White Knuckled

What started out as pure bliss turned ugly at about 16.4 minutes into the 20 minute massage. 

My upper back and shoulders burn constantly from the knots and tension that have hijacked my upper body.  And since I had a few errands to run, I made a mall stop on my way home from a work event Wednesday night and looked forward to getting a little chair massage for some instant relief.  The last time I did it, the woman did a fine job although she didn’t get into the deep tissue that I needed – but for $20, it was still worth it – and didn’t require me to get NAKED *shudder*.

Last night there were two Chinese men working their magic at the massage kiosk and I was lucky enough to arrive just as the last client was leaving so I got right in!  Perfect!  I got situated with my face in the padded toilet seat-y looking thing and rested my arms and hands on the arm rest with my hands curled around the front of the pads.  My masseuse was awesome!  He totally dug in and started beating the hell out of my muscles.  He even used his elbows to get in there and loosen things up.  Eventually I could feel the knots start to dissipate and the burning subsided.   Ahhhh.  Bliss. 

All of a sudden the guy is standing at my head working on my shoulders and neck.  And his bits were rubbing on my knuckles!  AAARGH!  I froze.  I was trying to figure out of this was intentional or if he didn’t realize those were my knuckles. At first I didn’t realize those were his bits.  I considered pinching whatever it was but thought better of it.  As my luck goes, he is probably a black belt in Karate and could have separated my skull from its stem in one fell swoop. 

I would love to see what my face looked like as my eyes sprung open and popped out of their sockets at the point of realization.  All that tension and muscle constriction that had been successfully released in the previous 15 minutes returned instantly at that moment.  And then I wanted to puke.   I was starting to feel violated.

Now that my new close personal friend had me good and rattled, he decided to kick it up a notch when he started massaging the rest of my body.  Granted, I didn’t tell him ONLY to work on my shoulders and upper back so I should not have been shocked when he worked his way all the way down my back and started pounding on my hips and butt.  As many massage therapist do, he started doing the slapping thing all over my body.  My head, shoulders, back, butt and thighs all took a few whacks.  Then he worked his way back up my body, stopping long enough to slap the sides of my boobs around awhile too.  GOOD GOD, I usually don’t want a massage to end but this was a whole different story.   At least he could have offered to buy me a drink first…

Once he was done, I grabbed the cash from my purse and threw it his direction and then scurried away with my head hung low and my tail between my legs like a sheered dog.

Emotional Tilt-a-Whirl

Thursday was one emotionally twisted day.  

It started off in its usual hustley-bustley way of rounding up kids and getting them out the door.  This day was different in that I took them and their Grandpa to the airport for a 5 days trip to Colorado – without me.  It is very odd thinking that my kids are 1000 miles away and out of my comfort zone.  The thought of something happening to them terrifies me and gnawed at me for days before they even left.  I totally trust Bop, and I know that I have to start letting them explore on their own, so I sucked it up and took the chance, even though it made my stomach hurt all day. 

Next was a lovely trip to the Jane Brattain Breast Center to get another mammogram.  Apparently they found something of interest in one of the girls and wanted me to come in for another picture and an ultrasound.  I know so many people right now who are fighting cancer that I figured I would be joining the club.  It’s amazing what went through my head as I sat in the waiting lounge with the other women.  I started the whole examination of conscience and trying to figure what things in my life would warrant me getting breast cancer.  I wondered if I have the mental strength to fight it.  How would my kids deal with losing me?  It was a very intensely emotional mind bender as I sat and waited my turn at the mighty boob press, knowing that my future would be decided in the next half hour.   Last year, the waiting room had a giant bowl full of awesome little butter mints in pink wrappers that I shoveled into my purse nibbled on to deal with the fear.  This time I had nothing but my own crazy mind.

My name was called and I traipsed back to the room with the tech.  She showed me the xray from last week and it was very clear – there was an obvious white spot in the center of my right breast.   And then I discovered something incredible.   My boob could be smashed so thin I could see light through it!  If whatever was in there could pop, it did.  Holy Hannah!  Being man-handled by a chick is a little odd in itself, but when I saw my boob splayed out and as thin as a crepe, I was amazed.  When she finally unlocked me from the stockade, my right boob hung a good 4 inches lower than the left.   I daintily hoisted my dangling right boob over by arm and carried her back to the waiting lounge to wait for the ultrasound.   The mental warfare continued as I played out the worst case scenario in my head. 

Finally, the tech came and got me and pulled me into a consultation room to tell me the news.  The spot we saw is the point where two blood vessels overlap.  I nearly burst into tears when she told me the news.  Instead, I hugged her, said thanks for the good news, and bolted out the door.   My entire walk to the car was filled with a huge prayer of thanks for being spared this time.   But now my stomach and my boob hurt. 

Some day I will learn to say no.  My company asked me to participate in filming the annual United Way Fund Drive employee video so I agreed to it.  After signing up, I started having huge anxiety issues about it.  I hate hearing myself on tape and hate seeing myself on film.  I don’t know what I was thinking when I agreed to do it.  My hair looks like hell, I swear my googley-eye is back, and I’m not a 20 year old any more.  Nothing like the reality smack down when you realize you’re *whispering* “middle aged”!  I kept my word and showed up for the taping which went fine.  The videographer told me that I have a lot of very animated expressions and asked me to do five of them into the camera.  That was really kind of fun.  I hope to God they don’t show up during the outtakes portion of this video though! 

Once the third trial of my day was done, I was spent!  I went home and crashed from the emotional tilt-a-whirl I was on all day long!   The kids made it to Colorado safely.  I am spared the C-word for a while, and the video taping session went fine.  So, I guess all the drama was good for putting me in touch with the reality of how truly blessed I am.

Miami Ink?

I’m going to be traveling for work at the end of the month and my sister is meeting me in Miami for a few days of sisterly bonding.  No doubt she will try to get me into the Miami Ink tattoo parlor to commemorate this once-a-decade event.  I’m already wondering what tattoo would befit such an adventure. 

Last time we vacationed together a mudskipper or cannibal were the perfect choice.  I can’t even begin to imagine what might be in store this time.  Gang symbols?  A thong-clad butt?  A portrait of the infamous Andrew Kunanen who murdered Versace in South Beach?  Anything is possible after our last adventure together.

 Beth and I were touring Alaska and found ourselves in Hope, AK.   Being fish-curious (fisherman-curious may be more accurate) as I am, I decided to scale an endless bank of mud to catch a glimpse of the giant flailing red salmon that had attracted a crowd of hopeful fishermen.  So, off we hiked to get in on the action.

Note:  As the self-appointed Alpha sister, I take my role very seriously.  And as always, I was doing a most excellent job of leading the way to the stream and giving Beth all sorts of instruction on where to step, what to watch out for, how to do it correctly, etc.  That is, until the suction between my Birkenstock and the mud was stronger than the force of my step. The Birkie stayed put, while inertia took hold of me and flung me to the ground like a rock.   With little more warning than a loud slurping noise, and a split second visual of me going ass-over-tea-kettle, I was covered in mud.  

If you look in Webster’s Dictionary under the word “irony”, you will most likely find the picture of me covered in mud from head to toe wearing the one pink Birkenstock sandal I had left.  Beth patronized me had the good sense to ask if I was OK before breaking out into maniacal laughter (that lasted for days, perhaps weeks).  She was also kind enough to stop at the local General Store so I could bathe in their bathroom sink.   The “Muddy Mudskipper” nickname was born that day to honor my excellent leadership skills.    

 

Mudskipper

 

Our next adventure led us to Denali National Park.  Mt. McKinley was clearly visible from our cabin in Denali but I needed more.  Much more.  I needed to get up close and really SEE the “Great One”, Since neither of us had brought our mountain climbing gear (although both of us were undoubtedly in good enough shape to scale one of the world’s tallest mountains in an afternoon), Beth and I did the next best thing and hopped on a flight-seeing tour with a of couple women from New Jersey.  Up we went…Beth in front with the pilot and me in the back with two other ladies.  Unfortunately, I am afraid of port-a-potties didn’t feel the urge to pee until the moment the wheels left the earth.  By 40 minutes into the flight, I was hallucinating from the pain.  Visualization exercises helped somewhat, but my mind kept straying, and I had crazy thoughts and visual disturbances for nearly 90 minutes.  I did manage stay dry the entire time though!  This is by far one of my proudest accomplishments.

Mt. McKinley – See that black speck in the distance?  That’s us in our little plane.

On the five hour drive back to Anchorage, I admitted to Beth that I had been thinking about who we would eat if the plane crashed.  Scarier yet?  Beth had thought the EXACT same thing (and she had used the potty before we left so delirium is not an excuse).  We agreed the hefty gal might be too greasy, and the frail one would barely make a decent hors d’oeuvre.  But the pilot? He was definitely our ideal dinner date. 

Had we not had this shared experience, how would we have ever discovered that we are direct descendants of the famed cannibal, Alferd Packer?

I’m hoping our Miami adventures will lead us to discover that perhaps we are also descendants of Captain Hook, or maybe even Jimmy Buffett.

A-Hole New Meaning

Recently, I had the joy of hanging with my friend Cathy in Key West for a few days of fun, sun, humidity, glorious sunsets and mojitos.   My ideal vacation includes equal parts adventure, relaxation, exploration, and laughter.  This vacation did not disappoint. 

Adventure?  Check.

For a few minutes I managed to overcome my overwhelming desire to run screaming out of the water at the mere thought of fish in my midst.  Honestly, I spent a solid 20.4 minutes in chest deep waters in Bahia Honda, a beautiful and secluded beach about 4o miles out of Key West without freaking out!  I am NOT an ocean, lake, or pond swimmer due to my fissue (fish issue), but it was so freakin hot that I had no choice but to risk being eaten alive or melt into a puddle of goo and spend the rest of my existence stuck to someone’s flip flop.  I took a chance that Cathy would protect me from the dorsal-finned beasts that lurked.  And she did a fine job.  She even earned herself a ride back to the hotel in our rented, air-conditioned, and way-too-cool electric blue PT Cruiser for clearing the seaweed from my path.  That’s the great friend I am. 

Relaxation?  Check.

There is just something to be said for overdosing on Vitamin D when you live in a freakin tundra.  I’m convinced the luminescence from my seriously albino-white flesh had the ability to reflect enough sunlight to throw aircraft off course and inspire another Vampire novel series.  I honestly felt my cells come to life after half an hour of soaking up the sun’s rays for the first time in years.   There was something detoxifying about having the sun baking my SPF-30 coated flesh, so I made sure to order up a Mojito to ensure my equilibrium stayed in check.  There is a delicate titration that must occur.  I’m very scientific that way. 

Exploration?  Check.

Most days Cathy worked on gaining acceptance into the NAACP by laying around the pool from morning til late afternoon while I explored Duval Street and other parts of Key West.  Every time I passed The Garden of Eden, I was handed a card and coupons for 2 for 1 beers or margaritas.  The  Garden of Eden just happens to be Key West’s “clothing-optional” bar.  What a concept!  For all the times I’ve complained about not having something to wear, I’ve finally found a place to not wear it!    Of course this whole clothing optional thing captured my curiosity and imagination.  Since I’d not seen any naked people walking into the Garden of Eden, I asked a cabbie how the whole clothing optional bar thing works .  Word on the street is that you strip down in the bar and have to keep an eye on your own clothes.  They encourage you to bring your own towel but will rent them out if you need one.  

Several times during the course of our trip, Cathy and I ran into the bachelor party from Chicago that was on our plane.  The guys were all pretty fun and decent except for the one guy in every group that everyone wants to ditch.  Fat Andy looked like a mini replica of Louie Anderson and was tolerable up until the point when he started talking.  The guy was a freak show.  He talked about the most inappropriate crap that may have been funny after about 14 more Coronas.  Maybe not even then.  I think he may be the type that just spews crap to get a reaction out of people.  It works.  The reaction is called “flight”.

On our last night in town, I begged Cathy to check out The Garden of Eden with me.  She DID NOT want to go there but when I assured her that it was CLOTHING OPTIONAL and not NUDITY MANDATORY, she relented and followed me up the stairs to the roof-top naturalist’s paradise.    After my immediate scan for flesh, I was surprised and somewhat disappointed that there wasn’t much skin to be seen.  There were a couple of girls dancing topless and a rotund little man perched bare-assed on a barstool.  I couldn’t help but search for the towel that separated his sweaty butt  from the red glittery vinyl seat.  Nope.  Nada.  Nothing.  Cheap ass wouldn’t even rent a towel.

He was perched there in all his naked glory soaking up every bit of attention he could get.  With the heat and humidity factor being around 96 degrees, I envisioned this guy’s ass getting so sweaty and slippery that he’d eventually slide right off his bar stool, hitting his head on one of the bottom wrungs, and landing in a heap of flesh, sweat, and spilled beer.  I finally scanned upward and felt a chill of dread when I realized that he looked hauntingly familiar. 

Yes…Fat Andy was the naked man on the barstool!   I’m sure Andy saw us and knew we saw him.  Cathy and I refused to make eye contact out of embarassment for him.   Cathy used this ideal opportunity to make her escape from the place and dragged me out without much resistance.  We could hardly contain ourselves long enough to get out the door before we broke into screams of laughter.

Not only did Dear Andy bring Cathy and I fits of laughter that have resurfaced repeatedly in the past weeks, he brought a whole new meaning to the term “bar-stool”…

Laughter?  Check.  Check.  And Check!

Nice Kitty

I am curious how my kids are aware of so many “bad” words when Mark and I don’t swear around them.  I used to really enjoy swearing and still do when I’m out with adults.  It’s kind of a rebellious thing I’ve picked up since the kids came along.  I have to admit I’m kind of proud of the fact that I was able to turn off the potty mouth for the sake of the children.  Now I’m starting to resent that other people have taken the opportunity to move in and start painting on my personal canvas.   And I’m a bit perturbed that I wasn’t the one to introduce them to the joys of swearing.

Joey and I were talking about movies and Joey was trying to explain why Gremlins 2 is Rated PG-13.  He figures it’s because of the violence since it only had 3 “bad words”.  When prompted for the bad words, he informed me that it was the D-word and H-word that were used.  How did he know those are bad words?  Then I asked him how he’s managed to learn what bad words are.  Does he hear me or dad say them?  “No”, he replied.  According to Young Joey, apparently our tuition money is going toward more than just reading, math and music.  All along I thought we paid money to the school to keep them holed up in a cave and shrouded in an iron-clad cloak of innocence.  DAMN!

Joey sat quietly and pondered  for a  minute before he decided to ask me about a potentially new bad word he heard.  “Hey Mom?  Dylan told me that there’s a bad word you should never say to Mexicans or black people, but I don’t know why it’s a bad word.”

Me:  *eyebrow raises*

“What word is that?” I question.

Joey:  “Pussy cat without the cat”.

Me:  *holding back screams of laughter*

“Hmmmm… Well, I don’t think that would be something to call anyone unless you can run really really fast. ” 

It was sure nice of Dylan to give him the heads-up on that one.  Although I am curious why he had it narrowed down to only Blacks and Mexicans.   I think the can of whoopass he’d get from anyone being called a Pussy cat without the cat would be equally as threatening.

Face Lift

I need a new me. 

                           A new start. 

                                            A better Attitude.

What better way to get that rolling than to spruce up the blog page and get excited to stop in everyday?  If only I could stop calling it “wordpressure”.

The crux of the problem is that NOT enough people are taking the time to amuse me or stop by to provide me with blog-fodder.  I’m going to have to start drumming it up on my own or start making shit up at random just to have something to post once in a while.

April Foolery

A few weeks ago I was driving Jake and his friend, “Normy”  to hockey practice.  A fun song came on the radio so I started singing and chair dancing.  The boys were laughing at my antics so I asked Normy what crazy things his parents do.   “They sit on me and fart”, he said.  

Knowing his parents and their sense of humor, this came as no shock.   Normy is always a great kid when he’s with me or at our house but he is a handful at home.  He’s strong-willed and quite a little spitfire but I always enjoy having him around and have never had the urge to fart on or near him.  Yet.

Suddenly I got a brilliant plan for an April Fool’s gag to play on little Normy’s parents.  I decided to enlist the help of a friend whose kids go to the same school and write a letter from the principal to Normy’s parents about their odd style of discipline. 

Here is what the letter said:

 

April 1, 2009

  

Re:  Normy

  

Dear (Normy’s parents),

 

While, as parents, we all try to do what is in the best interest of our children, it has come to our attention that you employ unconventional discipline methods that we don’t feel are appropriate or aligned with raising productive members of society.  We have learned that you quite frequently sit on Normy and expel your flatulence near his face while he is held immobile.  According to Normy, the inhalation of your noxious fumes causes him shortness of breath, gagging, and sometimes he has a bad taste left in his mouth for days after the occurence .   

 

This has been confirmed by teachers who have conducted a sniff-test on Normy’s breath and found it to smell distinctly like methane.   As you are likely aware, methane is flammable.

 

We are gravely concerned that should Normy decide to try smoking cigarettes after having inhaled your methane-laced flatulence, he could combust.  While we doubt the likelihood of this occurring, we are not prepared for a child combusting on school grounds.  Obviously this would not only be hazardous to Normy himself, but to anyone who  may be nearby.    You would be held financially responsible for any playground equipment that should happen to burn, as well as any cost of therapy needed for the children who may witness such an event.   So, as you can see, your method of discipline by farting in the face of youngsters could cause deep and lasting trauma to the future of many of our innocent children around the country.  Please consider modifying your diet, and employing other means of torture to modify your son’s behavior.

 

 

Sincerely, 

  

(Social Worker and Principal)

Boiling Points

“This should be ideal”, I thought as I opened my new Palm Centro personal cell phone/command center.  Managing my crazy life was now condensed into a unit the size of a deck of cards.   SAWEET!  I tried the phone for a few weeks and hated it.  I couldn’t get it to sync with my PC, and I couldn’t read any of the keys.   The thing would have to be the size of a dinner plate if I were to actually be able to read it.  If I have to carry around a dinner plate, there will be cake on it.

The little red beast was promptly returned to its retailer and I was back to my trusty old  flip phone. 

Fast forward to this year when I got the bug to find the ever-elusive silver bullet that would guarantee to make my life manageable.   Besides a poolboy, cabana boy, chauffeur, butler, masseus, and chef, I still need a dependable and portable scheduling and communication device that I can actually USE.   Unreasonable?  Afraid so.

I did my research and tried to order a blackberry, but Sprint would not allow me to take advantage of their phone promotions because, according to their records, my contract was renewed only one year ago when I bought the red Centro and was not reset to my old contract date when I returned to my old phone (and presumably, my old contract).  I must wait another year to qualify for a new phone at a “bargain” price (If you call marking up a $50 item to $550 so you can offer it at the bargain price of $150 to people STUPID enough to fall for your scheme (like me)). 

I don’t think so.

Called *2, Sprint’s customer care(less) to get the situation straightened out.

Sprint didn’t show the Centro as being returned.  Sent me back to Best Buy my original inept wireless retailer to take care of it.

The store printed copies of the receipts to PROVE the phone was returned, and then sent me on my way to a Sprint store to take care of it myself .

Sprint’s records showed I bought a new Katana (my same old phone that was REACTIVATED) so Best Buy got credit for a new sale, and Karmental got a brand new contract for an old phone and service that had been in existence for two years already.  Sprint required me to go into one of their stores with the receipt to prove the Centro had actually been returned.

A Sprint Kiosk is NOT a Sprint Store.  Apparently.

Went to the Sprint store but forgot the receipt in a different purse.  They told me to get the receipts so they could call in and verify that the phone was returned. 

Returned to the Sprint Store with the receipts and promptly requested to speak with a Manager.

Managers were in a “meeting”.

Staredown between me and snotty sales boy began until he decided that finding a manager might be a good idea.  I think he may have noticed me sizing up his jugular.

The Manager heard my story and checked his records.  Told me they couldn’t do anything for me and that I had to call *2, Customer Care(less). 

Excuse me? 

I don’t know if the steam that began pouring from my ears or the flames shooting from my eyes caused him harm, but out of fear of losing his eyebrows, or worse, watching my head spin a 360 while spewing green, he decided to focus on making me a wee bit happier.  In my aggravated state of mind, I stated quite LOUDLY AND DIRECTLY that I would not be going ANYWHERE until the issue was resolved. 

Sprint Customer Care’s Retention Line exists solely to coerce you to overlook the horseshit service you get and the runaround they put you through so that you will enjoy continuing to pay them a lot of money every month for the pleasure of having them bend you over. 

After repeating my saga at least 4 times to as many people, and spending an hour waiting in the store, I decided that I needed to start having some fun with this for a change.  It was late in the afternoon and the store was bustling with people streaming in after work.  There were people giving me the stink eye because I was looking wayyy toooo comfortable perched upon my stool at the counter with a phone to my ear as I waited for the Customer Careless person to hunt down my information.  As I waited on hold, I mentioned quite loudly to my new friend the Manager, that I should have just listened to my husband and gone with VERIZON like he did.  Manager forced a chuckle through his wincing and darted his eyes around the room to see how many people heard me.  

Fast forward a half hour while I’m now waiting for a call back from Customer Careless, Mark calls me to touch base on who’s doing kid duty, etc.  I answer my phone, “Hello?  Oh, Hi!  Is this the VERY SATISFIED VERIZON CUSTOMER who hasn’t had to spend 2 hours of their day trying to get their service provider to fix their data issues????!

Manager actually cracked up at that one.  I think he was quite amused by the cluster-fuck this ordeal had become and was probably just thankful to have his jugular intact at this point in the game.  Something tells me he may have been hoping even harder than I that this would be over with SOON.

Finally, after 2 and a half hours of teeth clenching, venom spewing, and standing my ground, Sprint agreed with my original assertion that my contract was indeed fulfilled and I was free to leave them in search of a new provider to bend me over.

I think I heard the doors lock behind me on my way out of the store.

Rocky Does Key West

Rocky got to accompany me on another tour as we took a little sojourn in Key West a couple weeks ago.  He was excited to find his namesake right there waiting for him on Duval Street. 

 

Rocky did a little nature hike and went nuts over these…

He also found himself at the southernmost point in the US, which was somewhat anticlimactic. 

He also managed to attend a concert of Matt McAnally‘s but I was too scared of his name to let him hold him for a picture.  He rested comfortably in my bag during the show. 

I tend to not let just anyone know that I carry around a phallic little rock wherever I go.  There are some people (God forbid) who will never understand the great sense of amusement and fun it provides me.

Hopefully Rocky won’t need a passport for our next little adventure at the end of the month… stay tuned.

The Great Motivator

Jake doesn’t have good history with the tooth fairy as evidenced here.  I don’t know if she is responsible for all things dental but for posterity’s sake, I am going to blame her anyhow. 

Tooth brushing has always been part of my kids’ routine in the morning and before bed.  They are good about doing it although Jake tends to cut it short a little too often.  I’ve warned him that if he doesn’t brush long enough to get the gunk off his teeth, he’s going to get cavities and will have to get fillings.  I figure consequences are the best teachers in situations like this.  So, it wasn’t really a surprise at Jake’s last check-up when the dentist found a cavity in one of his back molars.  I dreaded taking Jake in for a filling because I know how badly I hate getting them, but I finally bit the bullet and took him in during Christmas break.

Attila the Hygienist greeted Jake with the demeanor of a prison guard and started taking him back to the chair.  I got up to follow but was met my her large man-sized hand in my face telling me to vait out in the vaiting room.  This was not going to go well, I thought.  Twenty minutes later my little boy returned to the waiting room without showing any signs of trauma, other than only half his mouth was smiling.  Relief washed over me as I realized he survived his first filling without me being there to supervise and provide reassurance.  I think Attila might have known what she was doing.

About an hour after we got home Jake told me that he couldn’t stop biting his cheek.  I could see it was getting red but told him that the novacaine would wear off in an hour or so.  Apparently the SpongeBob episode he was watching was quite intense because the kid bit his cheek during the entire thing.  It wasn’t until the next morning that Jake got out of bed looking like he was sucking on a giant jaw breaker on the right side of his mouth. 

The kid had gnawed the hell out of the inside of his cheek while it was numb and all the trauma caused it to swell.  I thought for sure he was having an allergic reaction to the novacaine so I called the dentist to find out what was going on.  He calmly assured me that Jake had probably bitten his cheek and that it would recede after a few days.  He was right, there was a sore the size of a quarter where Jake had gnawed and his mouth was inflamed.  He couldn’t eat anything but yogurt for a few days and was plain miserable. 

The cheek took about a week to heal, but Jake took only a couple days to find a timer to put in the bathroom to let him know how long he should brush his teeth.

Pain.  The great motivator.

The Lessons

My mind has been spinning like a top for the last several months.  Life has been in a holding pattern since summertime and I’m finally coming out of what feels like a year of mental, emotional, and physical hibernation.  It’s not really something I can accurately describe better than that.   The last 10 months have been spent watching my mother wither away, physically and emotionally.   On Christmas Eve she finally drew her last breath, but she was sharp as a tack mentally up until her last days.  She remained aware and alert even though she really hadn’t eaten since July. 

Amazing.

There are so many things I have been thinking about and mentally blogging but I haven’t had the energy to post anything.  One of the things that woke me up nearly every night before my mom died was the nagging question of what is the lesson in this whole journey?  What had my mom realized from this?  I would lay awake for hours during the night preparing a mental eulogy that I chose to not deliver – mainly because I didn’t want to be the first person to get the hook at her mother’s funeral.    And nobody really wants to listen to a blubbering idiot anyhow.

Here’s what I think she would tell me if she were here to answer that question:

1.  Hang on to the people in your life that you enjoy. 

Don’t let too many years or miles slip between you and people who delight you.  There were several friends that my mom reconnected with once she was diagnosed with cancer and knew her time was limited.  Those friends returned as though they had never been gone, and there was such joy back in her life.  It shouldn’t have taken a terminal illness to invite them back.  But it was so good.

2.  Blood isn’t always thicker than water.

There are people in your life who you expect to be there for you when the chips are down.  You expect your family to be there for you when you truly need them.   Unconditional love, forgiveness and acceptance is not, well, unconditional.  There are people within your family who can deny you mercy and forgiveness for whatever grudge they hold against you, and they can be OK with that even as you are dying 5 miles from their home.   Coming to this realization is as painful and agonizing as learning that you will not live long enough to see your grandchildren grow up.  People are strange and it’s probably a waste of energy to try to understand everything that astounds you.

3.  Angels do exist. 

My mom was always guarded.  She held her cards pretty close to her chest and she didn’t get close to people very easily.  It took some time to prove yourself worthy of her trust.   She examined motives.   She was perpetually leary and cautious of acquaintences.  When she became sick, her angel (aka:  Kathy The Pest) appeared and continually surprised her with her genuine sincerity and kindness.  There was no hidden agenda.  No expectations.  Just a person who lives her faith through her actions.  Mom realized how lucky she was to have Kathy come into her life and was constantly amazed that someone would be so good without cause.  Luckily, I am pretty secure or I would have started to wonder if she liked Kathy better than me…  If given more time, it probably would happen.

4.  So this is what love looks like.

My mom dreaded the idea that she would be uncomfortable, sick, or in pain as her cancer progressed.  Fear brought out the worst in her.  Ask anyone who ever rode with her in a car!   Even though hospice was brought in early, Mom never really relied on them.  She didn’t need to.  Her husband, Mike, was better than any nurse on the planet.  He attended to every possible need that she had up until she was admitted to palliative care in the hospital a week before she passed away.  Mike was waking up every hour during the night to turn her and help her with toileting and anything else she needed.  His incredible dedication to her is something every person should witness in their lifetime.  I think the last year made my mom realize how truly blessed she was.  I know the rest of us saw it long ago, but sometimes it’s hard to see what’s right under your nose.   It got to the point where Mom wouldn’t let anyone else help her out of bed or do anything because he was the only person she trusted to do things right.  She had good intuition that way.

5.  You can’t control everything.

My mom was a planner of the highest degree.  She was incredibly efficient and organized and had all her affairs in order very early on after her diagnosis.  She had the funeral planned and everything ready to go by early summer.  It was as though she was having a party but didn’t have the date picked yet.   Liver cancer usually grants only months to live, with 6-9 months being the average, according to her doctor.   Her plan was to make it to the end of summer or to Jake’s birthday at the end of September.  By mid-October, she was PISSED that this cancer business wasn’t cooperating with her plan.  She was not afraid to die, but she hated having to wait and not be in charge of the plan.  

I have to believe that Patience was probably the last lesson she was supposed to learn before she was able to move on to her next life.  God knows, it was not an easy lesson to teach her.

May she rest in peace.

My Apologies

Dear Husband and Neighbors,

I feel compelled to send a public apology for the very un-wifely/neighborly way I conducted myself last week.   Leaving little mounds of dog poop in our yard, and possibly yours, was not done in the spirit of beligerence or defiance, it was simply a matter of self-preservation.   I know myself well enough to realize that had I tried to pick up the little warm mounds of poo, I would have ended up leaving the contents of my stomach  too.  Instead of adding insult to injury, I conducted an abrupt about-face and walked away to avoid the embarassing wretching sounds that would surely accompany any attempt to remove steaming waste.   It may sound selfish but, honestly, I did it for you all.

Please don’t take offense to this egregious breach of pooch etiquette. 

What started as a perfect experiment in dog ownership quickly revealed my ineptitude and weak stomach.  I excitedly offered to dog-sit Lucy, a very cute, sweet, and polite little Westie.   We enjoyed having her stay with us and the kids loved playing with her.  Lucy, in all her canine sweetness, was the perfect house guest. The fun ended when it came time to take her out to potty in the freezing cold weather.  Getting up and taking the dog out first thing in the morning was not the motivator to getting out of a toasty warm bed the kids had anticipated.  And in my constant concern for your well-being, dearest neighbors, I opted to NOT subject you to the visual of me roaming outside in my jammies and morning hair. 

You’re welcome.

Since the kids have been hounding us for a dog since they could talk, we are getting a bit closer to caving.  I have been on the kids’ side and will needle Mark about his unwillingness to sacrifice his perfectly manicured lawn for the sake of the children and their future dog.  Mark grew up with a dog and knows the reality of how much work they are.  I did not, but I quickly discovered that having a dog may not be something I would enjoy long-term unless there is a breed that is able to digest its food 100% without the need to excrete, doesn’t shed, and bathes daily.  It should also only need to get exercise on days when the weather is between 65 and 80 with no precipitation.  It must also be a little OCD and avoid putting its little snout near the butts of other animals or near where they’ve peed.  Oh, and if it could be trained to do laundry and vacuum, I would be the perfect pet owner.

Until this Utopian breed is created, we will be the perfect dog sitting family – as long as nobody minds a few poo piles here and there. 

I am a little concerned that we may never be asked to dog sit for Lucy again.  Lucy made the mistake of hunting me down as I was getting into the shower one morning.  According to my obligation to report all incidents, I sent the following text to Lucy’s family:

D – Lucy may need therapy.  Saw me naked.  So Sorry.

I haven’t heard if Lucy has recovered from this little mishap, but I’m hoping she never acquires the ability to talk or laugh like a hyena.

Lessons from a Little Boy

A few weeks ago I was whining on about how I was so overwhelmed with life, and through the situation of a little boy I barely knew, I realized that the things that overwhelm me are the things I should be enjoying.  The catalyst to this realization was a little boy named Arnes, one of my first Make A Wish kids that I have the special privilege of being a wish granter for.  A couple weeks ago, instead of joining us at Petco to pick out all the supplies for his new turtle, Arnes was coming home from the hospital because there was nothing more that could be done for his brain cancer other than to keep him comfortable.

On Sunday, my little turtle-loving friend passed away in the arms of his father. 

He was all of eight years old.  The same age as my little boy.  There are no words to describe the horrific feeling this put in my gut. 

On Friday, I had gone to his house to deliver the back-up wish and had no idea what I was in for.  On one hand, I’m so thankful I did see him one last time, on the other, it is not a sight I ever want to witness again in my entire life.  It surely makes you question how the universe works and why a little boy would be allowed to suffer so much.   How a vibrant, lively, curious and engaging little boy could change so quickly is astonishing.  In August, we were having a delightful conversation about his wishes and interests, and in November he is gone. 

My wish granting partner and I went to the wake on Tuesday night.   I was so moved by the beautiful African music the people sang.  It was all a capella, and so rooted in faith, and hope, and praise for a God they still so strongly believe in, despite the tragedy that lay before them.  It was stirring to see people singing so soulfully, so heartfully, so sincerely. 

As an outsider to the African culture, I learned a great deal that night.  I was reminded that all people are the same, no matter their skin color.  These parents will mourn and grieve as deeply as any parents.  They are blessed by a deeply committed and close-knit community of people who will continue to visit long after the funeral.  They will find comfort from a deeply rooted faith and belief in God.  The minister was clear in his invitation for all attendees to drop in on the family to help them through the most difficult times that lie ahead, when the reality of their loss begins to set in.  He joked that calling before dropping by would be frowned upon and that one could expect to be fed if dropping in at an African’s home.  It was really sweet and sincere. 

Through the suffering of one little boy, a suburban community was able to realize all of these things, as I did, and will hopefully continue building a bridge to acceptance of all people.

I Know Victoria’s Secret

It’s been an interesting past week or two in the underwear department at our house.  As Joey was changing into his hockey gear the other day, I about fell over when he dropped trou and, lo and behold, he was wearing BOXERS!  Not boxer briefs, real boxers.   

“So what?” you ask. 

This is the kid who, since the age of 3, has not been willing to even try on a pair of underwear that wasn’t of the casper milktoast tighty whitey variety.  Even when we’ve given him boxer briefs that we thought for sure he would like, he shuns them and turns to his drawer full of little whities.  Although extremely boring, they make my life a whole lot simpler when it comes to sorting out laundry.  Jake is impartial to any particular make, model, or reputation in his underwear, so if it isn’t white, it’s Jake’s.   Easy.

While getting ready for hockey practice one day, a former teammate of Joey’s commented that Joey wore tighty whities.  Personally, I wonder why this kid would even notice, much less remember 2 years later unless it really impacted him, but who knows what goes through those brains?  Joey didn’t let the little voyeur’s comments change his ways — which I admire in the kid.   Peer pressure starts with underwear I hear.

 A few weeks ago, our mentally twisted and sick very funny friend did a post on his blog about how he “accidentally” put on his 9 year old son’s underwear (I’m sure it was about as accidental as when he put on his wife’s underwear).  I  posted a harrassing comment about it (because that’s how I roll), and asked how he could have possibly missed the glaring SpongeBob on the front of them.  The next day I got this in my email to convince me that it TRULY was an accident, that there was no SpongeBob to clue him in to the error of his ways.  

I can’t help but wonder if I should be concerned that these undies don’t “look” too tight… And what the hell is on his right hand – a baggy????

Joe’s family and our family have several mutual friends because of school and sports activities that our kids are involved in.  The difference between “Joe”, and our mutual friend, “Dave”, is not that Dave wouldn’t have sent me pictures to re-enact the mishap.  He MOST DEFINITELY would have.  It’s that Dave would have had his lovely wife take pictures with a giant gourd or a whole assortment of large vegetables stuffed into his underwear.  I am sure of this as I have been the recipient of a number of large phallic vegetable gifts from Dave and Amy in the past.  My guess is that pictures of this nature already do exist.  I just haven’t seen them yet…

While having lunch with an old friend last week, she excitedly informed me that she had even squeezed herself into some Spanx in honor of our date.  Nothing says you love someone more than wearing a pair of lycra underwear that binds your innards together and wards off digestion until they are removed.  I do have to agree that Spanx are the bomb – no panty lines, no unsightly bumps, and no jiggling.  Underwear preference is not the usual topic of our lunch conversations, however the Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson video has been known to come up more often than not.

A few years ago I got in the habit of wearing thongs, especially with suits during the summertime when I didn’t want panty lines and it was too hot for Spanx.  As long as they fit right, they weren’t a problem.   Their destructive qualities threat to comfort became very clear one day as I was playing raquetball with a guy friend.  The combination of lycra in my yoga pants, lycra in the thong, and the rapid (I am using the term verrrry loosely here) movements led me to experience a self-inflicted episiotomy.  I found that my thong had all but disappeared into the vastness of what had been my crotch and was actively increasing my inseam from a 32 to a 36.

Unfortunately for me and my now-begging-for-sutures lower half, the back wall of the racquetball court was glass which nixed Plan A – backing into the corner and unwedging it manually.  I don’t think the friend I was playing with would have been happy to witness my personal “privates” resuscitation.  Or shake my hand after the game.  Plan B was to take quick non-chalant swipes at it to at least free the arteries that run down there.  That wasn’t working, I needed more time, less penetration, and longer arms.  And a blind partner.  And a curtain. 

I needed something quick to neutralize this weapon of m’ass destruction. 

After our first game, I managed to use dehdration to my advantage and excused myself to the locker room to untangle my bits and restore circulation to lower parts before they split into two separate entities and delivered a double roundhouse kick to my head in retaliation.  I’d like to be able to say that I was smart enough to not make that mistake ever again.  But I’d be lying.  Pain is usually a great teacher, but unfortunately not in this case.

So, now I think I’ve finally discovered Victoria’s Secret…she wears Granny Panties.

                                                The natural sister to the tighty whitey!

A Verrrrrry Scary Halloween

I’m not sure what’s scarier, ghosts in the graveyard or Karmen in the kitchen…

While maintaining our Halloween tradition of making homemade pizzas, I decided to make a snake sandwich using pizza ingredients.  This does have the potential to be a totally cool idea, but I seem to be vexed when it comes to anything cooking-related lately. 

Here’s what my little ghouls ended up with for supper last night. 

Instead of a cute, clever snake-y sandwich.  They got a snake that looked like roadkill.   Or something a hawk got and refused to eat.

 

I offered up the head to anyone who wanted it and of course Jake quickly volunteered .  Once the snake was decapitated and his head laid atop Jake’s plate, the creepiness of the concept sunk in and Jake was no longer hungry.  He liked the swamp maggot soup I made (once he was assured that the green was really only food coloring) but he could not get past the snake eyes staring back at him from the dinner table. 

Suddenly he was very full.  He didn’t like pizza.  He hates Canadian Bacon.  The bottom was burned.  There were excuses to not eat but we knew it was because he was freaked out.  Once we managed to mutilate the snake into unrecognizable snake bits, he managed to choke down a few bites. 

I’m guessing he’ll be a little quicker to think through the commitment of eating the snake head during tonight’s culinary extravaganza.

Joey, on the other hand, was perfectly fine eating the part of the snake that the tires had hit. 

Once the trauma of mealtime had subsided, Indiana Jones and Boy Skeleton were ready to hit the streets for some serious trick or treating. 

The guys wrangled up 14 pounds of candy.

And now my self-control nightmare has just begun…

Happy Blogiversary to Me!

Well, dear readers, I have officially been blogging for a year.  It’s crazy all the shit that’s happened in 12 months, but it’s been fun for me to go back and read my web log to relive those events in words at least.

My BFF Cindy once chided me for always repeating myself when I thought what I said was amusing.  As with any habit, they die hard.

So, in celebration of my one year blogiversary, and because I am too lazy to try to write something remotely amusing, I am going to repeat my 12 favorite posts, mainly because I thought they were at least a little amusing.

I’d love to hear your what your favorite post was too…

Retail Deliverance

Yoga Booty Ballet

Father’s Day / The Rest of the Story

Dukies of Hazard

Doctoring 101

Price of Gas

No Ingrates Allowed

Interviewing Advice

Europe in a Nutshell

Hell’s Kitchen: Paris

Trooth Fairy

The Makings of a Nightmare

 You’ve heard enough of my belly-aching about being too busy, stressed, blah, blah, blah…  It’s nothing a few good  hours at a spa can’t fix. 

I’ve been to many spas over the years and for the most part, I find them to be relaxing and serve their intended purpose pretty well.  I usually feel better leaving than I did when I arrived.   Getting a pedicure is one of those self-indulgent treats that I look forward to for weeks before-hand.  

Then I saw this…

ARE YOU FREAKIN KIDDING ME? 

There are people who WILLINGLY pay to stick their feet in a basin of water loaded with starving fish that will devour their callouses?   You can see the full article here.

This is truly the making of one of my worst nightmares.   Anyone who has known me for more than a day would know that fish and I are not ever destined to come into contact with one another.  In fact, eating at restaurants that have a fish tank totally creeps me out.  I have to sit with my back to the fish because they scare the bejesus out of me. 

To make this situation even worse, what do you do when all the neighborhood cats smell your feet and come running to take a nibble?  How are you going to keep that toenail polish from getting all mangled with cat hair and kitty tongue prints? 

I think I’ll just stick to the old fashioned spas where the only thing I have to worry about is being humiliated by the fur cuffs that magically appear around my ankles.

Gravity 1: Karmen 0

The kids were off school Friday so I took the day off to do something fun like we used to do back in the day when I worked part time.  We all miss those days.  Our destination was Nickelodeon Universe, the indoor amusement park at the Mall of America.  We got our all-day passes and hit the rides.  We brought a couple friends with us for the day so each of the boys had a buddy to go on rides with if they needed one.  There were no lines so we ran from ride to ride like maniacs. 

After going to Disney World and being too little for most of the big rides, my kids take advantage of their newly discovered vertical achievements and line up for every ride they can find, roller coasters included. 

My kids’ friends were shocked when I got in line with them.  They kept asking if I was REALLY going on the ride.  Um…YEAH.  I made them go on one of my favorite rides, the platform that goes around and around in a big circle.  At first they were tentative but once we were in the air they all loved it.  We got off and ran back into the line to get on again! 

We made our way to the log ride/flume and I found myself the unwilling participant in a wet sweater contest.  Since I was the only chick in the area with a wet sweater, I deemed myself the winner, had another tequila shot, and kept searching for the Mom’s Gone Wild camera crew that was obviously not doing their job.  I passed up round 2 and 3 of that debacle and sent the kids fluming alone. 

I will not be posting any pictures of this event. 

You’re welcome.

The Fairly Odd Roller Coaster was next on the itinerary with its little purple cars that spin while careening around the track at Mach 2.  My first trip on that ride was fine, although they should worry less about strapping my body to the car and worry more about strapping my head to my body.  On my second ride, the car spun like a top and I got a nasty bout of whiplash, nausea, and a raging headache from trying to keep my head attached to my neck, and my breakfast attached to my innards. 

I think they should include Lunch in the list of things to keep inside the car as well.

There’s a new ride that I’d never seen before that looks like a skateboard with 2 cylinders you sit in so you spin around while the platform (skateboard-y thingy) makes it way up and back on a track that goes about 200 degrees.  I had offered a dollar to any kid who would go on the skateboard ride.  To my surprise, I had 4 eager volunteers!   They all hopped on and LOVED it.  I watched from the sidelines in hopes that my head would rewind what had been undone on the last ride.

 

I thought for sure someone would come off crying but they all got back on it at least 2 more times. 

I decided to up the ante to $2 to any kid who went on ALL the adult rides.  Again, they were all for it!  SAWEEEET.  I went on the rest of the rides that didn’t spin and we covered the whole park.   The boys were all totally proud of themselves. 

I, on the other hand, was forced to come to grips with something that I had an inkling might be happening.  

Gravity has not been kind to me.

On the Rock Bottom Plunge roller coaster, I could actually feel my jowls moving!  WTF!!!  I had flapping jowls.  I’m sure that if the rest of my body been allowed to experience unbridled roller coaster physics, there would have been a lot of things flapping.  My old friend centrifugal force did me a few favors that day and kept things where they needed to stay with some assistance of a shoulder harness.  Although this picture is NOT me, I can TOTALLY relate to what is happening to this guy’s face! 

I found a re-enactment of my maiden roller coaster ride.   Enjoy!

Perspective

Doing single mom duty for the past 3 days has me absolutely convinced that single parenting is not for wimps.  I can’t help but wonder if moms who choose this option intentionally know how hard it is.  I do fine when I’m on my own with the kids, in fact, it’s easier in some ways because I can operate on my own schedule and agenda.  If I choose to let the dishes sit in the sink overnight, the kids certainly aren’t going to give a rat’s ass about it.  If we have cereal and toast for supper, they don’t look at it with any more disgust than they do when I actually serve them up something I’ve spent time preparing. 

Hmmm, actually, I think it may be less. 

 I do think the world should know that I’ve earned some serious Hockey Mom street cred this week.  Pitbull had tryouts Tuesday night and tonight and I managed to get him to both sessions without being reminded.  And. On. Time!  No lie!  For most people, this is a simple ask.  For me, hockey tryouts represent the starting line of the worlds coldest marathon.   On one hand, I love watching my boys play hockey but I so wish there were warmer accommodations.  For the next six months I will find myself perched on a cold metal bench somewhere in Minnesota.  I’m not real excited to get in the starting blocks for this test of endurance. 

Yesterday I started a pity party because I feel so completely overwhelmed with everything I have going on.   All the work stuff, kid stuff, homework stuff, Cub Scouts, hockey tryouts, keeping a household operating, and wanting to spend more time with my mom while I still can.  I was wallowing in self pity that my scrapbooks are 2 years behind and there are toys and kid things overtaking every nook and cranny in our house.  I’ve stepped on so many lego pieces that I have grooves in the bottoms of my feet that would complete the last piece of some amazing robotic spaceship.

 And the mice.  ARGH!  Those mice are going to drive me over the edge.  The stink!  Within hours of cleaning the cage, I can smell them.  Their stink sticks to my nostrils and follows me where ever I go.  Nasty.

Bottom line: I was feeling like I had some legitimate reasons to whine and hole up in a corner rocking back and forth in the fetal position while downing a bottle of scotch or something.

Then I got a karate chop between the eyes.

I am a Wish Granter for Make a Wish.  Last week one of my partners and I had delivered a turtle and all the turtle fixins to one of our Wish Kids as a way of announcing that he would be going to see “Crush” at Disney World in January.  Our plans for the big reveal got changed at the last minute because our friend was in the hospital all day.  His mom asked us to bring the turtle to him once he got home because she knew it would lift his spirits.  (Let me put in a plug for Petco right now.  They rocked this part of the wish!  We had asked if we could get him a turtle habitat and supplies and they totally delivered.  It was amazing!  This turtle will be living in the turtle Taj Mahal.  A local aquarium store was kind enough to donate the turtle so our little dude was poised for thrills.)

I’m sure our dude would have been more thrilled if he felt better.  He looked awful when we brought the turtle over and set everything up.  He liked laying on the couch watching his turtle but he didn’t have nearly the exuberance he did when we first met him and talked about how much he loved turtles. 

Just as I was blowing up the last of my pity balloons and setting out the buffet of consolation chocolate, my partner called and interrupted my pity party with the news that our little friend is not doing well.  In fact, he’s not going to survive.  The doctors can’t do any more for him.  His brain is full of cancer and they sent him home with the intent to keep him comfortable.  SEVEN YEARS OLD. 

So. Not. Fair!

Kind of kicked my whiney ass to the curb.  

I sat and cried and said a prayer of healing and hope for our little friend and his poor, poor parents. 

And then I said a prayer of thanks that I will be watching my sons play hockey from icy cold metal benches for the next six months.

My new BFF

So tonight Mark and I attended the dreaded annual company fundraiser that we are somewhat obligated to attend.  I used to HATE going to this event, but ever since we had kids, and can escape right after dinner so the babysitter can get home at a decent hour on a school night, I am more willing to suck it up and take one for the team.   It helps that there’s an open bar for a good hour or two before the program starts. 

Did I mention the open bar?  Yeah, that helps.  Wish they could make a Bulldog though.

Mark and I have typically been the youngsters of this crowd, with most attendees pushing their 80s.  It’s fun to see all the old rich ladies putting on the ritz with their sparkly dresses and dripping diamonds.   And walkers.  Some of them can really work a room with that thing.

Did I mention the booze was free for a few hours?  Honest, it was.  They couldn’t make Colorado Bulldogs so I had to go with wine.  So generic.  Free.  No complaints.

We sat with an older couple who comes to the benefit each year as well.  The woman has lost about 100 pounds since I saw her last and I was marveling to her about how great she looks.  She was commenting how she forgets how much smaller she is now and told me how her panty hose crumpled up around her calves because they were too big for her.  Seems she forgot she doesn’t wear Queen size hosiery anymore.  We kind of laughed at the coolness of such a predicament.  Then she made the mistake of telling me that she had to take them off on the way to the dinner and that they were in her purse. 

I double dog dared her suggested that she leave her pantyhose under the table to freak out the workers.  Can you imagine the conversation that will ensue when they start tearing down tables and find a pair of women’s pantyhose left behind from a crowd of octagenarians???  I am so totally wishing I were part of the clean-up crew there tonight.  My new BFF and I were rolling at the notion that she, a nearly-70 year old soon-to-be-great-grandma, was abandoning her undergarments in a very vixen-like manner.  

KUDOS to my new BFF, I can’t wait to see what we come up with next year.  I’m willing to wager that either the facility denies hosting this function again next year or they man up and give us one heck of a deal based upon curiosity alone!