own lack of understanding of how some things work in this world. I had an atypical childhood. I did not participate in many things that most people would consider normal rites of passage. So, now, as the mother of teenager, I question and marvel at things other parents consider standard operating procedure. For example, the pre-dance, picture-taking hullabaloo. After taking the obligatory shots at home with the corsage and boutonniere pinning, I was instructed to drive to a stranger’s house, which possesses some outstanding feature, such as a large foyer, a formal staircase, an elaborately landscaped yard. There, I would join a herd of bored and somewhat confused parents armed with cameras.  For the next 30 minutes or so, it was the red carpet on Oscar night.  I felt like a paparazzo outside a popular celebrity hangout.

In theory, it’s a nice way to get pictures of your teen and her date. In reality, it’s ground zero for drama. Last year, there was a meltdown over a cream-colored gown getting slammed in a greasy car door. This year, one young woman felt the need to openly mock and ridicule her mother, who apparently did not know how to use a digital camera. But it doesn’t end there. This goes on until someone says, “stop the madness.”

I always feel a little off after these experiences. The kids seem spoiled and full of entitlement. The parents seem addled or resigned. I’m scared to death that I’ve become the dim-brained parent of a spoiled teen.  I’m never sure if my perceptions are shared by other parents or if I’m hyper-sensitive. Like last year, I came home, drank a glass of wine, and assumed the fetal position for the rest of the night.

In another dozen years, I get to do it all again.

Oh god, hold me.

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Tightrope

Photo by KevinT3141 via Creative Commons

I walked the tightrope for 24 hours, balanced between two undesirable outcomes: the sharp rocks of grief and despair on one side and a bubbling lava pit of anger and frustration on the other.

“We haven’t heard from (insert name of family member) in five days,” my mother said to me over the phone.

Family Member, or FM, left his home state on a Wednesday. His trip included a brief stopover in a state somewhere halfway between Point A and Point B. Between Wednesday and Monday, I called FM and left a voice mail message.

That I hadn’t heard from him didn’t give me pause. He can be like that. Plans are always lightly written in pencil.

But my mother thought something was wrong.

“It’s not like FM to be so silent on the road,” she said. “FM usually keeps in touch if there are delays.” I took her word for it. I heard the concern in the spaces between her words. I felt the tightness in her voice become a tightness in my throat.

I considered the situation: A person traveling alone across the country doesn’t show up on his arrival date. No one who has called FM has been able to reach him. Voice messages have not been returned.  I discussed these concerns with my husband and a close friend. What to do? We are not talking about a teenager or even a young adult. This is a middle-aged man who’s been trekking around the continent alone for decades. This is a person who has a history of disappearing and living off the grid on occasion.

I also considered two recent deaths of people we know who were about the same age. The most recent case involved a single man who lived alone. Through circumstances we may never know, he somehow became entangled in live electrical lines that had fallen in his back yard. The crazy part? He was an electrician. He would have known better than to pick up a live wire. Or, maybe because he was an expert he was overconfident. Either way, these tragedies played through my mind as I considered FM’s lifestyle.

Even veteran solo travelers and outdoorsmen and women run into serious trouble. To ignore our concerns meant precious time would be lost if something had happened.

Suddenly this thing took on a life of its own. Other family members and friends became involved. Two relatives made a drive to the family cottage to see if he was there. Calls were made to the state police and to his hometown police department. The more calls we made and received, the more this thing felt like a situation.

I walked the tightrope. Were we inviting trouble by flirting with its possibilities?

  • He’s fine. This is typical behavior. My mother worries so much about FM. I needed to ease her fears. Taking action felt empowering.
  • He’s an inconsiderate jerk, self-absorbed, probably met some hot young thing at a campground and has lost all sense of time and propriety.
  • He’s dead in a ravine.
  • He’s been robbed and beaten by roving criminals.
  • He’s at home watching movies.

I started thinking about the last time we saw each other, our parting words, if we were kind to each other.

The next day, as I worked my way across the taut line, sending dark thoughts to the background and focusing on the day ahead,  my cell phone buzzed.

“He’s OK,” my mother announced.

The outcome? FM’s phone service was spotty to nonexistent during his travels. Oh, and he decided to stay a few extra days at his stopping point. By his calculations he is only one day late. He is upset and embarrassed that we called the police. He thinks we overreacted, created drama.

Maybe. We had the best of intentions.

As for us, the worry warts? We are on FM’s shit list right now.  Likewise, FM is on our list, too. We think what he did was totally insensitive. One phone call could have prevented all of this. I know it’s tough to find a phone if you don’t have a cell service. But, it can be done. You ask. You offer to pay for the call. You get a roll of quarters and pump them into a pay phone.

In 24 hours I cycled from the brink of grief to a frustration so profound I had to disconnect myself from the remainder of FM’s visit.

How in this life do we balance caring enough about others to make sure they’re OK with respecting personal space and independence?

It’s a thin line.

Why do people make things so complicated?

Voice mail. Text messaging. They are not new. Both are designed to speed up the process of communication. You can call your best friend Lucy in Tulsa. If she doesn’t answer, you can leave her a message after the beep.

“Lucy, girl, it’s MomZombie.  Please call me when you emerge from your comatose slumber. I have a great idea for this weekend.”

If you are super-efficient, you can also text good ol’ Lucy to further clarify why you are calling.

The ball is now in Lucy’s court. She knows I called and texted. She knows why.

This is not a message: ”Hi. It’s me. Call.”

So, I call you back. You don’t answer. You call back. I don’t answer.

Phone tag.

Won’t somebody just say what the hell is the point of this volley?

Lately I’m getting barraged with phone calls and texts that only reveal to me you have a short fuse but do not tell me why you are trying to reach me.

WHERE R U?

PICK UP THE PHONE!!!!!

WHAT IS WRONG W/ YOU??????

Or,

“Hi, it’s me. Why won’t you answer your phone? What is wrong with you? This is getting really annoying that you do this.You need to answer your phone.”

Where is it written that just because I am “reachable” everywhere I must respond immediately? I think there is a reasonable window of opportunity for acknowledging and responding to phone and text messages. Not everyone agrees with me on this one.

I think I am entitled to let the call go to voice mail when:

I am in the shower.

When I am in the bathroom doing bathroomy things.

When I am sleeping or relaxing.

When I am engaged in some type of one-on-one activity with another person who would be greatly disturbed by the answering of a phone or the reply of a text.

Is this not the POINT of the aforementioned messaging systems?

Rather than send 200 texts and redial my number another 250 times yelling and ranting about how I’m not answering my phone why not tell me why you are calling and what you need.  How about:

“I’m done with my appointment. You can pick me up now.”

“There’s a big insect-y thing on my wall and I need you to come over and smash it for me.”

“Please bring home a loaf of wheat bread.”

Wasn’t that easy? One call, one text and the whole idea travels like magic dust from sender to receiver.

Now, if only I could figure out how to comment on Blogger blogs.

mummytime

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