Thursday, February 25, 2010
I used to consider myself a good sleeper. I worked hard all day and fell into bed exhausted at the end of a busy day. I'd get up to pee sometime in the middle of the night, do my business and then go right back to dreamland.
I considered my blissful slumber proof of a healthy mind and body.
And I totally took it for granted.
I don't sleep so well anymore. When I do, I have nightmares (so wild and crazy that recounting them to the blogosphere would probably have any readers deeming me a whack job).
I also have middle of the night anxiety.
That script, described, would also bring into question my sanity, or lack of.
"Is American Idol on for one hour or two tonight? Is that a bug on the rug? My God this blanket is hot. I hope Bear ate dinner tonight. Did I just hear the doorbell? What effect, if any, will global warming have on fish flies? Did Daddio just skip a breath?
Last night I had none of those thoughts. I remember staggering to the bathroom, and not looking at the clock.
And before that I remember talking to Daddio. I was laying, mummified and speaking like a drunk in a stupor. "Bear is depressed" I remember saying "he hates his life."
Daddio sprung from our bed and into his son's room to inquire about his mental health.
He told me this morning his son calmed his fears when he answered "Huh? Mom is nuts, I'm not depressed!"
Daddio also told me that as I slept I looked just like one of the Ninja Turtles (as in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles...not a nice image, I might add)...mouth wide open, buck teeth over exposed.
I can handle that...a small price to pay for that kind of sleep.
I woke up this morning refreshed.
And horrified....I'd slept in my clothes.
For the record...pajamas may be overrated.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
This morning I had one of Oprah's "light bulb" moments. I was nursing a cup of coffee and reading the Parade insert from last Sunday's paper.
Conquer Old Fitness Hang-Ups the article title read.
Do you cringe at memories of being the last kid picked for a team in gym class or being teased for having two left feet? The first line asked.
That really grabbed my attention....
Oh yes, I cringed and I still cringe.
I remember it like it was yesterday. Tales of a fifth grade girly girl.
We were in gym class and were being taught a new game. The game involved a small group running up and down the length of the gym, while bouncing a ball and trying to get it into a basket high off the ground. One team would try to score and the other would try to prevent them from doing so.
My first introduction to basketball. A team sport.
I liked the look of this game. It was better than baseball or kickball where the focus was on one kid.
A big time microscopic (feeling) focus on a "You can't really do much of anything athletic can you?" kid like me.
The teacher asked us to get into groups of five. Everyone looked around and picked a couple of friends.
I had lots of friends and figured it would be easy to gather a group.
No such luck, you see..... I had a reputation.
The girl most likely to.... fall, trip, choke, lose..... fail at any and all athletic endeavors.
It wasn't so much that I was the last kid picked that hurt...it was that the kid picked right before me had a broken leg.
How do you play basketball with a broken leg?
Better than me....that's how.
Then there was the memory of the time I decided to become a Black Belt (never mind that there were 500 levels before becoming a Black Belt).
There was a dojo (school) in our neighborhood that taught a style of judo.
With a hope of conquering something, anything resembling a smidgen of athleticism I signed up.
I had no idea what to expect when I went for my first lesson.
After struggling through the first five minutes of warm up I knew I was totally outta place.
Tales of a teenage girly girl.
The dojo was filled with girls (I'm pretty sure they were girls) wondering (aloud) why anyone would come to learn martial arts with a face full of makeup and curled hair.
After ten minutes of that brutal first lesson a strange fluid began to leak from my forehead and trickle down my face. On its way it gathered some mascara which dripped into my eyes and caused me to do that goofy opened mouth one eyed look...resulting in what could best be described as a wink.
The bull -dykes thought that was hilarious.
And maybe even a come-on.
I didn't go back to find out.
(Disclaimer.....Just so you know....I don't think that all girls that do karate or martial arts are bull-dykes or butch...I'm just sayin. And in case anyone reading this may have been in that class or remembers this event, my number is unlisted and I've changed my appearance so don't even bother trying to find me.)
Being pathetically un-athletic and The Person Most Likely Not To Ever Break A Sweat is a hang up I still carry to this very day....a few of my closest friends are gifted athletes and I've just recently learned that even my sister, who runs like a bow-legged penguin (it's a family thing) is a natural at throwing a little ball.
I'm told she's showing some promise as a decent Beer Pong player.
I do sometimes feel less than….
The author goes on to explain that because of these tramatic childhood events we don't want a repeat and tend to shy away from these kinds of things.
Reading that article helped me to realize that painful memories from my youth most certainly formed the person I am today.
One who shuns exercise and refuses to ever compete physically.
And God forbid, I ever do anything that makes me sweat....
The memory of that freakin burning mascara in my eye is still wayyyyy too fresh.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
The love of my life, my husband Daddio, is one hell of a cool guy. He’s a good provider, honest as the day is long, hard working and easy on the eyes too.
Daddio is fun and kind and always willing to lend a hand.
He has lots of other wonderful qualities, but there is one thing missing.
His sympathy gene.
Daddio has no time for whiners…or complainers.
When I came hobbling down the stairs a couple of days ago suffering from a bad case of Bleacher Back (4 high school events in one week) I was decending carefully and taking the stairs slowly, when I got to the bottom and rounded the corner I was hoping to run into some sympathy.
Daddio sat, rocking in his lazy boy, “what the hell’s the matter with you?” he asked.
Daddio hates when we go into graphic and detail rich descriptions of our pain.
So before I started into a lengthy explanation describing how my back felt like it had a red hot poker, with a jagged edge stabbing deep into my lower back and snaking its way down toward my rear…I just answered “I musta pulled something in my back.”
Dr. Daddio gave me his usual prescription….do some stretches, and have some water.
Um, some water, okay…. I’m sure that will do me wonders.
Water is the cure for all that ails us. According to our personal live-in physician, water is all that and more.
Last week Bear had some kind of virus, he tends to spike a very high temp when he’s sick. He called me at work to get some medicine directions and a little phone love from his momma.
“Ma, I feel like crap. My head’s about to explode and my eyes feel like someone is gouging them out with an ice pick. My throat is bloody red, stinging and it’s so scratchy I feel like I swallowed some sandpaper. My body aches like I was beaten with a metal bat.”
“And I feel so hot like I’m about to start on fire, my temperature, I’m almost positive, is at least 104.” (He was exaggerating just a bit with that last piece of information).
‘Oh my God, let me talk to your dad” I said to my sick baby.
“He’s okay” Daddio said “he just needs to drink more water.”
That phone call was enough to send me into a huge headache. I swear it pounded like I was getting hit in the head by a sledge hammer. Not just an ordinary sledge hammer, one with an extra knob on it that hit the side of my temple as the big side came down on the top of my head, and each time the hammer struck it made my teeth on top hurt, like there was an electric wire woven between the teeth which gave a shock like jolt about every 6 seconds or so.
I talked myself through the pain (and off the ledge) and had a large cup of ice water.
Daddio would have been proud.
Wonder if that would work for my aching feet? My new shoes aren’t breaking in to easily. I’ve got a blister (the size of a fifty cent piece) that hurts so bad it feels like its been squeezed in a steel vice. The skin is torn and it burns like someone took a Brillo pad and scratched it raw.
Since it feels like I’m getting stung by a jelly fish every time I step down, I’ve been walking funny and that has put a strain on my calf muscle. That calf muscle feels so tight it’s like I’ve had it in a too small compression sock for a week straight. The sensation of the veins being squished and squeezed by the swollen muscles is almost more than I can take.
When I try to step lightly and sideways to accommodate my sore leg I put an odd strain on my hip. Every time I take a few steps my hip joint makes a clicking sound. I’m sure the cartilage is gone and the bone is rubbing against bone.
When I fall into the front door tonight after work the good doctor will probably take one look at me and tell me I’m lacking some…you guessed it….H2O.
Man,…no one ever said being an over descriptive hypochondriac living with a holistic healer was going to be easy.
Thank you for listening.....
Friday, February 19, 2010
Actually, they were young wrestlers in stretchy singlets, fighting for all they are worth to make it to a State Championship.
My nephew is captain of this team. He's gone undeafeated this, his senior year.
My daughter and I were the slack jawed spectators seated in the second row watching, with horror, our first ever wrestling match (her sweetheart was with us, he used to wrestle so this was nothing new to him).
The intensity and the noise took me by surprise. The animated coaches made me giggle and point.
When it came time for my nephew to compete, I'd gotten over the shock of seeing heads and necks being bent and twisted to odd and very dangerous looking angles. I was beginning to not wince at seeing unnatural bulging of quadriceps and every other muscle group located in the human body.
I was totally and completely into the Dance.
I watched as my nephew got into the zone...he paced back and forth and shook his body, right then left, then paced some more. Finally he bent his neck to one side and then the other, bent at his knees, went up and down and down and up and this fine tuned machine was ready for attack mode.
With his ears covered and a colored band on his ankle he stepped forward, he crouched down low and rocked forward to shake his unlucky opponent's hand.
The striped official blew his whistle and the "B Man" went for the juggler.
One two three....slam bam thank you mam.
Poetry in motion.
A total squash.
B-Man, you impressed the holy hell outta your old Aunt Beth.... I coulda (shoulda and woulda) been your biggest fan.
Maybe you heard me yelling and cheering for you?
I love you Brett and you truly are The Man.
Look at that cocky head tilt....we shoulda seen it coming.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
My daughter loves feet. She loves feet so much that when I saw a cookie cutter that was a foot shape, I knew she would love it and I couldn't resist buying it for her.
A foot shaped cookie wouldn't do much for me....but hey, to each his own, I guess.
My niece also loves feet. She wants to be a Podiatrist when she gets older.
She often sneaks beneath the table when there are a group of us gathered and will select a foot to massage.
When the lucky recipient melts into the soothing massage, passing the point of no return, the masseuse hands over a bill.
Never more than a dollar or two.
That kid is going to work herself rich one day.
So I guess maybe the love of feet is a perspective, an acquired taste like fine wine or sushi.....?
Monday, February 15, 2010
"Mom" he whispered, touching my cheek.
Nothing and I mean nothing moves me faster than a kid, inches from my sleeping face in the middle of the night whispering "mom".
"Something happened" he said
"What? What? What happened? What's wrong? Is it something bad? What happened" I asked as I jumped out of bed. Noticing the clock said midnight.
"I just saved somebody's life" he whispered.
Daddio began to stir and wonder aloud why in the hell we were carrying on a conversation whilst he was trying to get a bit o shut eye.
"He wants to tell me something, I'll be right back" I told him.
I followed my big hairy man child into his sister's room, where she sat in her bed, waiting for us.
"I told him to wake you up" she said.
His story begins at the railroad tracks near our home. On the way home from his girlfriend's house he was stopped by a long train. A nightly occurrence on this road. The tracks lead to a train yard on one side of this intersection. Trains go back and forth between three different tracks. It's common to see them unhook some of the cars and then send them up a different track to meet and connect with a different train.
As my son waited, he watched as the two trains' separated and jockeyed around. As the new neighboring cars were about to connect to each other my son saw a man on a bike become tired of waiting and begin to cross in-between the two railroad cars.
"He just made it to the middle mom" my son said "when one train sped up to connect with the other. The guy's tire stuck in the track and he fell off the bike. I watched as the train grabbed his bike and bent it in half. I got out of my car and ran and pulled him off the tracks".
Did you ever see someone laugh and cry at the same time?
My heart split into two totally separate parts.
"Oh my GOD...YOU SAVED A LIFE", proud mother of a real live hero exclaims.
"Oh my GOD...YOU WERE ON THE RAILROAD TRACKS WITH A TRAIN"...hysterical mother of a kid who challenged a train screeches.
"Right when I got him off, the trains connected, and then they cleared the tracks" he explained.
"He was all bloody, his mouth was cut and his finger was bleeding and looked broken" he said
My son went on to tell us that the man thanked him and said "bless you young man". He then left his bent, broken bike and started walking".
"I picked him up and took him home mom" my hero said. "He was hurt and it was cold".
My heart's split personality was at it again.
GOOD BOY, I thought. You listened when I said to be kind and giving.
YOU IDIOT, I thought...didn't you hear a word I said about strangers and dangers?
He tells a good story and we couldn't help but laugh when he got to the part of the stranger being in his car "yeah ma, the minute the door closed and we started on our way, that short ride turned into one of the longest of my life while every scary movie I ever watched replayed in my head. You know where the dumb kid lets the murderer into his car?"
"He was high or drunk, wasn't he" I asked
"Yeah" he said "I could smell booze".
It took me hours to get back to sleep.
I wrestled my conflicted confused heart all night.
My son is a hero.
My son could have been hit by a train.
My son is kind and generous.
My son could have been a statistic.
Finally I came to a conclusion....
My son is a hero.
God handles the rest.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Last night right before the start of my son's basketball game, the crowd was asked as they always are to stand and remove their hats, it was National Anthem time.
The announcers sitting at their stats table grabbed a student to read the Athlete's Statement. The statement is read at each game and is to remind those playing, coaching or watching the ball game to play nice.
After the statement was read we waited patiently while the announcers fiddled around with their cd player. We stood and watched, waiting for the familar first bars of the Star Spangled Banner to start.
As seconds ticked by, turning into minutes I began to wonder what in the hell they were gonna do...I didn't see any of the girl soloists who normally sing the song for us in the crowd, and it was becoming apparent that the cd player was not cooperating and it wasn't going to.
I wondered if maybe they would just start the game without the song.
The announcer looked out into the crowd and said into the mic "Looks like it's up to us" he said "will you please join me".
His request was followed by a slight uncomfortable silence.
A young football/baseball coach sitting next to the announcer grabbed the mic and sang a cappela the first few words of the song.
The people in the stands started to sing. I was amazed that it was not only the veterans, or the older people in the crowd who sang, it seemed every where I looked I could see mouths moving.
It was heartwarming to hear the loudest singing coming from the student section of the bleachers.
We died down a bit when the high notes of the song proved hard for most of us to hit, but we gained strength as we sang on. By the time we got to the end of the song, the kids were really hammin it up (respectfully) and the following words were sung clear and strong.
"O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?"
Then we gave ourselves a big hand.
My friend sitting next to me said, " Wow, its been a long time since I sang that song".
I don't recall ever singing it, I thought.
I've been to lots of games and heard that song performed a million different ways...tonight's rendition, slightly off key and proudly sung a cappella by a couple hundred regular folks was by far the most beautiful and moving I've ever heard.
I was incredibly proud of us all.
'Tis the star-spangled banner: O, long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!"
Friday, February 12, 2010
This (the freakin sweetest thing I've seen in a very long time) is being presented with love to my sweet Marmie and all my sista (and sister) mommies.....
(Now after watching that little diddy don't you have a change of heart about poking them in the armpits with a fistful of toothpicks whilst they dangle by their toenails???)
PS...Marmie, I do appreciate and love you !!! Thank you for singing in the car with me (us) and saying "hello gorgeous, hello gorgeous".
Thursday, February 11, 2010
When I was about 10 I had a “when I grow up list”.
I wanted to be an accomplished actress/singer. I wanted to write books. I planned to visit Egypt (with my Archeology club). Meet Elvis Presley and grow prize winning roses.
I also wanted to be a “C” cup.
Reach for the stars, I always say.
One out of
I now have what can be called a “Bucket List” of things that I want to do before I kick the bucket…not that I’m planning on doing that anytime soon and since 50 is the new 30 I'm figuring I do have lots of time yet to reach my goals.
I’ve always felt there was a Photographer inside me. He lives next door to the Painter.
A blogger that I frequently read suggests that if you want to be a good photographer you need to take pictures…lots of pictures. She suggests taking a picture a day and saving them. Soon, she says you will see progress and you should develop an “eye”.
Okay…so I started a new blog.
It’s called A Picture a Day....(please stop by)
I’m also working on a similar goal of a painting (or drawing) a day.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Daddio is a man who takes his responsibilities seriously. Since he’s been laid off I haven’t so much as touched the washing machine, or lugged a heavy, overflowing hamper down two sets of stairs.
I haven’t emptied a bathroom garbage can or vacuumed a floor either.
He’s the kind of guy that gets the job done, whatever that job may be.
He likes to rub it in to me that he’s able somehow to keep the laundry caught up, something I never seemed able to do when I was the Stay At Home Person.
Using his managerial mind he figures out a plan, executes it and just like that we all have clean matching socks and fluffy, perfectly folded towels for our showers…and he still has time for an afternoon snooze.
While the poor guy hates being home, he is making the best of it by doing his best.
But this laid off life is not all it’s cracked up to be and Daddio is starting to show signs of wear.
He’s beginning to have a few words with me about my messes, “Everything was clean, till you walked in”, he says. “You’re like Pigpen…a little cloud of dust follows you everywhere you go”.
The kids are grating on his nerves. “All they do is eat and lay around watching TV”.
And he’s showing signs of getting a teensy tiny bit aggravated by the two small dogs that live in our home. He says things like “if that fu**ing dog looks at me one more time I’m gonna kick her teeth down her throat” and “ I’m gonna let them out the front door to pee this time, hopefully they’ll both run away.”.
Daddio doesn’t hate animals (honestly, he doesn’t) he just hates being laid off.
This morning our dog Ruby is getting spayed. We really shouldn’t be spending the kind of money dog surgery costs right now, but I don’t see that we (I) have any choice.
I have to do this before Ruby gets her period.
Ruby came to us from a not so stable home. She bites her nails and eats her poop. And while I consider her house broken, she still pees in her crate. My girl child is nuts about the dog and promises that when she moves out, the dog is going with her.
In the meantime, Daddio and I are responsible for her upkeep.
Last year about this time we began to notice that something was going on with Ruby. I’m not going to go into graphic detail here but suffice it to say that the dog’s lady bits began to change…they started to grow and before long that area was HUGE…. (HUGE!!!!).
Within days the grape sized body part morphed into a walnut sized dangling bit and was seeping a red fluid and I was wondering how in the hell do responsible pet owners find themselves with a dog in heat???
I was also wondering how in the hell I was going to keep the “heat” off of my carpet, my rugs and my white kitchen floor?
I bought some doggie diapers to contain the mess. Ruby tore them off.
I tried duct taping them and she ate through that too.
Finally I bought a pair of doggie panties and custom cut a women’s panty liner to fit inside. The sticky on the pad allows it to stay in place. The panties have ties on the sides so I could make it snug and that seemed to work okay.
Changing that damn pad was another story….gross, doesn’t even begin to describe it.
This went on for two weeks…..for TWO FREAKIN WEEKS I had to change Ruby’s sanitary napkin, numerous times a day.
I can’t (and I won’t) ask Daddio to do that.
He gets all squiggly and squirmy and does a visible shudder when I even just mention periods or vaginas. His eyes widen and he shakes his head “no” if I so much as begin to talk about that kind of stuff.
I could have had some real fun with Ruby and her period….
“Honey" I would have said before I left for work "Ruby will need to have that pad changed every hour. And when you do, you will need to give her hind quarters a little sit bath, either that or you could use my spritzer water bottle, warm water and a bit of soap…your choice. But it does have to be done every hour…if not, you could find yourself with blood and mess all over the place.”
“Oh, before you start you may want to get the Vicks Vapor Rub and place a dab under your nose…dogs have a gawd awful odor."
“ Be real careful when you pull the pad off, sometimes the stuff just sprays everywhere, and you surely don't want any of that on your hands...stains like crazy.”
Let him dog my homemaking abilities....
Daddio was pretty lucky this time, Pigpen has been known to hold a grudge....
Friday, February 5, 2010
"cause your gonna miss this
your gonna want this back
your gonna wish these days
hadn't gone by so fast
these are some good times
so take a good look around
you may not know it now
but your gonna miss this"......Trace Adkins
He has no idea how much that means to me.
your gonna want this back
your gonna wish these days
hadn't gone by so fast
these are some good times
so take a good look around
you may not know it now
but your gonna miss this"......Trace Adkins
He has no idea how much that means to me.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Yesterday was Groundhog Day....and today is Groundhog Day too, and I'm willing to make a little wager that tomorrow will be, you guessed it, Groundhog day again.
I'm making reference to the movie with Bill Murray and Andie MacDowell...the one where the day repeats itself over and over and over again until it is perfect.
I like the concept; it suits me, habitity sort that I am.
I’ve been drinking coffee from the same cup (I have a set of four) for more that 20 years. That has to be some kind of record…that all four cups survived a 20 year stint in our house, crammed into our cupboards, jammed in our dishwasher, used and abused.
This morning I have a moment of panic when I rummage through the cupboard and can’t find even one of them.
The slight panic gives way to common sense.
Pick a cup, asshole.
But wait, I think, will it screw up my day to use a different one?
I’m superstitious that way.
I find a dirty one in the dishwasher. A dab of Palmolive later its filled with my strong coffee, and a dribble of milk.
I find a strange comfort in knowing what's coming.
Sometimes I wish there were things that once you did them often enough they just "did themselves".
Things like applying makeup for instance.
Every day I stand and face the big mirror in my bathroom. A turban wrapped dingy white towel holds my freshly shampooed hair.
Check chin for hairs. Notice previously fine lines becoming small valleys.
I pull out my makeup suitcases.
Maybe I should try a smoldering smoky eyed look today...or vamp my lips with a bright matte red?
I feel a bit like a robot when I pull out the same old bottles, and tubes and jars and brushes and sponges and plaster the crap on my face filling the
I choose an eye shadow, one of many that are all the same shade. Ditto lipstick.
I can do this with my eyes closed.
Same shit, different day. Different day, same shit.
Every day I eat Corn Flakes for breakfast.
Same bowl, same spoon, (the heavy one with the patterned top).
The same seat, in the same spot.
Little bit of milk, lot a bit of sugar.
Fill my water bottle, gather my pills, and slip into my shoes.
Black leather, 2.0 inch heel, slightly squared toe.
I have them in brown too.
I’ll buy them again when the ones I wear now get scuffed and slant heeled.
Out the door, in the door…a few hours in between.
Before I know it its bedtime.
Set the alarm, make the coffee, set the timer, and check the door locks.
Whisper "sweet dreams".
Tomorrow is Groundhog Day.
Over and over again, till I get it right.