The last time I wrote a blog like this, I was punished with two inches of sewer water in my basement but here goes. I should be:
- cleaning the kitchen
- organizing my financial papers
- doing a funkier by the minute load of laundry
- cooking dinner
- thinking of something to cook for dinner
- scrubbing the shower(s)
- giving my husband a back rub (this isn't normally on the list; he pulled a muscle lifting
boxes I should have been helping him with)
- planting the impatients I bought over a week ago
- returning a phone call from my mother
- taking overdue movies back to the library
- stop writing my initials in the dust on the piano and clean the darn thing and
- edit one of the two novels I mistakenly believe will edit themselves
What I am doing:
- reading my People magazine with my lazy ass planted firmly in a comfy deck chair
Oh, well. If I'm determined to give myself a hard time for wanting to enjoy a beautiful day, this is the way to do it.
I may not have done much today but this lousy blog proves I did do something.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Play Misty For Me
There's a certain inevitability that comes with getting older. You know that physical activity is going to get a bit tougher, you figure you're going to get a little more forgetful, and you suspect that you're going to spend more of your waking hours waiting to be seen by some doctor. Oh, you can try hard to eat right, exercise and do any brainteaser puzzle that comes your way but every once in awhile, you're hit with a reminder of what's really ahead of you. I had one of those moments this week, sitting in a urologist's office.
When you are forced to pick up that phone and make an appointment with someone whose clientele clips Depends coupons, it's a sobering moment. Not that it was that much of a surprise to anyone who knows me. I've had to scope out the location of the nearest rest room since I was potty trained. But this was different; this was needing to find the next bathroom before I left the one I was in.
I didn't make that phone call right away. I thought it was the least I could do to give my primary doctor a shot at solving the problem but, after a couple of weeks of, shall we say, "intense discomfort", I had to face the music. It was time to see a specialist. So, there I was, the only non-Medicare patient in the waiting room, wondering what delights were waiting for me on the other side of that door, when a young nurse called my name.
She led me into the exam room, took the usual vitals and informed me that 'Misty' would be right with me. 'Misty? What kind of name was that for a urologist? How in God's name was I going to have any confidence in a doctor named Misty?' (Okay, she was a physician's assistant but still. New parents, take note. Do not give your child a name that will always sound like she should be off somewhere playing with her American Girl doll.)
A few minutes later, the bubbliest urologist on the planet got good and familiar with my netherlands as I stared at the ceiling. She chattered amiably through the exam, cheerily answered all my questions and gave me an intake/output diary to be filled out over two of the next fourteen days. Great. I thought there would be a nice, easy solution - like a little, pink pill that would save the day but no such luck. Now I have to go back in two weeks.
I wonder if Dr. Misty will be waiting for me.
When you are forced to pick up that phone and make an appointment with someone whose clientele clips Depends coupons, it's a sobering moment. Not that it was that much of a surprise to anyone who knows me. I've had to scope out the location of the nearest rest room since I was potty trained. But this was different; this was needing to find the next bathroom before I left the one I was in.
I didn't make that phone call right away. I thought it was the least I could do to give my primary doctor a shot at solving the problem but, after a couple of weeks of, shall we say, "intense discomfort", I had to face the music. It was time to see a specialist. So, there I was, the only non-Medicare patient in the waiting room, wondering what delights were waiting for me on the other side of that door, when a young nurse called my name.
She led me into the exam room, took the usual vitals and informed me that 'Misty' would be right with me. 'Misty? What kind of name was that for a urologist? How in God's name was I going to have any confidence in a doctor named Misty?' (Okay, she was a physician's assistant but still. New parents, take note. Do not give your child a name that will always sound like she should be off somewhere playing with her American Girl doll.)
A few minutes later, the bubbliest urologist on the planet got good and familiar with my netherlands as I stared at the ceiling. She chattered amiably through the exam, cheerily answered all my questions and gave me an intake/output diary to be filled out over two of the next fourteen days. Great. I thought there would be a nice, easy solution - like a little, pink pill that would save the day but no such luck. Now I have to go back in two weeks.
I wonder if Dr. Misty will be waiting for me.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Back in the Backyard
Yesterday was one of those rare days when I got to have both my children hanging around the old homestead. Granted, I didn't get the pleasure of my son's company for very long but I console myself with the fact that a) he did remember it was Mother's Day and b) he actually purchased a card and took the time to fill out a funny, if not a bit insulting, book detailing what he loved about his mother. As I've said before, I'll take what I can get.
After sharing a pizza on the deck, (I sure wasn't cooking and it didn't look like anyone else was either), I watched as my kids picked up a long-forgotten frisbee and started throwing it around the yard. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I couldn't help remembering all the fun we've had in the park-like lawn behind our house. An endless parade of lawn darts, Slip and Slides and badminton nets have made their way through that space but it's been quiet for awhile. It was great to see them out there, laughing and trying to outdo each other. Unfortunately, my daughter has inherited her mother's inability to throw an object anywhere near the intended receiver so there was little chance of her ever being able to match her brother's effortless athletic prowess. Still, they were having fun; fun which only intensified when they coerced me into playing. After all, there's nothing that brings siblings together like shared ridicule of one of their parents. So what if I'm their favorite target? So what if I kept throwing that stupid thing into the deck railing (which was only ten feet away and a mere ninety degree angle from its target)? It was almost worth the humiliation to watch my son and daughter fall to the ground in fits of laughter.
I've decided I can handle a little bit of ridicule if it results in the four of us spending more time together. If that's all it takes, I'm happy to take the fall.
After sharing a pizza on the deck, (I sure wasn't cooking and it didn't look like anyone else was either), I watched as my kids picked up a long-forgotten frisbee and started throwing it around the yard. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I couldn't help remembering all the fun we've had in the park-like lawn behind our house. An endless parade of lawn darts, Slip and Slides and badminton nets have made their way through that space but it's been quiet for awhile. It was great to see them out there, laughing and trying to outdo each other. Unfortunately, my daughter has inherited her mother's inability to throw an object anywhere near the intended receiver so there was little chance of her ever being able to match her brother's effortless athletic prowess. Still, they were having fun; fun which only intensified when they coerced me into playing. After all, there's nothing that brings siblings together like shared ridicule of one of their parents. So what if I'm their favorite target? So what if I kept throwing that stupid thing into the deck railing (which was only ten feet away and a mere ninety degree angle from its target)? It was almost worth the humiliation to watch my son and daughter fall to the ground in fits of laughter.
I've decided I can handle a little bit of ridicule if it results in the four of us spending more time together. If that's all it takes, I'm happy to take the fall.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Regrets, I Have a Few
Once your children are grown, there's a lot of time to reflect on what kind of a parent you were. I always knew that I'd be good with all the baby and toddler stuff. And I was. My tough time came in adolescence and beyond. That's when it was important to be consistent and have logical, enforceable consequences and I wasn't very good at either of those.
Despite my shortcomings, my kids have turned out pretty well. They do remind me regularly that it's my fault that they don't know how to handle a lot of the "adult" challenges that are coming their way because I usually bailed them out of difficulties when they were younger. To this, I say "be thankful that the good times lasted as long as they did".
I was a child of the Sixties. My mom stayed at home and took care of everything. The most I had to do for myself was grab a bowl of cereal and occasionally make my bed. With a mother that was the epitome of the Betty Crocker housewife, there was little I could do that lived up to her standards so, like any smart teenager, I screwed up everything she asked me to do so that she would stop asking. And she did. My kids didn't have it quite as easy but looking back, I wish I had been tougher about enforcing basic rules like cleaning their rooms, doing homework right after school and helping with after dinner clean-up. I just couldn't seem to stick to any of the chore/homework/reward plans I was continually dreaming up. The bottom line was punishment for them usually translated into punishment for me and, sooner rather than later, I let them off the hook.
But, you know what? I'm done apologizing. I loved my kids within an inch of their lives and that ought to count for something. Okay, I never made you cook us dinner - go buy a cookbook. Okay, I didn't make you do your own laundry - throw the red towel in with the white shirt and learn the way the rest of us did. Okay, I didn't get you a dog. Well, that one I really am sorry about but what I can do now? I know. As soon as they get real jobs, with a real place to live, I'll trek down to the shelter and pick out the cutest pup in the place. That way they can practice on a pet before they get around to raising my future grandchildren.
Maybe they'll make fewer mistakes than I did. But I'm not betting on it.
Despite my shortcomings, my kids have turned out pretty well. They do remind me regularly that it's my fault that they don't know how to handle a lot of the "adult" challenges that are coming their way because I usually bailed them out of difficulties when they were younger. To this, I say "be thankful that the good times lasted as long as they did".
I was a child of the Sixties. My mom stayed at home and took care of everything. The most I had to do for myself was grab a bowl of cereal and occasionally make my bed. With a mother that was the epitome of the Betty Crocker housewife, there was little I could do that lived up to her standards so, like any smart teenager, I screwed up everything she asked me to do so that she would stop asking. And she did. My kids didn't have it quite as easy but looking back, I wish I had been tougher about enforcing basic rules like cleaning their rooms, doing homework right after school and helping with after dinner clean-up. I just couldn't seem to stick to any of the chore/homework/reward plans I was continually dreaming up. The bottom line was punishment for them usually translated into punishment for me and, sooner rather than later, I let them off the hook.
But, you know what? I'm done apologizing. I loved my kids within an inch of their lives and that ought to count for something. Okay, I never made you cook us dinner - go buy a cookbook. Okay, I didn't make you do your own laundry - throw the red towel in with the white shirt and learn the way the rest of us did. Okay, I didn't get you a dog. Well, that one I really am sorry about but what I can do now? I know. As soon as they get real jobs, with a real place to live, I'll trek down to the shelter and pick out the cutest pup in the place. That way they can practice on a pet before they get around to raising my future grandchildren.
Maybe they'll make fewer mistakes than I did. But I'm not betting on it.
Monday, May 7, 2012
There but for the Grace of God
On Friday I got a visit from an old friend. I hadn't seen her in quite a while and we spent several hours talking about anything and everything before she had to catch a plane. She was dealing with a lot of turmoil in her life, not the least of which was the horrifying news that a friend of her son's had committed suicide.
You hear about young people taking their lives a lot these days. The latest issue of People magazine had a story about a town in Wales that has lost 79 people, most of them between 15 and 30, to suicide in the last five years. It's an extraordinary number for a town of 39,000 inhabitants and it makes you wonder - why are so many of this generation feeling so hopeless that they choose death over living.
It's a miracle I managed to survive my own adolescence. I was a drama queen if there ever was one. I contemplated swallowing a bunch of pills or leaving my engine running with the door closed more than a few times. Honestly, I don't know what stopped me but I do know that the more I dealt with break-ups, disappointments and loss, the less I thought of ending it all. That's why my friend's story was so heartbreaking. This young girl didn't give herself the chance to put things in perspective; to come to the realization that those of us with some mileage on us have - that life puts us through the wringer every once in awhile just to teach us the lessons we're supposed to be learning while we're taking up space on this planet.
My kids are now twenty-three and twenty-five. I know how blessed I am. The dark days of adolescence are over but I know their struggles are not. The world is a thousand times more challenging than it was when I was in my twenties and there isn't much I can do to help them negotiate what lies ahead.
All I can offer them is support and encouragement. And a whole lot of prayers.
You hear about young people taking their lives a lot these days. The latest issue of People magazine had a story about a town in Wales that has lost 79 people, most of them between 15 and 30, to suicide in the last five years. It's an extraordinary number for a town of 39,000 inhabitants and it makes you wonder - why are so many of this generation feeling so hopeless that they choose death over living.
It's a miracle I managed to survive my own adolescence. I was a drama queen if there ever was one. I contemplated swallowing a bunch of pills or leaving my engine running with the door closed more than a few times. Honestly, I don't know what stopped me but I do know that the more I dealt with break-ups, disappointments and loss, the less I thought of ending it all. That's why my friend's story was so heartbreaking. This young girl didn't give herself the chance to put things in perspective; to come to the realization that those of us with some mileage on us have - that life puts us through the wringer every once in awhile just to teach us the lessons we're supposed to be learning while we're taking up space on this planet.
My kids are now twenty-three and twenty-five. I know how blessed I am. The dark days of adolescence are over but I know their struggles are not. The world is a thousand times more challenging than it was when I was in my twenties and there isn't much I can do to help them negotiate what lies ahead.
All I can offer them is support and encouragement. And a whole lot of prayers.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Temptations
Contrary to what you might be thinking, this is not going to be a tribute to that one of a kind Motown singing group. No, my friends, this blog is more about that pesky snake we first met in the Garden of Eden. This will be somewhat of a confessional. Here we go. I am weak. I am powerless against my enemy. I have tried repeatedly to vanquish my tormentor; to show it who is boss. But I have failed. I have read article upon article on how to get the best of my lifelong nemesis. But I remain defeated. Last night was just the latest incident. Damn you Magic Cookie Bars.
Want to bring me to my knees? Put out a platter of cupcakes. Want to watch me lose all semblance of rational thinking? Bring out a tray of Snickerdoodles. I'm not proud. There is something that happens to me when I'm in a room populated with baked goods. It is physiological. It cannot be explained or controlled. It's like the Incredible Hulk when he gets angry.
Now I'm not talking about store bought sweets. Chips Ahoys and Oreos can reside in my pantry for weeks. Ditto for Little Debbie and Hostess. They are unwelcome party crashers in my sugar celebration. I'm also not talking about candy. For some reason, known only to my persnickety calorie-craving inner demon, I can usually take it or leave it. If I haven't baked anything for awhile, it will do in a pinch but it's not unusual for any heart-shaped boxes of chocolate lovingly bestowed upon me in February to be gathering dust in a corner in June.
But homemade baked goods? They are truly my Kryptonite. And so you might ask, as any sane person would, if I only like homemade goodies, why don't I just stop baking? You would be so wise and yet so foolish to ask such a question. Baking is cheap therapy. When I'm down, I bake. When I'm frustrated, I bake. When I'm anxious, I bake. When I'm . . . well, you get the idea. If I didn't get out my Kitchen Aid on a regular basis, who knows what I might do.
So, I guess I'll just have to suck it up and accept, for better or worse, that I'm hooked. I'm unlikely to hang up my whisk anytime soon, despite Dr. Oz's dire warnings about the dangers of belly fat. I'll bet he hasn't even tasted a Magic Cookie Bar. If he had, he would understand their power. And he would only have to be in possession of two eyes to accept that they are truly magical. How else to explain how quickly they disappear out of the pan and reappear almost instantaneously on my butt and midsection?
I wonder if the great and powerful Oz has an answer for that? Hey, maybe I should dig out those old Temptations records. Dancing around the kitchen while I bake couldn't hurt.
Want to bring me to my knees? Put out a platter of cupcakes. Want to watch me lose all semblance of rational thinking? Bring out a tray of Snickerdoodles. I'm not proud. There is something that happens to me when I'm in a room populated with baked goods. It is physiological. It cannot be explained or controlled. It's like the Incredible Hulk when he gets angry.
Now I'm not talking about store bought sweets. Chips Ahoys and Oreos can reside in my pantry for weeks. Ditto for Little Debbie and Hostess. They are unwelcome party crashers in my sugar celebration. I'm also not talking about candy. For some reason, known only to my persnickety calorie-craving inner demon, I can usually take it or leave it. If I haven't baked anything for awhile, it will do in a pinch but it's not unusual for any heart-shaped boxes of chocolate lovingly bestowed upon me in February to be gathering dust in a corner in June.
But homemade baked goods? They are truly my Kryptonite. And so you might ask, as any sane person would, if I only like homemade goodies, why don't I just stop baking? You would be so wise and yet so foolish to ask such a question. Baking is cheap therapy. When I'm down, I bake. When I'm frustrated, I bake. When I'm anxious, I bake. When I'm . . . well, you get the idea. If I didn't get out my Kitchen Aid on a regular basis, who knows what I might do.
So, I guess I'll just have to suck it up and accept, for better or worse, that I'm hooked. I'm unlikely to hang up my whisk anytime soon, despite Dr. Oz's dire warnings about the dangers of belly fat. I'll bet he hasn't even tasted a Magic Cookie Bar. If he had, he would understand their power. And he would only have to be in possession of two eyes to accept that they are truly magical. How else to explain how quickly they disappear out of the pan and reappear almost instantaneously on my butt and midsection?
I wonder if the great and powerful Oz has an answer for that? Hey, maybe I should dig out those old Temptations records. Dancing around the kitchen while I bake couldn't hurt.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
A Sure Thing
The last page of O magazine, that paragon of journalistic virtue, is entitled 'What I Know For Sure'. There's usually a candid photo of Oprah looking all wise and relaxed as she hits us with some more of her hard-earned life lessons. The fact that she also sneaks in a plug or two for one of her shows on her failing OWN network is beside the point. The woman still has things to teach us, damn it, and she's going to use whatever outlets (bearing her name and/or logo) available to her to ensure that we all start living that better life that she wants for each and every one of us. I've read a few of these two-minute therapy sessions (in the check-out line or doctor's office, of course) and it got me thinking. What do I know for sure?
Well, I know that I will never, ever get another perm, even when all the other gray-haired ladies in the nursing home are wrapping their wiry locks around those plastic rods. I also know that I would rather visit my gynecologist than get stuck in an elevator with any of the Kardashians. And I know, without a shadow of any doubt, that the two people whose wedding I witnessed over the weekend are going to be spending the rest of their earthly lives (and probably their eternal lives as well, even though some people don't believe in that kind of thing) enjoying each others' company.
It strikes me as somewhat ironic that the same week People magazine blasted the news that Brad and Angie were finally getting hitched, I had the privilege of being a part of a real union; a wedding of two, honest-to-goodness soul-mates. They met on Match.com and, if this company had any sense, they would snap these two up for every commercial in their foreseeable future. Just watching them interact with one another for thirty seconds would send singles all over America rushing to their computers to sign up.
From the minute they announced their engagement, everyone who knew them well knew this would be no ordinary wedding. And they did not disappoint. From beginning to end (five days of partying, cooking, talking, and laughing) the event was filled with personal touches reflecting the bride and groom's love and respect for one another. Humor was everywhere from the vows to the toasts to the re-enactment of Beyonce's Put a Ring on It. Since the couple and most of their friends are struggling actors, writers, and musicians trying to make it in L.A., guests were treated to the most entertaining wedding of their lives but never did it feel staged or theatrical. It was truly a serious commitment surrounded by joyous, heartfelt creative expression. And it was a blast.
But this isn't really about loving each other on one perfect day. It's about finding someone you can stand to be with for the next 18,250 of them. I won't be around to collect, but I'd be willing to set down a sizable bet that that's what I just witnessed.
Todd and Erin, you did it. Now sit back and enjoy the next fifty years. It’s going to be one hell of a ride.
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