This is the time I start regretting my incredibly lazy, unproductive life. Every four years, when I see a bunch of sixteen year-old kids prancing around in sequined leotards, overcoming mind-numbing pressure that would bring the rest of us to our knees, I feel more than a little inadequate. They get themselves into the gym every morning, rain or shine. I can't even follow through on my promise to do 100 crunches every night. They juggle training, school, and competitions. I haven't vacuumed in two weeks and I work twenty hours a week. They've accomplished a life-long goal of winning an Olympic gold medal before they were able to drive a car. It took me fifty-six years to write the novel I always dreamed of writing and I still haven't managed to finish editing the darn thing.
It may sound like I've given in to a lot of whining (now there's an Olympic event I would excel in) but, the truth is, I'm in awe. I can't fathom the determination, drive, and dedication it takes to be a world-class athlete in any sport. And I also can't fathom the commitment of the parents. When I see them in the stands, I think about all the early morning wake-up calls, all the traveling, all the meets they've sat through. I also think about the financial commitment they've all made. Sure, the parents of the Fab Five should see some return on that investment but what about the parents of the skeet shooters or the synchronized divers? I don't think their kids will be showing up on the cover of Sports Illustrated anytime soon. I like to tell myself that I would have done whatever I could to help my children achieve their dreams but I think I'm secretly relieved that neither of them showed extraordinary talent in a sport that would have forced me to confront that issue. Would I really have taken out that second mortgage?
So, why do I spend every night glued to my TV? Why do I torture myself? The answer is, I can't help it. I love watching people triumph over adversity (especially when NBC puts together one of those tear-jerker back story pieces). I love watching people dig down and find strength and ability they didn't know they had. I love watching people (even if they are still teenagers) achieve their dreams. And why wouldn't I? I know it's too late for me to do a back handspring on that balance beam but I still have a few unfulfilled dreams that I can take a crack at.
And I can use all the inspiration I can get.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Monday, July 30, 2012
See No Evil
I was watching the Olympics the other night (okay, every night) when the American men were trying to qualify for the team gymnastic final. Up in the crowd, with perfectly manicured fingernails placed directly over her eyes, was the mother of one of the participants. One of the cameras stayed on her as her son performed and when they replayed the footage, it turned out that the mom had never uncovered her eyes until she heard the crowd applauding. Hearing the all-clear signal, she knew it was safe to look and immediately started clapping wildly. She knew by the crowd's reaction that nothing terrible had happened, nothing terrible was going to happen. It was safe. For now.
Any mom can relate; we all know exactly what John Orozco's mom was going through. There are so many times we have to watch when our kids are in the middle of something that we know has a pretty good chance of ending badly. You want to help but you can't. You want to intervene but you shouldn't. You want to advise but . . . what the hell, you know they're not going to listen anyway.
So, we sit there like that mom in the stands with our hands half over our eyes, trying hard not to look until the danger has passed. But Mrs. Orozco had something we non-Olympic moms don't have.
She knew when it was safe to look.
Any mom can relate; we all know exactly what John Orozco's mom was going through. There are so many times we have to watch when our kids are in the middle of something that we know has a pretty good chance of ending badly. You want to help but you can't. You want to intervene but you shouldn't. You want to advise but . . . what the hell, you know they're not going to listen anyway.
So, we sit there like that mom in the stands with our hands half over our eyes, trying hard not to look until the danger has passed. But Mrs. Orozco had something we non-Olympic moms don't have.
She knew when it was safe to look.
Friday, July 27, 2012
The Hills Are Alive . . .
I woke up this morning to the sound of music. No, the Oscar-winning movie was not playing on my TV. This was better. This was so much better. I woke up to the sound of my daughter singing - a beautiful noise that hasn't been heard around here much over the last few years.
When we finished the basement when our kids were teenagers, we built a stage. Since our little girl was old enough to turn a hairbrush into a microphone, she had been performing for anyone who would listen. She would jump up on fireplace ledges or stand on ottomans, ready to sing her little Reba McIntire or Brittany Spears-lovin' heart out. It seemed only right to create a suitable place for our dedicated songstress to flap her artistic wings and so we elevated a platform, covered it in parquet flooring and outfitted it with a three disc karaoke machine, complete with a cordless mic. Happy that she could finally stash her hairbrush back in the bathroom drawer, she would spend endless hours downstairs belting out Pink's latest hits or wrapping her pipes around Mariah's latest ballad.
Then the music stopped. For almost five years, our daughter didn't have much to sing about. Strangled by the effects of a five-year battle with an eating disorder, her once strong, vibrant voice withered away. Her daily trips to the basement ended. Her daily trips to the bathroom escalated. And, while our main goal was helping her find the resolve to beat the greatest enemy she had ever encountered, it was heartbreaking to think the loss of her beautiful voice might be permanent.
Six months ago, everything changed. Through the grace of God and the intervention of a couple of amazing people He put in our daughter's path, she is on her way back from the abyss. With her new-found strength and determination, she has fought back to reclaim her life. She has rediscovered her sense of joy. She has found her voice.
And the sound of it is once again filling our home.
When we finished the basement when our kids were teenagers, we built a stage. Since our little girl was old enough to turn a hairbrush into a microphone, she had been performing for anyone who would listen. She would jump up on fireplace ledges or stand on ottomans, ready to sing her little Reba McIntire or Brittany Spears-lovin' heart out. It seemed only right to create a suitable place for our dedicated songstress to flap her artistic wings and so we elevated a platform, covered it in parquet flooring and outfitted it with a three disc karaoke machine, complete with a cordless mic. Happy that she could finally stash her hairbrush back in the bathroom drawer, she would spend endless hours downstairs belting out Pink's latest hits or wrapping her pipes around Mariah's latest ballad.
Then the music stopped. For almost five years, our daughter didn't have much to sing about. Strangled by the effects of a five-year battle with an eating disorder, her once strong, vibrant voice withered away. Her daily trips to the basement ended. Her daily trips to the bathroom escalated. And, while our main goal was helping her find the resolve to beat the greatest enemy she had ever encountered, it was heartbreaking to think the loss of her beautiful voice might be permanent.
Six months ago, everything changed. Through the grace of God and the intervention of a couple of amazing people He put in our daughter's path, she is on her way back from the abyss. With her new-found strength and determination, she has fought back to reclaim her life. She has rediscovered her sense of joy. She has found her voice.
And the sound of it is once again filling our home.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Tattoo Me, Tattoo Me Not
Anyone who has been reading this blog for awhile knows that I'm not a fan of tattoos. While I'm all for expressing yourself, I just can't buy into all the permanent scribbling that is now being sported by everyone from teenage cashiers to Medicare applicants. I'm standing strong, fighting the ubiquitous trend. Just as I'm sure that I will never be subjecting my hair to another perm, I know that my pasty-white ankles will remain butterflyless.
None of this matters, of course, since my daughter seems to be embracing the craze enough for the two of us. This week, she added to her body art count with a cross/Bible verse combo on her remaining wrist. It's tough to criticize her choice. (What parent wouldn't be pleased that her child was quoting God instead of Lady Gaga?) I just wish she could have had it done in henna or, better yet, engraved it on a nice piece of jewelry.
Her dad's reaction to the reveal was priceless. Mumbling things like 'the mutilation continues' and 'when is this graffiti going to end?' he sent his usual oh-so-subtle message that he wouldn't be pitching his tent in the tattoo camp anytime soon. My hero.
In the end, it doesn't matter what her father or I think. It is her body (despite my occasional reminders that she has one courtesy of yours truly) and she does have the right to "decorate" it as she sees fit. I just hope I'm around when she's searching the Internet (I was going to say 'paging through the Yellow Pages' but stopped myself) for tattoo removal someday.
I'll try my best not to say I told you so.
None of this matters, of course, since my daughter seems to be embracing the craze enough for the two of us. This week, she added to her body art count with a cross/Bible verse combo on her remaining wrist. It's tough to criticize her choice. (What parent wouldn't be pleased that her child was quoting God instead of Lady Gaga?) I just wish she could have had it done in henna or, better yet, engraved it on a nice piece of jewelry.
Her dad's reaction to the reveal was priceless. Mumbling things like 'the mutilation continues' and 'when is this graffiti going to end?' he sent his usual oh-so-subtle message that he wouldn't be pitching his tent in the tattoo camp anytime soon. My hero.
In the end, it doesn't matter what her father or I think. It is her body (despite my occasional reminders that she has one courtesy of yours truly) and she does have the right to "decorate" it as she sees fit. I just hope I'm around when she's searching the Internet (I was going to say 'paging through the Yellow Pages' but stopped myself) for tattoo removal someday.
I'll try my best not to say I told you so.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Play Misty For Me, Part 2
I read recently that the average couple will spend somewhere north of $250,000 for medical costs in their retirement years. Hopefully, that means some co-operative hypochondriac in Nebraska will be plunking down $500,000 or so, enabling the couple I'm half of into a more moderate range, allowing us to budget for a meal once in awhile as well. Based on my recent medical activity, I'm not counting on it.
Today, was a repeat visit to Misty. You remember her, the cheeriest Urologist on the planet? I was back in the office to discuss the effects of the medication she had prescribed for me a couple of months ago. After leaving the tiniest urine sample of my entire life behind that little silver door (note to self: do not use the bathroom before leaving the house when your Urologist's office is ten minutes away), I settled in to wait for Misty to make her appearance. When she did, she asked me the usual litany of questions. How was I feeling? Were the pills helping? Did I have any adverse side effects? When I answered "okay", "yes" and "dry mouth, weird taste in my mouth and, oh, yeah, a possible disturbance in my vision" I could tell I had her attention.
That's when we started talking about my alternatives. She suggested another medication at a lower dose (a non-generic, highly advertised drug that had a monthly cost somewhere in the neighborhood of a night in a hotel room in Florence) while I suggested setting up a chair and TV in the bathroom and a UPS delivery of a carton of Depends.
We compromised. I'm going off the current, possibly vision-robbing medication and playing the wait and see what happens game. I'm also going to cut carbonated drinks and caffeine out of my diet. If I'm lucky, that will be enough to bring my symptoms into the 'tolerable' range. But, if I end up returning to the previous pattern of making more than twenty-seven visits to the bathroom in a single twenty-four hour period, I might have to break down and turn to Plan B - the free month's supply of that other, expensive drug that was Misty's parting gift.
And, if all else fails, you can bet I'll be watching my Sunday paper for a decent coupon for that box of Depends.
Today, was a repeat visit to Misty. You remember her, the cheeriest Urologist on the planet? I was back in the office to discuss the effects of the medication she had prescribed for me a couple of months ago. After leaving the tiniest urine sample of my entire life behind that little silver door (note to self: do not use the bathroom before leaving the house when your Urologist's office is ten minutes away), I settled in to wait for Misty to make her appearance. When she did, she asked me the usual litany of questions. How was I feeling? Were the pills helping? Did I have any adverse side effects? When I answered "okay", "yes" and "dry mouth, weird taste in my mouth and, oh, yeah, a possible disturbance in my vision" I could tell I had her attention.
That's when we started talking about my alternatives. She suggested another medication at a lower dose (a non-generic, highly advertised drug that had a monthly cost somewhere in the neighborhood of a night in a hotel room in Florence) while I suggested setting up a chair and TV in the bathroom and a UPS delivery of a carton of Depends.
We compromised. I'm going off the current, possibly vision-robbing medication and playing the wait and see what happens game. I'm also going to cut carbonated drinks and caffeine out of my diet. If I'm lucky, that will be enough to bring my symptoms into the 'tolerable' range. But, if I end up returning to the previous pattern of making more than twenty-seven visits to the bathroom in a single twenty-four hour period, I might have to break down and turn to Plan B - the free month's supply of that other, expensive drug that was Misty's parting gift.
And, if all else fails, you can bet I'll be watching my Sunday paper for a decent coupon for that box of Depends.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Tooth or Dare
You know those little reminder postcards you get in the mail from your dentist every six months? Here's a little piece of advice. Don't ignore them. You'll be amazed at how quickly six months can turn into two and a half years. And when that happens, you will undoubtedly find yourself more intimately acquainted with that silver instrument of plaque-scraping torture than you could ever have imagined.
At first I told myself I was saving money. No one really needed their teeth cleaned twice a year. That was a total scam perpetuated by your dentist and Crest toothpaste. Armed with my electric toothbrush, I was sure I could pocket the extra $100 I would save and use it for something really important like my People magazine subscription. So I waited. And waited. Two appointments, several shots of Novocaine and one session of scaling (if you don't know what that is, I'm happy for you) later, I can safely say those 125 issues of People magazine weren't worth it, (with the possible exception of the Sexiest Man Alive Ryan Reynolds issue).
So, today, a mere six months and three days after my last cleaning, I reluctantly leaned back and opened wide. Twenty minutes later, I was the owner of a shiny, blue toothbrush and a brand new pack of dental floss - a product I now actually use. More importantly, I learned something that I should have figured out a whole lot earlier in my life.
People really do need to have their teeth cleaned twice a year.
At first I told myself I was saving money. No one really needed their teeth cleaned twice a year. That was a total scam perpetuated by your dentist and Crest toothpaste. Armed with my electric toothbrush, I was sure I could pocket the extra $100 I would save and use it for something really important like my People magazine subscription. So I waited. And waited. Two appointments, several shots of Novocaine and one session of scaling (if you don't know what that is, I'm happy for you) later, I can safely say those 125 issues of People magazine weren't worth it, (with the possible exception of the Sexiest Man Alive Ryan Reynolds issue).
So, today, a mere six months and three days after my last cleaning, I reluctantly leaned back and opened wide. Twenty minutes later, I was the owner of a shiny, blue toothbrush and a brand new pack of dental floss - a product I now actually use. More importantly, I learned something that I should have figured out a whole lot earlier in my life.
People really do need to have their teeth cleaned twice a year.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Why?
I'm glad I don't have a small child living in my house anymore. I wouldn't want to try to explain what happened in Aurora, Colorado to anyone looking to me for answers. I wouldn't want to calm their fears about going to the mall, going to school and, now, going to a movie. I wouldn't know where to start.
When I was ten, President Kennedy was assassinated. I couldn't understand why everyone was crying; why everyone was glued to the television set that had pre-empted all my favorite cartoons. In my teens, I experienced the murders of Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King in a different way. I mourned the loss of leaders who inspired me. I felt sadness that our country would be deprived of their potential to solve our problems; to bring us together. The one thing I never felt was any sense of personal fear for my own safety. I never felt the insanity that was cutting short the lives of world leaders would ever trickle down to me.
Since Columbine, since 9/11, since Oklahoma City, that's all changed. I know now that everyone is at risk. Anywhere, anytime, any one of us may encounter some disenfranchised loner with a grudge to settle or a fanatic who wants to drive home a point by obliterating as many lives as he can. And he won't be doing it with a knife or a baseball bat. He won't even be doing it with a revolver or shotgun. He'll be doing it with an arsenal of automatic weapons and thousands of rounds of ammunition he bought at the local Wal-Mart or on the Internet.
Like I said, I'm glad I don't have to explain any of this to anyone.
When I was ten, President Kennedy was assassinated. I couldn't understand why everyone was crying; why everyone was glued to the television set that had pre-empted all my favorite cartoons. In my teens, I experienced the murders of Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King in a different way. I mourned the loss of leaders who inspired me. I felt sadness that our country would be deprived of their potential to solve our problems; to bring us together. The one thing I never felt was any sense of personal fear for my own safety. I never felt the insanity that was cutting short the lives of world leaders would ever trickle down to me.
Since Columbine, since 9/11, since Oklahoma City, that's all changed. I know now that everyone is at risk. Anywhere, anytime, any one of us may encounter some disenfranchised loner with a grudge to settle or a fanatic who wants to drive home a point by obliterating as many lives as he can. And he won't be doing it with a knife or a baseball bat. He won't even be doing it with a revolver or shotgun. He'll be doing it with an arsenal of automatic weapons and thousands of rounds of ammunition he bought at the local Wal-Mart or on the Internet.
Like I said, I'm glad I don't have to explain any of this to anyone.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Here Comes the Bride . . . Again
Tonight I went to another wedding - not such an unusual event for me this summer. As always, the bride was beautiful and the vows were heartfelt. This time the ceremony was held in an old chapel and the couple was fortunate enough to be blessed with one of the few days of the entire summer that didn't crack ninety degrees. But these nuptials were different for another reason - the bride has been my daughter's best friend since sixth grade. I couldn't help but tear up watching these beautiful young women walk down the aisle. How was it possible? It didn't seem so long ago that I was attending their chorale concerts or chaperoning their senior party. Now, here I was watching one of them get married knowing my own child's turn was just around the corner.
I don't know why any of this should surprise me. My daughter still lives with us. I get daily reminders that she's not that little girl I sometimes fantasize about. I see the size of her shoes (not to mention her bra), I hear (I can't help it, her bed is on the other side of our wall) her late night conversations with members of the opposite sex, and I watch her drive off to a full-time job Monday through Friday. Despite those reminders, I still can't quite wrap my arms around the fact that she's a grown woman capable of making choices and decisions without seeking out her mother's approval.
I can't promise anything but maybe I'll be able to by the time she's the one with the veil.
I don't know why any of this should surprise me. My daughter still lives with us. I get daily reminders that she's not that little girl I sometimes fantasize about. I see the size of her shoes (not to mention her bra), I hear (I can't help it, her bed is on the other side of our wall) her late night conversations with members of the opposite sex, and I watch her drive off to a full-time job Monday through Friday. Despite those reminders, I still can't quite wrap my arms around the fact that she's a grown woman capable of making choices and decisions without seeking out her mother's approval.
I can't promise anything but maybe I'll be able to by the time she's the one with the veil.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Let It Rain
After having lived in a neighborhood that looks more like a field of hay than the lush suburban lawns I'm used to, I found myself breaking into a little jig at the sound of rain on my rooftop last night. Since we haven't had more than an inch or two of rain all summer, I think I can be forgiven for reacting in a lame, old Hollywood western settler kind of way. Besides, I don't think anyone saw me.
I've always been a sucker for a good thunderstorm; it didn't take a drought to make me appreciate rain. I've always loved the feel of a sun-shower's cool raindrops on sweaty skin; the persistent clatter on the skylight as the sheets of water fall off the roof; jumping puddles in strappy sandals. I could live without the worms that dot the driveway after a downpour but everything else about the skies opening up puts a smile on my face (as long as it doesn't wash away an outdoor party I've been planning for weeks).
What I love more than anything about a good old-fashioned thunderstorm is the feeling of gratitude that washes over me every time I experience one. There's nothing better than huddling under the covers, listening to the peals of thunder, knowing that I'm safely tucked inside my house. There's nothing sweeter than seeing lightning split the dark sky, knowing that I'm lucky enough to have shelter. Tucked inside the confines of my home, I can appreciate all of God's glory and all of nature's power as I drift off to sleep.
What could be better than that?
I've always been a sucker for a good thunderstorm; it didn't take a drought to make me appreciate rain. I've always loved the feel of a sun-shower's cool raindrops on sweaty skin; the persistent clatter on the skylight as the sheets of water fall off the roof; jumping puddles in strappy sandals. I could live without the worms that dot the driveway after a downpour but everything else about the skies opening up puts a smile on my face (as long as it doesn't wash away an outdoor party I've been planning for weeks).
What I love more than anything about a good old-fashioned thunderstorm is the feeling of gratitude that washes over me every time I experience one. There's nothing better than huddling under the covers, listening to the peals of thunder, knowing that I'm safely tucked inside my house. There's nothing sweeter than seeing lightning split the dark sky, knowing that I'm lucky enough to have shelter. Tucked inside the confines of my home, I can appreciate all of God's glory and all of nature's power as I drift off to sleep.
What could be better than that?
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Make Me Laugh . . . Please
Maybe it's the state of the economy; maybe it's the heat. I'm not quite sure what it is but I know there's nothing I appreciate more these days than a good laugh. I don't consider myself a shallow person but forgive me for not racing off to see the latest thought-provoking film from Iran. I do love to read but excuse my ignorance for not rushing out to the bookstore to buy the latest heart-wrenching bestseller that will send me into a depression for a week. What I can get excited about is the prospect of hearty laughter. Go ahead, be the first in line to see The Dark Knight Rises; I'll see you in the theater when that new Will Ferrell, Zach Galifinakis movie, The Campaign opens.
I always did appreciate a sense of humor. If a perspective boyfriend laughed at one of George Carlin's routines or thought Mel Brooks' latest film was a work of genius, he was in. I didn't waste my time on anyone who took life too seriously. And I still try hard not to. Life's challenges go down a whole lot easier with a smile on your face. Maybe that's why I have a couple of sitcom episodes at the ready on my DVR and usually end my day with an episode or two of The King of Queens or Everybody Loves Raymond on TVland.
If I'm distressed about the budget deficit, I turn on The Daily Show. If I want to scream over the latest political scandal, I check out a Brian Regan CD from the library. If my kids are driving me crazy, I read the latest Zits cartoon.
Getting a good laugh in the middle of all the insanity may not help but it sure as hell doesn't hurt.
I always did appreciate a sense of humor. If a perspective boyfriend laughed at one of George Carlin's routines or thought Mel Brooks' latest film was a work of genius, he was in. I didn't waste my time on anyone who took life too seriously. And I still try hard not to. Life's challenges go down a whole lot easier with a smile on your face. Maybe that's why I have a couple of sitcom episodes at the ready on my DVR and usually end my day with an episode or two of The King of Queens or Everybody Loves Raymond on TVland.
If I'm distressed about the budget deficit, I turn on The Daily Show. If I want to scream over the latest political scandal, I check out a Brian Regan CD from the library. If my kids are driving me crazy, I read the latest Zits cartoon.
Getting a good laugh in the middle of all the insanity may not help but it sure as hell doesn't hurt.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
A Tale of Two People
You come in contact with a lot of different people over the course of a lifetime. Some of them are thoughtful, generous and kind; you know, the ones you like to hang out with, the ones that make you feel good just being around them. Then, there are the other kind; the mean-spirited, quick-to- criticize, toxic people that infect any room they enter. After spending time this past weekend with one of the former, I've decided to: a) do my best to emulate that kind of behavior and b) make every effort to steer clear of those who don't.
Throwing a party can be stressful. If you're lucky, you get to do it with people like my new favorite person in the world, my nephew's new mother-in-law, Debbie. The morning of the shindig, she walked in the door, eager to do anything she could to help. If there was fruit to be skewered, she did that; if there were dishes to be done, she did that. And she did it all with a big smile on her face. Later, after the guests arrived, she interacted with everyone as if they were her new best friends. And they all wanted to be.
I said this was a tale of two people. The opposite side of this personality spectrum is a person I have to deal with on a regular basis. whose sharp tongue and condescending manner do nothing but make everyone around her feel bad about themselves. I wish she could spend a few minutes with Debbie. I'd like to think that she would pick up a few pointers on how to win friends and influence people but I'm pretty sure she would dismiss her as a phony do-gooder and go right back to the toxic behavior of which she seems so totally unaware.
I may have to continue dealing with people like the person who shall remain nameless but, when I do, I'm going to be asking myself one thing.
What would Debbie do?
Throwing a party can be stressful. If you're lucky, you get to do it with people like my new favorite person in the world, my nephew's new mother-in-law, Debbie. The morning of the shindig, she walked in the door, eager to do anything she could to help. If there was fruit to be skewered, she did that; if there were dishes to be done, she did that. And she did it all with a big smile on her face. Later, after the guests arrived, she interacted with everyone as if they were her new best friends. And they all wanted to be.
I said this was a tale of two people. The opposite side of this personality spectrum is a person I have to deal with on a regular basis. whose sharp tongue and condescending manner do nothing but make everyone around her feel bad about themselves. I wish she could spend a few minutes with Debbie. I'd like to think that she would pick up a few pointers on how to win friends and influence people but I'm pretty sure she would dismiss her as a phony do-gooder and go right back to the toxic behavior of which she seems so totally unaware.
I may have to continue dealing with people like the person who shall remain nameless but, when I do, I'm going to be asking myself one thing.
What would Debbie do?
Thursday, July 12, 2012
The Eyes Have It
Until a couple of weeks ago, I had never had a real eye exam. Oh, sure, I had blown through that big chart on the back of the door during annual physicals and passed the peripheral flash test at the DMV but I had never scheduled an appointment at an optometrist's office. Lucky enough to have been born with 20/20 vision, I just never saw the need to seek out additional medical personnel, especially after we hooked up with that high-deductible insurance plan.
You would think I might have been tempted when I took a tennis ball to the face a few years ago, but even then I played the waiting game. Then, right around forty, my People magazine started to get a little fuzzy. Still, I resisted. What did that expensive eye doctor have that I couldn't get at my friendly neighborhood Costco? Nothing. Did he have a four-pack of readers that I could strategically place throughout my house? No, he did not.
And then my friend Linda, who just happens to work for an eye doctor, found out about my optical neglect. Her subtle hints started with lines like, "Sure, it's no big deal. You can wait for awhile. We're just talking about your eyes" and ended with horror stories of a client who had no idea he was walking around with glaucoma and was now in the company of a hard-working Golden Retriever named Rusty. Okay, I'm exaggerating just a little but she did make it her business to scare the crap out of me. And she did a pretty good job. When my own daughter found employment in an optometrist's office, I knew my excuses were over. I made the appointment.
Turns out everything is okay. I discovered there is no eye chart on the back of the door, it's all electronic now. I also discovered that I can't make up my mind which looks better, one or two, when the doctor flips the lever on that lens machine. I'm still using my Costco readers, despite being told I'd see a lot better if I switched to a prescription. I know I should but I don't know what I'd do with only one pair of glasses.
A few days after my exam, Linda and I were both invited to a graduation party. Now was my chance to tell her the good news. I had finally taken her advice. I was no longer an optometrist virgin. At last I would be off the hook. Or so I thought.
"You didn't have dilation?" she asked in horror. "They can't see the health of the eye without dilation. When are you going back for that?"
I will. I promise I will. Right after I schedule that dental appointment.
You would think I might have been tempted when I took a tennis ball to the face a few years ago, but even then I played the waiting game. Then, right around forty, my People magazine started to get a little fuzzy. Still, I resisted. What did that expensive eye doctor have that I couldn't get at my friendly neighborhood Costco? Nothing. Did he have a four-pack of readers that I could strategically place throughout my house? No, he did not.
And then my friend Linda, who just happens to work for an eye doctor, found out about my optical neglect. Her subtle hints started with lines like, "Sure, it's no big deal. You can wait for awhile. We're just talking about your eyes" and ended with horror stories of a client who had no idea he was walking around with glaucoma and was now in the company of a hard-working Golden Retriever named Rusty. Okay, I'm exaggerating just a little but she did make it her business to scare the crap out of me. And she did a pretty good job. When my own daughter found employment in an optometrist's office, I knew my excuses were over. I made the appointment.
Turns out everything is okay. I discovered there is no eye chart on the back of the door, it's all electronic now. I also discovered that I can't make up my mind which looks better, one or two, when the doctor flips the lever on that lens machine. I'm still using my Costco readers, despite being told I'd see a lot better if I switched to a prescription. I know I should but I don't know what I'd do with only one pair of glasses.
A few days after my exam, Linda and I were both invited to a graduation party. Now was my chance to tell her the good news. I had finally taken her advice. I was no longer an optometrist virgin. At last I would be off the hook. Or so I thought.
"You didn't have dilation?" she asked in horror. "They can't see the health of the eye without dilation. When are you going back for that?"
I will. I promise I will. Right after I schedule that dental appointment.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
The Brown, Brown Grass of Home
I've lived in the Midwest for most of my life and I've gotten used to weather extremes. Well, that's not completely true. No one in their right mind can get used to 20 below zero wind chills and ten foot snow drifts. What I should have said is that I've accepted the fact that, as long as I'm crazy enough to get my mail delivered here, I know I'm going to have to put up with temperature swings that necessitate sweatshirts and shorts living in the same drawer.
I don't know if global warming is the culprit or not (if so, I apologize for using all those cans of aerosol hairspray), but this summer has been particularly brutal. I'm not one to complain about hot weather; I do enough of that between November and March. Usually, as long as I can duck into air conditioning every couple of hours, I'm good. But, after four consecutive 100 degree days, with humidity that would frizz Cher's hair, I'm crying uncle. I'm not saying I'm ready for the melodious rhythms of the snowplows; I'm just saying I'd like a day under 90.
Last summer, I don't think I had to water my plants more than a handful of days. Several times a week we were lucky enough to have a decent rainfall that guaranteed an abundance of cherry tomatoes as well as a lush lawn as green as the felt on a pool table. This summer, our flowers need to be doused two or three times a day just to have a fighting chance and the lawn is looking more and more like the baseline at Wimbledon after two weeks of play.
I wouldn't be quite this upset about the weather if it weren't for two things. I just spent several hundred dollars to go to a wedding in a beautiful state park and spent all of ten minutes outside the confines of the lodge and, this weekend, I'm about to host a large gathering in my backyard that is doomed to end up singing karaoke in my basement. Maybe there will be a few brave souls that venture out to toss the frisbee around. To them, I just want to say:
I'm sorry. And, please don't sue me if you cut your feet on the grass.
I don't know if global warming is the culprit or not (if so, I apologize for using all those cans of aerosol hairspray), but this summer has been particularly brutal. I'm not one to complain about hot weather; I do enough of that between November and March. Usually, as long as I can duck into air conditioning every couple of hours, I'm good. But, after four consecutive 100 degree days, with humidity that would frizz Cher's hair, I'm crying uncle. I'm not saying I'm ready for the melodious rhythms of the snowplows; I'm just saying I'd like a day under 90.
Last summer, I don't think I had to water my plants more than a handful of days. Several times a week we were lucky enough to have a decent rainfall that guaranteed an abundance of cherry tomatoes as well as a lush lawn as green as the felt on a pool table. This summer, our flowers need to be doused two or three times a day just to have a fighting chance and the lawn is looking more and more like the baseline at Wimbledon after two weeks of play.
I wouldn't be quite this upset about the weather if it weren't for two things. I just spent several hundred dollars to go to a wedding in a beautiful state park and spent all of ten minutes outside the confines of the lodge and, this weekend, I'm about to host a large gathering in my backyard that is doomed to end up singing karaoke in my basement. Maybe there will be a few brave souls that venture out to toss the frisbee around. To them, I just want to say:
I'm sorry. And, please don't sue me if you cut your feet on the grass.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
To Everything Turn, Turn, Turn
If everything does have a season, this is certainly the season for weddings. This weekend I attended my third in as many months and my second involving a child of a long time friend. The best thing about this wedding was that I got to spend a weekend with a group of people I've known for thirty years. I've written about them before because they're well worth writing about; four couples that have laughed and cried through dating, marriages, births, job losses, deaths of parents and now this - watching the little people we created grow up and start their own families.
The wedding locale was beautiful, set in a rustic lodge in a state park. We were all looking forward to a couple of days spent enjoying the great outdoors; hiking (if our knees held out), canoeing (if the river didn't smell like dead fish), and sitting out on the veranda enjoying a glass (or two) of wine (no need to worry about working body parts for that one). Funny how a little thing like 104 degree temperatures and 90% humidity will squelch any hopes for outside activity. But what did we care? We were together and we were going to have fun.
We hunkered down in the air conditioning, pitched in to help with wedding details, and did our best to hydrate. (Doesn't frozen custard drowned in hot fudge help you stay hydrated?) We also talked about everything from religion to tennis; job worries to vacation plans; doctor visits to movies. When you know someone as long as we've known each other, there's a shorthand that takes over. You know you can be yourself; that there's nothing you can't share. We'll call each other on whatever we have to, we'll lend a shoulder if anyone needs one, and we'll have a (gentle) laugh or two at each others' expense. And, oh, yeah, we'll be there for each other no matter what.
As I watched our friends' daughter say her "I dos", I couldn't help noticing she seemed to have a great group of friends. They had all gone to high school and/or college together and seemed a tight-knit, supportive group that had a lot of fun in each others' company.
I can only hope they find a way to end up three decades from now with what we and their parents have - a circle of lifelong friends that can make you smile through just about anything.
The wedding locale was beautiful, set in a rustic lodge in a state park. We were all looking forward to a couple of days spent enjoying the great outdoors; hiking (if our knees held out), canoeing (if the river didn't smell like dead fish), and sitting out on the veranda enjoying a glass (or two) of wine (no need to worry about working body parts for that one). Funny how a little thing like 104 degree temperatures and 90% humidity will squelch any hopes for outside activity. But what did we care? We were together and we were going to have fun.
We hunkered down in the air conditioning, pitched in to help with wedding details, and did our best to hydrate. (Doesn't frozen custard drowned in hot fudge help you stay hydrated?) We also talked about everything from religion to tennis; job worries to vacation plans; doctor visits to movies. When you know someone as long as we've known each other, there's a shorthand that takes over. You know you can be yourself; that there's nothing you can't share. We'll call each other on whatever we have to, we'll lend a shoulder if anyone needs one, and we'll have a (gentle) laugh or two at each others' expense. And, oh, yeah, we'll be there for each other no matter what.
As I watched our friends' daughter say her "I dos", I couldn't help noticing she seemed to have a great group of friends. They had all gone to high school and/or college together and seemed a tight-knit, supportive group that had a lot of fun in each others' company.
I can only hope they find a way to end up three decades from now with what we and their parents have - a circle of lifelong friends that can make you smile through just about anything.
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