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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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?