Why Everyone Should Have a Dozen Kids

So, it's my fourth day of work, and I'm working through my lunch so I can leave early to come home and then head off to a freshman football game.

The phone rings, I answer, "This is Kelly, can I help you?"

I hear, "Uh, mom?"

I knew it wasn't going to be good. It's my senior...calling from the principal's office. He got a "green slip." The child has never been in trouble at school. EVER. First time he's been in the office.

He dropped his wallet in the hallway, bent over to pick it up, and said "piece of shit wallet" because his debit card fell out of it. The principal was standing behind him.

He ended up with four lunch detentions where he sits for 30 minutes alone. That was so he didn't get after school detention, miss football practice, and not be able to play in Friday's game against our biggest rivals. I am assuming he'll have to sit out a few plays on Friday.

I guess he did learn one thing from me, though I shouldn't be proud - he's learned to cuss like a drunken sailor when he's irritated or annoyed. And yet, my lessons on hydroplaning, and other worthwhile words of wisdom seems to have fallen on deaf ears.

Hey, but I did tell him, "No cussing. One of these days, you're going to let it slip, and then you'll be in trouble."

Did I call that one or what?

Really, I don't know why everyone doesn't have a dozen or more kids.

She Lives

I'm alive, kinda. I probably should go get a mirror to breathe on just to be certain. The whole having a job thing is really cutting into my squandering-time-online thing.

Next week will be better, though. My hours will go to part-time. This week has been training as three new girls will be taking over the office duties come Monday morning. Yes, that's with one week of training. Ack. If I think too much about it, I get a little nervous about how things will go when we don't have someone on hand who knows what she is doing.

Even though I'm SO.DAMNED.TIRED, I do like the work. It's not rocket science, and I don't mind so much talking to customers on the phone. I also like the people I work with. It's a very laid-back atmosphere. It's a power sport distributor. I take orders, start the paperwork, and then things like ATVs and scooters get shipped out.

The best part is that I can wear jeans and flip-flops with a nice shirt.

Did I mention I haven't worked outside the home for almost two decades? I did some substitute teaching here and there, but to get up and go to a 8-5 job, nope. My body revolted the first two days. I was mentally and physically exhausted. Since I wasn't sleeping so great, nerves and all, I took two Benadryl last night, and it knocked my ass out. I slept a good 8 hours. The bitch of it was that I woke up shortly before 5 and didn't need up until 5:30.

Next week, though, I will have one hour after the kidlets leave before I have to leave for work. Then I'll be home alone for about 3 1/2 hours before they make their appearance after football.

The pay isn't bad, either, considering I'm reentering the ole work force. Even though I'd so much prefer being home and writing, at least I'm getting some work experience back on my resume, making some extra bucks, and getting out of these four walls. Which the latter is probably a good thing because it narrows down the chance that my husband will come home one day, find me sitting in a corner eating crayons, or having the cats dressed in matching sweaters and rocking them to sleep.

Channeling Stuart Smalley

I had the interview today. I have to say it was the most challenging interview of sorts that I've ever had. All six women who were interested in the two positions showed up. We were initially interviewed by the owner via phone and email from TX. Essentially, we went in for the office staff to show us around, show us the building, meet the other staff, etc. They probably also wanted to make sure we didn't show up in tube tops and cut-offs before offering employment sight unseen.

I made an effort to speak up and try to ask intelligent questions. I'm guessing if you're applying for a customer service position, it's not a wise thing to appear about as personable as a bump on a log. I'll admit when I walked in ten minutes early, and almost everyone was there, I about resigned to my defeat.

I was thinking c'mon now, I haven't worked in an office for 18 years. Why would they want me?

But I put on the happy face, remembered that I vowed to put on the big girl panties, and I gave myself one of those SNL Stuart Smalley pep talks. "I'm good enough. Smart enough. And doggone it, people like me!"

Fortunately, I kept that as an internal dialogue. But I have to admit, it was odd standing around there with these other women knowing that only two were going to get the jobs.

We were told we'd know something by the end of the day. So, I came home, made some phone calls, sent some texts, worked on my column, and headed off to the tanning bed. When I returned, I had a voicemail.

I got the job - part-time hours, but a full week next week for training. I'll be taking phone calls, placing orders, checking up on payments, and general office duties. Sometime after October, I'll be offered full-time or another person will be hired.

I was torn between doing a touchdown dance or puking in the trashcan.

It's been a long time since I worked. A long, long time.

So now instead of working on everyone's last nerve, I'll be working at a job outside my home and bringing home some bacon. I hope a little change does me some good.

Where's Stuart when I need him?

News, and in Other News

Tomorrow, I have an interview for a "real" job. I had an email interview last week. Today, a phone interview. I must have done well since I'm scheduled to go in tomorrow.

I've been doing the stay-at-home mom/writer thing since 1990. That's a lot of years. Well, I did do some substitute teaching...until other people's little heathens started sucking the life force right out of me. I don't intend on giving up the writing, though, should I find employment.

I'm a tad bit nervous. I won't jinx myself by going into details, but it sounds like a pretty cool place to work. It would be in an office, which is what I did B.C. - before children.

Cross your fingers, toes, eyes, whatever you feel like crossing for me. Send me good Karma, good wishes, that kind of thing. I could use it.

***

Now, here's something I want to know.

My husband had control of the remote last evening, and he was watching "Entertainment Tonight," or something of that ilk. I was getting up to go stir dinner on the stove, and I hear, "Want to recreate Sarah Palin's look? Stay tuned, and we'll show you how!"

I said to no one in particular, "Uh, why would you want to recreate her look?"

I walked back into the living room and said to myself, but loud enough so my husband could hear me, "Oftentimes, I have this undying urge to look just like Peggy Hill."

This annoys him when I refer to Palin as Peggy because he's one of those die-hard Republican sorts. And well, as he puts it, so long as I have my internet connection and computer, and the occasional monster margarita, I'm pretty happy with life.

I'm not saying she's an unattractive lady if you compare her to say, oh, maybe Hillary Clinton. I'm assuming it's the whole "school teacher/naughty librarian" thing that is playing into men's fantasies here. The bun, the glasses. She looks much older than she actually is. Didn't she get the memo that the new 40 is the old 30?

But please, I beg of anyone to shoot me should I decide that I need to get me some glasses like hers and start wearing my hair up like that. I'm just saying. I'm 39, and I've no desire to look like an old spinster.

***

Speaking of old, this aging thing isn't really agreeing with me. I've always prided myself on my quick wit and memory like a steel trap.

I was in the utility room, and my youngest son was standing there talking to me as I transferred clothes to the dryer. I realized I'd washed a pencil.

It was a pencil, alrighty. Yellow, had an eraser, a pointed tip of lead. I'm certain I know what a pencil is. Pencil - the thing you write with when you can't find a pen and you're desperate to jot something down. Yes, that's a pencil.

But what did I say? "Oh great, someone decided to leave a pizza in their pocket."

A pizza? Uh. I wasn't hungry. I didn't have pizza on the brain. I didn't just eat pizza. No one had just mentioned pizza. I hadn't read the word pizza. Yet, I called a pencil a pizza.

Uh, yeah. I need help, I suspect.

Boys I Want to Marry, III

This edition is brought to you by Chantix. I had some funky dreams last night, which has prompted today's offering of Boys I Want to Marry.

This is Dan. Dazzling photography, wouldn't you say? Actually, I snapped both photos from yearbooks. In the bottom one, he's playing a carnival game at Street Fair our junior year. I was there when my friend Dave, our yearbook/newspaper photographer, snapped this photo of Dan getting ready to slam the rubber frog into flight to win a prize.

I dreamed about Dan last night. I walked up to him in the dream, and said, "Oh Dan, I'm so sorry."

He gave me a perplexed look, and I said, "You don't recognize me, do you?"

When I told him who I was, he gave me a hug.

I'll spare you the rambling details, but let's just say, part way into the dream, I realized that Dan is dead. Though, in the dream, my friend and I were attending the funeral of Dan's five-year-old son. No, I don't pretend to understand the finer workings of my subconscious, either.

It's been a while since I've thought of Dan. Strangely enough, a few weeks ago, oh hell, maybe it was a few months ago...the older I get, "just the other day," could mean 1999.

Anyway, I went to the kitchen to do kitchen-type things, when I noticed a yellowed newspaper clipping on the floor. I picked it up and read the headline from Monday, January 2, 1989, "Hunting Accident Fatal, Despite Ardent Rescue."

I don't know why or how it ended up on the floor. I can't remember the last time I saw the article. However, I did have each of my kids read it, especially my younger child who has a penchant for hunting.

New Year's Eve day, 1988, I was 19 years old. The class of '87 had been out of school for about a year and a half. Most of my classmates were home for Christmas break. New Year's Eve parties were planned, and at the time, my friend Ryan was at my apartment when there was a knock on the door.

Ryan answered as I was making myself pretty, and my neighbor, another classmate of ours, announced the bad news - Dan was dead from a shotgun blow to his head. Overcome with disbelief, I had this guy repeat what he said three times.

I didn't know what to make of it. Ryan dismissed my neighbor, as he was a bit on the annoying side. His attitude was, "Shit happens, let's go celebrate New Year's Eve."

It wasn't the most joyous New Year's I've ever celebrated. Rumors circulated as to what happened, and I didn't find out for sure until I read the newspaper article. He'd been hunting, and when one of the beagles started eating a rabbit he'd shot (as reported by the kid who'd been the hunting partner that day), he used the stock of the gun to hit at the dog, some briar thicket caught the hammer of the shotgun. As they say, the rest is history. The shot struck his left temple.

I took some time off work to attend the calling before the funeral. It was our first class reunion - the room was packed with those I'd gone to school with.

It would be the first funeral I ever attended. I stood at the casket, his mom put her arm around me, and I fought back the tears. I had a silent conversation with him, mainly asking him what he was thinking being so careless. A photo of his nephew, who'd been accidentally backed over by a car when he was about two years old, was position in Dan's hands. There was no evidence that his temple had been blasted away, though I resisted the urge to stand on my tippy-toes to peer to the other side of the casket.

I'd known Dan since kindergarten. While I had the warm fuzzies for him during much of elementary school, he was never my boyfriend. I've tried to explain it many times, but when you are a classmate with someone for 13 years, and the class size for 7 of those years was maybe 25 students tops, if you don't become boyfriend/girlfriend, you become a bit like siblings.

Dan was a goofy boy, which was part of his charm. His feet grew years before the rest of him caught up with them. Seems like he was always tripping over them. He almost always appeared to have a tan, and man oh man, could he feather his hair. He was always bringing in trophies and ribbons he'd won in 4-H and other farming or hunting contests. A few times, his mom actually brought in some of his pets for show and tell.

Fourth grade was the beginning of my crush on him. I don't recall the specifics, but I know I was smitten with him. Perhaps there was no other reason than he was a cute, nice boy who had lots of pets, wore cowboy boots, and rode horses. In sixth grade, I secretly fantasized about sitting with him during the "Friday movie" and holding hands with him. (We watched a movie or some sort of film on the old projector every Friday. They weren't even educational flicks, unless you count learning to hold hands learning something.)

I don't think I ever heard him utter a bad word about anyone. He was a sweet country boy who always had tons of friends. In high school, I'll never forget him still tripping over his clunky feet, with a trail of notebook paper, likely assignments, from his locker and textbooks.

The funeral was held in a large church. Even though a group of us walked the block from the funeral home to the church, we had to take a seat in the balcony area. By the time the service started, it was standing room only.

I totally lost it standing on the steps outside the church after the services. While others had a few tears flowing, I couldn't stop mine. Classmates who barely spoke to each other during the course of our high school years, comforted each other on those steps.

My apartment was across the street, and instead of going on to the graveside services, I opted to go home and mourn alone the loss of the boy I wanted to marry.

Note: "Boys I Want to Marry" is not to be taken in a literal sense. If your first thought is, "Oh my gawd, she's married and she's making blog entries about other boys she wants to marry, why I never!" you shouldn't be reading my blog in the first place. It was merely how I expressed myself as a young girl. When I was seven years old and watched Rick Dees perform "Disco Duck" on TV, I announced to my grandma that I wanted to marry him. Because of course, I was young, and when you loved someone, it was in my estimation that the logical thing to do was marry him. My immature mind and vocabulary limited my ability to express triggered emotions. Perhaps they still do.

The Old Lady

When we went back to school shopping, the 15 year old child didn't want to go. He couldn't give a crap less really what he wears. T-shirt and jean shorts, no problem. T-shirt and "non-gay" jeans, no problem.

Try as I might to pick out things that don't push his boundaries on being too stylish, there's usually at least one t-shirt he doesn't like. I usually end up wearing it.

This time was no different. A grey shirt with shiny, big block red lettering of "OLD NAVY." Think late 70s style lettering. He hated the shirt. I said fine, I'll take it.

I got dressed one morning, put on the t-shirt, and made my appearance in the living room.

My husband said, "Got that right."

"Huh?" I asked, because I'm eloquent like that at times. Sometimes, he does blurt out strange things. It could be Tourette's. I don't know. Oftentimes, I think he thinks he's only thinking, but instead, he says out loud something strange and random. Any day now, I expect to dementia to fully set in and he'll be calling out random phrases from the cold war like "Run to the fall-out shelter!"

"The shirt. Got that right," he repeated.

Yeah, I had no clue what he was talking about. "Yes, I'm usually right. Thanks for noticing. What ARE you talking about???"

"The shirt. It would be correct."

He thought the shirt said OLD LADY.

Something is Irritated, Alrighty

I've not had a good week, and I don't mind saying as much.

Last week at a football game, the girl who works in the eye dr.'s office turned around and asked me how I liked my contact lenses. (She has a son who plays on my youngest son's team, so it wasn't like she was just randomly at the game. Because that would be a little odd. Anyway, what compelled me to say as much probably sums up my state of mind about right now.)

I proclaimed that I didn't like them. I've had nothing but trouble with them since May. The two-week disposable with a name that rhymes with Acuvue 2 didn't come close to lasting two weeks. They seemed to move about my eyeball a good bit. They weren't comfortable, and I'd find myself having to take a few days rest here and there from contacts.

You see, Bausch & Lomb discontinued the contacts I had been wearing. Those that I loved. Those I could wear up to 30 days and not go blind. They fit perfectly. Didn't tear. They had a nice visi-tint so those of use who are blind as bats could see them to insert them.

"Oh, you should come in," she told me. "I'll pull your chart and let the dr. know."

I like her.

So, the next day I called her and made an appointment to go on Wednesday.

During a follow-up appointment, I'd told the eye dr. I wasn't too thrilled with my new lenses. I explained they weren't all that comfortable, and oftentimes, I'd find myself with the strong need to get the son of a guns out of my eye like ten minutes ago. He didn't seem overly concerned. I all but begged to get a Bausch & Lomb lens as a replacement.

I brought in the pair that lasted ten days before I couldn't bear them any longer, which had no appearance of an abundance of build-up or debris on them. He poked around my eyes some, and had me take the lenses out.

As I've mentioned, I suffer from vasovagal syncope. You can read my rantings about it here. What happens is if someone touches my eyeball, I drop like a fly. There's a post-it note on my file that says, "Don't touch her eyeball. She will pass out."

It sort of makes me pull one of these numbers, except without the benefit of cuteness or alcohol.











He tells me he's going to look at the inside of my eyelids, which I just about took the same opportunity to do. He sort of rolled my eyelid up in a wooden swab like an old-fashioned blind. I sort of squealed, "Don't forget my passing out thing!"

He asked if I were okay, and I had to say not for much longer. My ears started ringing. I started getting dizzy. Ugh. Thankfully, he didn't feel the desire to check out both eyelids.

I left with a prescription for steriod eyedrops. My corneas are irritated. After I was grilled about taking proper care of my contacts, and professing that I learned the hard way years ago that one shouldn't go on contact wearing marathons and should actually follow the cleaning directions, he thought perhaps the poorly fitting contacts have caused my corneas to revolt.

I knew something wasn't right. I knew the contacts didn't feel like those I've worn for the last 20 plus years.

So, here's another fun part of this whole experience. I'm supposed to go as many days as possible without wearing contacts (he gave me another pair of Acuvue, these are Oasis, though), and use the drops four times a day. I go back next Thursday.

Well, this only poses a small problem. I don't do glasses. I have a pair of old ones that are good enough for first thing in the morning and before I retire in the evenings. There's that, and if I want to see what I'm running over while driving, it's generally a good idea that I wear contacts. I don't see worth a gee golly darn with glasses.

Oh, and not to forget that I look like this wearing glasses.

'Memba This Song?

"Time and Tide" was released in 1987 by Basia Trzetrzelewska, known only as Basia. That's a good thing because I couldn't even begin to pronounce that last name.

I'd say this was my favorite song in the fall of '87. I remember it well. I bought the cassette, and was terribly disappointed that the rest of her music didn't have the same feel as this song.

When I happened to think of it today, I even remembered all the words to the song, though it's been eons since I've heard it. I've never seen it compiled in playlists of one-hit wonders, but I'm guessing it was her only hit in the US, anyway.

It was one of those obscure songs that either you loved or hated. I happened to love it.

Music, Books, and Such

I really can't emphasize enough the impact that music has on me and my mental well-being. While the notion of "music therapy" might easily be poo-poo'ed by most, it works.

For example, back in the day when mornings around here were rough with two youngins' who didn't want to get out of bed, much less cooperate with me, I'd put on some music.

Rather than spend the time mired in arguments and fit-throwing, I'd put on some tunes. This often garnered me the title of "cool mom" as we all danced to "Busta Move," "Baby Got Back," or "It's Tricky." Really, how can you have a bad day if it starts with jamming to some Run-D.M.C.?

Sometimes, I will carefully construct a playlist on Rhapsody, picking out what I want to hear. Other times, I'll click "add playlist" and let some stranger decide on my music repertoire.

Today, I picked one called "Hey Old Guys." I promised myself that I wouldn't be offended if I did indeed enjoy the musical offering. I clicked shuffle and let the music take me where it would.

Several songs into the list, I caught myself smiling, wowing that I hadn't heard it in ages, and doing a little head-bobbing here and there as I folded some laundry. Song after song, I might have been mistaken for Cuba Gooding Jr. in "Radio."

"That's a goo' one. C'mon an dance. That's a goo' one!"

*****

In other news, I stopped by the local Salvation Army type place. It's ran by the Ladies' Auxillary of the hospital. They take donations of clothing and small items from the community.

One thing I can say about their clothing selection is this - we are a poorly dressed community with no sense of fashion whatsoever. It was Hoosier Hillbilly Heaven. (Though, I must admit I almost bought an 80s style jean jacket, but my motivation was that it was almost like the one I once owned. I came to my senses.)

The book section is hit or miss. The last several times I've gone in, I've walked out with nothing. Today, I had my arms loaded up when I made my way to the check-out. You can't beat 25 cent paperbacks and 50 cent hardcover.

I beg of someone to analzye my selections because this is what I walked out with:

100 Ghastly Little Ghost Stories - they appear to be fictional and not true accounts.

Sybil (The true and extraordinary story of a woman possessed by sixteen separate personalities) by Flora Rheta Schreiber - I can't recall if I've read this before or not. I do remember reading the one about the faces of Eve. Not sure about this, however.

Carrie by Stephen King - This was the second book by King that I read in high school and became an avid fan. Should I get bored, I'll give it another go.

Cell by Stephen King - I read mixed reviews about this, so I didn't rush out and get it in hardcover. Then it came out in paperback, and I guess I forgot about it. (Well worth the $2.50 I spent on all of these.)

Resistance by Anita Shreve - So what? It's a love story. I dig her prose. Something about a passionate love affair conquering all in a Nazi-occupied Belgian village.

Give Me My Father's Body (The life of Minik, the New York Eskimo) by Kenn Harper - The forward is by Kevin Spacey. I've been having a secret affair with him since I saw him sing on a tribute to John Lennon show. Yes, so secret that he doesn't even know about it. I've not clue what is so incredibly sexy about him, but I'd do him. The book is something about Robert Peary and his dumping off Eskimos as "live specimens" to be gawked at by the paying public at the American Museum of National History.

If life is a bowl of cherries - what am I doing in the pits? by Erma Bombeck- This was the first Erma book I read. I think I was about 10 and I picked it up off my mom's stack of books. I didn't really understand why it was so funny since I wasn't able to relate as a mom and wife, but I knew there was something about Erma that I loved even as a child.

And lastly....

The Benham book of Palmistry by Wm. G. Benham - Ehh, who knows what drives my interests. An Indian guy in a bar read my palm back one night in the summer, and it was fascinating. Perhaps it'll shed some light on my Simian line.

We Interrupt Regular Blogging to Bring You This Warning

Precautionary warning, brought to you by me:

If you happen to buy Pine-sol in the scent of "Wild Flower Blast," and you happen to have young children, or even an adult prone to dementia about the house, keep it out of their reach.

I'm not even close to kidding when I say that when I opened it, dumped some in my mop bucket, I had this bizarre urge to drink it.

I'm not the kinda gal who goes around drinking household cleaning products, but if you smell it, you might understand why. It's a sweet, fruity punch, berry Schnapps sort of fragrance. Don't get me wrong, it smells wonderful. Perhaps it would trigger this urge in someone who has a fondness for said Schnapps, not that I speak on personal experience on this. No, not me.

I'm not suffering from pica (an abnormal desire to eat things that should not be consumed, like lint, dirt, or chalk). I would rather like to think I've got a generous amount of my wits about me, but I couldn't help myself to say aloud to the dog, "This smells good enough to drink." Seriously. Of course, he didn't offer his opinion.

It's not the first time a cleaning product hasn't made me worry that I might absent-mindedly pour myself a glass of cleaner. The "Fabulouso" line of cleaners makes a red and blue one (not sure of the fragrances) that I once bought and thought hmm, Kool-aide. I'm not so sure a child or an Alzheimer's patience might be able to use the restraint that I did not to inadvertently ingest it.

Thus concludes this friendly advisory.

'Memba This?

Okay, so maybe it's a nostalgic sort of day for me.

I read about Mr. Bubbles going out of business over at Tony's blog. Mr. Bubbles, by the way, was the work of the devil. Let's just say I wasn't one of those kids who couldn't sit around in a tub of bubbles and not experience distress later on. I was red. I was itchy. And no, you don't really want to know where it burned.

Anyway, I thought I had this vague memory of this bath foam sort of stuff. It was like shaving cream, and in my head, I could picture the Super Friends or Superman on the cylinder-like can.

Thanks to the internet, which I would marry if it were a tall, dark, and handsome man and not a thing, I found what I was looking for.

Crazy Foam! This stuff rocked and was so incredibly cool.

I guess after the Mr. Bubbles episode, my mom wanted me to use it sparingly. It might have been a whole lot less time, but I think that can I had lasted me from about the age of 7 throughout my early teen years. Did she ever ration that out at bath time.

But, I suppose when you've listened to your young daughter boohoo about her hoohoo, you don't take your chances.

Schlitzie's Stone

This is Schlitzie. I didn't know him from Adam until I read about him here. He worked, or rather I assume, landed unceremoniously in the sideshow circuit. He also appeared in several movies.

Yes, yes, I know. I've got some bizarre interests.

He was born with microcephalus, or a smaller than normal-sized head. His mentality was said to be that of a 3-year-old. For many years, he worked the "freak shows," but you can read more about his life through that link.

After his legal guardians passed, Schlitzie found himself in the care of friends of his deceased guardians. In 1971, he died at approximately the age of 71, and was buried in an unmarked grave in Rowland Heights, CA.

I read stories like this and think how sad. Obviously, it's hard to know just what kind of life Schlitizie actually had. By some accounts, those whose worked in sideshows and carnivals loved the work they did, and they actually made the best out of the physical deformities they were born with. I'd like to think others were kind to him and he wasn't taken advantage of or treated poorly.

I would wager large sums of cash that Schlitzie helped to rake in some dough in his days; so what I found terribly sad was that his remains were buried in a unmarked grave. A grave that he shares with two others.

Evidently, I wasn't the only one who felt this way.


Self-professed "Death Hags," (a term coined for those who get into visiting cemeteries, gazing at dead bodies, and reading about both), rallied together on this forum and started chatting about Schlitzie and the fact there was no headstone set in rememberance.

"There are no family members to give permission," one person suggested. But that didn't stop them. So what did they do? Someone started making phone calls and checking around.

A member named "Colicky" found out that since it was a pauper's grave, someone could in fact reimburse the county for the burial and assume responsibility for Schlitzie's grave.

The problem, which didn't turn out to be such a problem, was coming up with the money. For $378.37, a headstone could be placed on his grave. A paypal account was set up, and the donations came in, even with some extra to purchase some flowers for the marker.

I checked the thread frequently, noting the account balance and how much more money was needed to meet the goal. The members celebrated via a message boards, congratulating each other, and taking pride in the good deed that was done. In a month or so, the stone remembering him will be set.

There are definitely some people who don't take "can't" as the ultimate truth. There are some people like myself when told, "You can't do that," will take it as a personal challenge, a throwing down of the gauntlet, if you will. Though, the self-inflicted "can'ts" are the worse, I think. When you convince yourself that you can't do something. Perhaps the "can't" is rooted in fear. Fear of stepping outside one's comfort zone. Fear of failure, too.

I'm not saying there aren't instances where something can't be accomplished. But, as illustrated by the quest to get Schlitzie a headstone, sometimes it doesn't hurt to try.

You just never know what you can do and accomplish.

You Can't Dance and Stay Uptight

My writer friend Kristen asked me today, "What do you do for exercise?"

I'd emailed her sharing that I'd been feeling a bit on the depressed side as of lately. Actually, to say I have felt down would be misleading as I've felt downright miserable with everything in general. I lamented that maybe exercise would pull me out of my funk.

If someone asked me, "What's wrong?" about the only honest answer I could give them was, "Everything."

I don't need someone else to kick me when I'm down. I do a grand job of kicking myself. Following my no smoking campaign, and no diet soda, I couldn't see things getting much worse.

I suppose I could have remained in a proverbial heap on the floor, hoping some kind and gentle soul would come along, pick me up, dust me off, and set me on my own two feet. But quite frankly, I don't know of one individual who is equipped to deal with me when I'm in a mood, much less coax me back to reality. Some do try, but until I decide I'm done hosting my pity party, it's futile. (I do appreciate those who care, but one must do battle with her own demons.)

Monday, when I got the kids off to school, I put on some music. I didn't have too many opportunities this summer to crank some tunes and enjoy. It's unfortunate because I'm highly motivated and moved by music. It's like therapy to me. No, it's not like therapy. It is therapy to me.

Dion seranaded me from the living room as I did dishes:

"Oh, I'm the type of guy who likes to roam around. I'm never in one place. I roam from town to town..."

As he did, something funny happened. I felt like dancing. By the time Jerry Lee Lewis was suggesting I "shake it, baby shake it," I was wholeheartedly. Before I knew it, I dragged out my dumbbells and my aerobic step. One hour passed. I was left winded, sweaty, and exhilirated.

I explained to Kristen that I have my own work-out program. I dance, incorporating moves I've learned from all those videos in a previous post. I've got doing dishes and folding laundry while dancing down to a science. The dog and cats, after being kicked and stepped on inadvertently, have learned to keep their distance.

I really challenge anyone to listen to any of the following songs and not want to dance (a sampling of today's selection):

Keep Your Hands to Yourself - Georgia Satellites
Wild Thing - Tone Loc
Get Down on It - Kool & the Gang
Crazy Bitch - Buck Cherry
Hey Ya - Outkast
Walkin' on the Sun - Smash Mouth
Love Her Madly - The Doors
Brandy - Looking Glass
Dancing in the Moonlight - King Harvest

I know some people find it very bizarre that I'll dance around the house when I'm alone. I certainly wouldn't do it with an audience, and I guess that I'm lucky I have the time alone to indulge.

Today, as I listened to "Crazy Bitch," I took down my hair and flipped it around as I danced. You know, like a rocker chick might do in a heavy metal video. It was likely the most insane thing I've ever done in the privacy of my own home, but strangely liberating. (As the evening progresses, perhaps a little hard on the ole neck, too.)

"You can't dance and stay uptight," is a line from "Dancing in the Moonlight." It's so very true. While I might benefit from hitting the gym or following a more ridgid routine, nothing makes me feel better than doing the twist or a little cha-cha'ing to get the blood flowing.

History of a Fat Girl

This is Joannie Greggains. She had a show called "Morning Stretch" back in the 80s. If you'll notice, this is a work-out LP, and I happened to own a copy of it. Though the information I can find says that it was released in '83, I think it was the summer after sixth grade when I acquired it. I know I wasn't very old.


My friend's mom had a copy, as well. We'd put on the record, being careful not to jump too closely to the stereo and make the needle jump, while we listened to her instructions and tried to follow along in the booklet to see what move we should be doing next.


One particular memory is of "picking daisies." A move done while standing, with one's legs spread-eagle. Then with great momentum, you move your arms from above your head to some point between your legs and well behind them. I adequately jammed the ever-lovin' heck out of my middle finger doing this.


I suppose one might question why a 12ish year old would own a copy of "Aerobic Shape Up." The answer is quite simple - I was the fat kid. Okay, so I wasn't obese, but I was chubby. I knew this, and at the age of 12, I felt great pressure to try to "slim down."


But before old Joanie came along, and by old, I thought she looked damn near ancient in the early 80s, there was this guy.

Say hi to Richard. He had a show on television back in the day. During summer vacation, I watched it religiously. It ran from 1980-1984. Richard loved me, and he wanted me to drop those pounds. He got so emotional over fat women, that he'd sit around and cry with them. If I recall correctly, he devoted a whole ten minutes of his show to exercising. Of course, it never occured to me that I probably needed more than ten minutes a day. The weight never came off no matter how often I tuned in.

I struggled with my weight throughout my high school days, though I was never bigger than a size 13. But there's a lot more to that story than warrants being told, so I won't digress. We'll just say once I got out on my own, I had control over what food I put into my body, and being allowed to exercise. (Yes, I had a step-mom who banned exercising in the house.)

I had various work-out cassette tapes at this point. I started riding my bike. I even started making my own work-out routines based one what I'd absorbed from other sources.

This is the first VHS work-out I ever owned. "Shape up, it's fun and easy. Shape up, you'll like what you see. Shape up! And here's Mary Hart...."

Then I graduated to Jazzercise with Judy Shepherd.

Bless Denise Austin's heart for motivating me after I gave birth to our oldest son. I'd record her 30 minute work-outs, and do three of them a day. Annoying, yes, but it worked.

Along came "Buns of Steel" with Tamilee Webb after I birthed child number two. I managed to work off the 50 plus pounds of baby weight between this workout and my exercise bike.

This guy romanced me briefly when I got caught up in the TaeBo craze. Effective work-outs, I must say, but when my VCR bit the dust, I never replaced it. No more Billy and feeling that burn.

I did actually replace some of "The Firm" workouts with DVDs. They say you can see a difference in just ten workouts, and I'd agree with that, however sadistic the routines are.

I've sweated to every oldie that Richard Simmons has put out. I find them the most helpful when I'm getting back into the work-out groove. I figure if those people on the screen can dance and sweat, so can I. Some might not care much for Richard, but his workouts are fun. I love the music. I love to dance.

Doing the math, I've struggled with weight issues for a good 26 years. I suspect I always will. At least technology has granted me the luxury of putting in a DVD. That's a far cry from those days of being afraid I'd scratch my record while doing jumping jacks.

Back to School

So, I got these children back to school on Monday, and as usual, it remains a bittersweet experience for me. Sure, they drive me this side of insane on a good day. I haven't had much time alone this summer. It's always an adjustment to go several hours without speaking to another human being. Not that I'm complaining because honestly, I do love solitude. Besides, my husband seems to be calling me every ten minutes or so.

But, this year is a bit different. Seems like just the other day I was ushering my oldest boy out the door to get on the bus as a kindergarten. Yesterday morning, I stood on the porch, wished him a good day, told him to be careful, and that I loved him. Instead of wearing a backpack bigger than him and climbing those steps on the bus, he hopped into his truck to start his senior year of high school.

The youngest boy climbed in the truck beside his older brother to venture off as a freshman in high school. My baby is a freshman. I don't know how it's possible. Aren't people who have kids old enough to be freshmen and seniors in high school like our parents age or something? Goodness.

"I'm proud of you boys," I told them as they left this morning.

"Oh, gawd, get in the truck. Hurry up. She's going to start bawling and telling child birth stories if we don't get out of here," the oldest said.

In all actuality, I'm proud of myself that I choked back the tears and realized kids grow up as they are all prone to do. And that growing up is at breakneck speeds. Open your eyes and they are wee little babies. Close them, open them again, and they grown into young men who will be making decisions on what to do with the rest of their lives.

Of course, it was a fleeting, emotional moment that lasted about long enough for me to move the coffee table out of the range of the ceiling fan before I danced on it.

Gazing at the Lizard King

I've found myself in the evenings not tired enough to sleep, and not bored enough to watch TV. While there are stacks of books here and there, there's nothing I feel like reading. This usually propels me to sit down at the computer and do some surfing.

I stopped back at Find A Death, only to realize they had a forum. After wading through posts about Lucille Ball, Marilyn Monroe, and John Belushi, I happened up Jim Morrison.

I'd always loved The Doors' music, but I'd never been compelled to read up on Morrison. Following one link to another, I was left with several thoughts. The first being it was absolutely amazing the writing he did in his short 27 years. I'd never realized he was so young when he died of an apparent drug overdose.

I also had no idea he was married in a "handfasting" ceremony. His story, however sad, was interesting. Then I started clicking on images because despite the fact he's been dead many, many years, he's quite pleasant to look at. I always felt as though I'd been born in the wrong decade, and the 60s would have been so much better than the 80s.

I came across these photos of him:





They proved to be quite "revealing." Giggling as I did it, I had to forward them along to FlipFlopMomma with a note confessing I saw the pics one night, and went back to find them again. I knew even if I couldn't quite formulate the words, she'd know just what I was driving at.

And, I was pretty sure that she would notice what I was noticing because she once did a blog post about "crotch gazing." She learned in those "growing up, congrats you've got your period" talks in elementary school that it was never nice to stare at a boy's crotch. You didn't want to make them feel bad that they were having changes going on with their bodies, as well.

Her response went like this, "His lady was a lucky woman. I can't stop looking at the crotch. I've got to go back and look some more."

I never got the lesson that she did about what you should or shouldn't look at. And, I've got to say, my eyes don't necessarily gravitate to that general area unless it's something so obvious such as these Morrison pics.

I've had several conversations with friends over the male parts and finer workings thereof. (So yes, if a woman says she never talks or thinks about such things, she's lying.) We've tried to figure out how it's something they can be so aware of, and then again, be so oblivious to.

One time, one of my friends carted her boyfriend off to the drug store. He was wearing those pajama bottom type of pants and going commando. She looked over just in time to see his pride and joy poking out, flapping in the wind. When she questioned him how he didn't know it, he said he had no clue. We really did assume that he would have noted a temperature change at the very least.

I've had to point out to my husband a time or two that he had a hole in his shorts and I could see the boys. When questioned, he totally denied that he knew anything about the hole and "how the hell was he supposed to know?" I was, of course, accused of checking out the merchandise and having a dirty mind always thinking about sex, but how couldn't I notice?

I can't draw any great conclusions about these photos of Jim Morrison, and whether he knew at the time he was going to get the desired reaction out of a couple chicks 37 years after his death. The one thing I do know is that Flip Flop Momma and I both have a sneaking suspicion why he called himself "The Lizard King."

Chantix and In Other News....

I mentioned in previous post that I'm taking Chantix.


A few other things I'm noticing is that it makes things taste bad, which I don't suppose is a bad thing. I've not really been hungry, and even something like a piece of cinammon gum just doesn't taste right. Now, I don't know if this is because my tastebuds are healing, but I don't recall going through the same thing in the past when I decided to quit smoking. I've been a little nauseous, too, which is a possible side effect.


The bizarre dreams, though, boy. I'll tell you, I've never dreamed the way I have this past week. It would be great if I didn't wake up feeling like I'd spent the entire night having deep, meaningful conversations instead of sleeping.


A few have been on the scary side. Take last night, for example.


Witchiepoo from H.R. Pufnstuf was driving a UPS truck and ran over my dog.
Yes, that Witchiepoo. She scared the holy hell out of me as a child. In fact, my mom had to place a ban on the show because she got tired of digging me out of the toybox or the hall closet when I got scared.



Witchiepoo got in my head and for whatever reason, my subconscious decided she needed to drive a UPS truck and take out my dog. Disturbing, really.



In other news, I've tried to run away from home twice unsuccessfully. The first day, I'd had my fill and thought I'd go for a drive. My mistake was once sneaking out of the house, I decided to get the mail at the post office first.



About that time, my youngest son saw me, and hopped into the car. We ended up going to get milk.



Again today, I tried to slip out to go to the grocery...alone. And again, I was caught and the youngest child again insisted he go. I really, really wanted to hear myself think, even if I had to do some grocery shopping to accomplish this. I didn't want a sidekick. I wanted to be alone. I don't mind saying this annoyed me, and it was probably apparent in the parking lot of the grocery store.



I was out in this bigger expanse of the parking lot when I notice this Taurus was heading directly my way at quite a clip. I was where I needed to be, but ole grandma must not have been paying attention or her eyesight was failing her horribly.



I stopped, and in that moment I felt like I was channeling Kathy Bates' character in "Fried Green Tomatoes," in some sense. I really didn't think she'd hit me, but then I started doubting myself because this old broad didn't seem to notice.



And when she did realize she was dangerously close to hitting my car, she swerved and smiled. Yes, she smiled.



"Oh, a smile is going to make that all better. Almost hit me and smile. Just smile. Opps, almost had a wreck, but I'll smile to show how sorry I am. A big smile makes everything all better," I rambled to myself.



"Just pay no direct attention to where you're driving or what you're doing, but be sure to smile big," I continued.



My son then said, "Uh, mom, you're weird. I'm not going with you the next time."



"Promise?" I asked.

Totally Awesome and Famous

This is "La's Totally Awesome Famous Multi-Surface Degreaser & Spot Remover, Lavender." If that's not a mouthful. I call it "that purple stuff." (Pardon the picture quality. It would have been too simple to find a photo of it online.)

Anyone but me notice how someone got font happy in the design of this label? The rainbow and flowers are a nice touch. Anyone notice that they are pansies and not lavender? Hmm.

I bought it at "Dollar General," where I'm prone to shop for cleaning products. It can be an interesting store to peruse. I don't know exactly how they recruit their workers, and I'm not trying to be flippant or rude when I say I think they come from Bi-County Services that caters to those who are lacking a little special something in the ole upstairs.

One guy who works there wears two pairs of prescription glasses. Yes, two pairs. I told my friend's daughter about it when we were discussing how scary the place can be.

"No, he really does," I told her.

"Nu uh, no way," she told me. A few days later, I got a text from her saying I was right. She'd asked her mom to take her to check it out.

This guy also appears like he could use a good scrub down with some degreaser. He's nice enough, but I automatically hold my breath at the check-out, trying not to breathe through my nose if I must inhale. I'm not taking any chances. You know, sometimes you can almost see the funky stench vapors like Pig Pen from "Peanuts" had emitting from his character.

When you're well-versed in prices, "Dollar General" can be a great place to shop. But one must be careful. Sometimes, bargains are not bargains. Take laundry detergent, for example. Not really the best buy you can get.

Anyway, this "La's Totally Awesome Famous Multi-Surface Degreaser & Spot Remover, Lavender" was marked "new" and "on sale" for $1. I do love the scent of lavender, and with two boy children and a husband, something is always needing a good degreasing around here. I bought it.

Now, I don't normally read the instructions on anything. I sort of figure if I don't have this "point, spray, scrub, rinse" thing down to a science by now, there's little hope for me. I know it's generally a good idea to use most products in a well-ventilated area. It's never a grand idea to spray yourself in the eye, mouth, or any other places that could cause unpleasant tingling sensations. That's really all you need to know besides it's not advised to drink the product.

It did a nice job of removing soap scum and hard water stains without an exorbinant amount of scrubbing. Not too much of a lavender scent, however, which was slightly disappointing. I guess you can't have it all for a $1.

Seeing as how the entire bottle was quite interesting, I did glance at the back of the bottle, mainly looking for typos. Of course, this was after I'd used half of on the shower walls.

"PRECAUTIONARY STATEMENT: HAZARDOUS TO HUMANS AND DOMESTIC ANIMALS."

Whew, what a relief to know that it won't harm your pet alligator or llama.

A Story About the Boy

A story about the boy I wanted to marry....(second edition)

My friend, Shane, and I, decided to go to dinner at a Mexican restaurant. It was probably late 87 because I'm pretty sure I was still staying with my mom before I got my own apt. I recall this because she commented on my attire before I left to go to Shane's house.

Me and my big 80s hair, complete with the dark red mousse I used on my bangs at the time, oh, was it so cool. I was wearing a grey sleeveless dress, a black slouch belt that was alligator skin-like, and a black oversized cardigan sweater, of course with the sleeves scrunched up to my elbows. Such a get-up would not be complete without 3" pointy toed spike pumps.

But the shoes weren't the finishing touch on the outfit. Oh no. That would be the black hose with the seams up the back. The hose were what drew the less than approving attention of my mother. Even Shane's mom did one of those motherly sighs when he told her to come look. "You look like a street walker," she told me, knowing full-well that he and I would take it as a compliment.

I must say we looked good. He was dressed stylishly, as usual, with a blazer, pleated pants, a thin leather tie, and deck shoes. Shane probably was hands down one of the best looking men I've ever personally known.

We got into his little two-seater sports car, the kind of car is escaping me right now. A Datsun 240Z, perhaps. Off to Ft. Wayne we went. Because we were so terribly cool, we listened to Elvis Costello on the way there.

We walked in, and the hostess asked how many. We said 2. It probably looked like a date, which was fine with me, even though it wasn't. He was my best friend at the time, and it was strictly platonic.

"Would the bar be all right with you?" she asked us.

He shot me a look as if to say, "Don't screw this up with your good girl bullshit." He often suggested that I not be such a pussy.

So into the bar we went. "I'll be right back to take your drink orders," the waitress told us after flinging a couple menus in front of us.

"So you want to try it?" he asked me. It was more that he was telling me that we were going to order drinks, and that I could deal with it.

Every fiber of my being was screaming, "Oh hell, we're going to go to jail. We are going to get in trouble. My parents will find out. No good is going to come out of ordering margaritas."

We were, after all, 18 and 19 at the time.

Like a pro, he ordered a huge pitcher of margaritas. And we drank it. While my experience with alcohol at the time was fairly limited, including puking on a dog named Ralph at my graduation party, I never once thought to question the fact that one could get a little bit buzzed from a half a pitcher of margaritas.

We pulled it off without a hitch. No one asked to see our I.D., and I suppose since we were seated in the bar, no one thought twice.

We were probably a mile down the road from leaving the restaurant when he informed me that he was buzzed. My freak out over that was small considering my lips were numb and my face was starting to slide off my head. We made it back to his house in one piece, and I stuck around waiting for my lips to return to normal.

But didn't we do that more than once, was the next question I posed to myself.

Yes, we certainly did. Flashback to an evening in the winter not long after that. I know it was cold because Shane was wearing a trenchcoat. This time, Sandy drove. We went to the same restaurant, he and I sharing the pitcher of margaritas, and Sandy passing on doing anything illegal.

It's the ride home that I recall the most. I was sitting in the front seat, and Shane kept putting his feet on the console in the Dodge Omni, and on me. It was getting annoyed because he was getting dirt on my Salvation Army coat very similiar to his trenchcoat. It was an army green color with a paisley lining. I thought I'd hit paydirt when I found that coat for $5. I smacked him a few times, but it didn't stop him. It only encouraged him.

I then proceeded to try to tie his shoestrings together. My manual dexterity was lacking a wee bit due to the margaritas, and he caught me. I reached back and grabbed the scarf he was wearing...another hot 80s fashion accessory.

I don't know how it happened exactly, but I was pulled into the backseat. The scene in my head plays out much like something from a horror movie where someone is suddenly sucked into some sort of vortex. I was in the front seat, and suddenly, there I was in the back with him.
I had him by the scarf. He had me by the hair. And we proceeded to fight. It wasn't so unusual for he and I to get a little physical in that aspect. We'd fought before, but it was typically in a playful sort of way. (I guess unless alcohol was involved, but there's another story there about me ending up falling into a bathtub.)

We rolled around the backseat, the Omni swerving on the road with our movements, and I imagine it looked a bit like a cartoon fight. A bunch of dust flying with arms and legs protruding from the cloud every so often. At least from Sandy's prospective in the front seat.
It ended fast when I screamed out some obscenity and held my nose.

"You broke my nose," I told him.

Again, his response was something to the effect of to stop being such a baby or a pussy. I pulled my hand away from face, and blood streamed down my face, and all over the coat I was trying to protect from his dirty shoes in the first place.

I was livid. I wiped my hand on his trenchcoat, muttering some more obscenties, while from the front seat Sandy ranted about never taking us anywhere again.

And being prepared, and probably the only time in his life, he reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out paper towel from the bathroom at Bandido's. I've no clue what prompted him to take a stack, but likely it had something to do with cleaning his car.

The rest of the way home, I pinched my nose in effort to stop the bleeding. Every once in a while, he asked to take a peek at my swollen nose, and tell me whether or not it was still bleeding. The only other exchange consisted of me calling him something that sounded like "athhole" through my wad of paper towel, and him returning the love by calling me a bitch, and us smacking each other.

Boys I Want to Marry - Second Edition

Welcome to another edition of "Boys I Want to Marry."

This is Shane. The one on the right was his senior picture. The one on the left was taken in '87 with his little sister.

Shane came into my life during my junior year of high school. I signed up to take "Pub." Pub was Journalism, or more aptly, the school newspaper. We also had Algebra II together.

Going to a small high school, I knew who he was even though he was a grade ahead of me, but I didn't know too much about him. It wasn't long into the school year that Shane and I became friends. In even less time, I got the warm-tinglies for him.

My gawd, he was cute. I loved the mole by his mouth. And did he ever smell good wearing Grey Flannel. He had a sense of style that I admired. We started shopping together at Salvation Army and Good Will, and he helped me pick out my first trench coat. Hey, it was the 80s, and if scrounging in second-hand stores was good enough for Molly Ringwald in "Pretty in Pink," it was good enough for us. We'd dress to the hilt to go have dinner together, him helping me be sure the seam on my hose was straight and my wide belt positioned just so on my outfit.

Shane was my Ducky.

He introduced me to all sorts of music. Elvis Costello, Billie Holiday, Jim Croce, and The Cure. He gave me books of poetry, and gave me poems to read by Dorothy Parker, Anne Sexton, and Marge Piercy. He wrote his own poetry that he shared with me, too. He was deep, brooding, mysterious. He loved Marilyn Monroe; I loved James Dean.

More importantly, he taught me about showing affection. I didn't come from a touchy-feely, show your love through a hug, sort of family. In fact, the first time Shane hugged me, I froze. He asked if he made me uncomfortable, I fumbled with my words, and he said, "Oh, my little Kelly Girl," and hugged me again. You better believe the first time he kissed me on the cheek when he hugged me that I melted right there in his mom's kitchen.

Shane was a vegetarian. When I decided to give up meat as well, because you know the lengths a girl will go to for the sake of a boy's attention, he introduced me to pizza with only veggies on it. He and I shared many a sandwich made from cheese, pickles, and condiments.

When he graduated high school, he moved away to CA to live with his dad. We kept in touch via letters and phone calls. The letters I still have to this day full of intellect, poetry, and smartass remarks. Because if nothing else, he was indeed one of the most sarcastic, and witty, people I've ever known.

We had our falling outs, here and there. By the time I dropped out of college and moved back home, he was on his way back to the college where I'd left. You see, I thought he and I were going to be at school together, but his plans changed.

I truly loved him with everything I had. It wasn't a "boy-girl" love, but a very psychologically comforting sort of love. He was one of the best friends that I ever had, even though our interaction at times left one wonder what we saw in each other. When we fought, it was bitter, hurtful, and passionate. all at the same time.

He invited me once to visit him at college. I'd planned to drive down early on a Sat. morning. We spoke on the phone to discuss the details when he said, "I hope you don't mind, but you'll have to sleep with me, but I won't sleep naked like I usually do."

I don't know what it was about his statement that scared me so much. I was 20ish, and had shared a bed with a friend in the past, and knew it didn't necessarily mean that something sexual would transpire. It scared me, however, and I didn't end up going to see him, which I think he held a grudge about for a very long time.

I visited him after I got married and was pregnant. He looked at me and said, "Gawd Kel, you look so married." It wasn't exactly a comment to be flinging around to a hormonal pregnant chick. He told me to call him the next day, and I could come over to spend some time, but I never did.

Anyway, it's been years since I've seen him or even talked to him. At least ten. I talk to his mom on occasion. I used to call him occasionally and leave a message. But when it became apparent that he didn't want to hear from me, I stopped.

There are people who come into your life and they leave a mark that lasts a lifetime. I guess, sometimes, though we get lost in the revolving doors of life. I think of Shane often. I miss him even though it's been 19 years since we were close. I still don't eat red meat. I know I'm in a rut if I start looking really "married." I can't hear Elvis Costello or read any poetry without thinking of this boy I wanted to marry. I carry a part of him in my soul.

Here's a poem he wrote, sitting in my living room when I had my own apartment. "Give me a piece of paper," he told me. This is what he wrote:

A Love Poem

My love for you

is a starving man

Lifting silver spoonfuls

of poison

to bleeding lips

Billie Holiday moans quietly

"Good morning heartache..."

She knows this cold companion

as I do

And that bones

Thin and clean

Never meant to carry

the weight

of a starving man,

Break...

SSK, 10:10 p.m., 5/11/99

Note: "Boys I Want to Marry" is not to be taken in a literal sense. If your first thought is, "Oh my gawd, she's married and she's making blog entries about other boys she wants to marry, why I never!" you shouldn't be reading my blog in the first place. It was merely how I expressed myself as a young girl. When I was seven years old and watched Rick Dees perform "Disco Duck" on TV, I announced to my grandma that I wanted to marry him. Because of course, I was young, and when you loved someone, it was in my estimation that the logical thing to do was marry him. My immature mind and vocabulary limited my ability to express triggered emotions. Perhaps they still do.

The Gorilla on my Back

I tend to have an addictive personality. I'm not proud of it, but that's the way it is. I suppose it's better to know and acknowledge than totally deny and overlook.

I'm a smoker. I have been on and off since I was about 20. I stopped when I was pregnant, not starting up again until both kids were older. I've quit on other occasions, sometimes for up to three years.

The first cigarette I ever smoked, I was 18. I sneaked one of my mom's after I graduated high school one day when I was at her house alone. I hid in the basement and lit up. My first thought was, "What's the funny smell and flash of light I saw before my eyes?"

The answer - that was my bangs that I'd just singed. It wasn't such a great experience. I took a few puffs, not even realizing how to inhale. I didn't see the appeal, and being so afraid of getting caught, I extinguished and hid the evidence.

For some reason, it didn't matter to me that I was 18 and I wasn't breaking the law. In fact, in my lifetime, it was legal for someone of any age to purchase a pack of cigarettes. It wasn't but a thing for someone's mom to send them to the store and get her a pack of Virginia Slims.

I tried it, luckily didn't set myself totally ablaze, and I couldn't say I liked anything about smoking. That was until someone introduced me to a Salem Slim Light. I didn't know menthol existed up until that point. I didn't know the difference. I didn't care to find out. But, I was the quintessential "good girl."

As most will tell you, quitting is the easy part. It's not starting again that is the killer.

It only takes me a few days of no smoking to fully appreciate what a nasty habit it is. Within two days, my sense of smell returned to the point the dog nauseated me and had to be bathed. My husband is a smoker, and I don't ever see that changing. The smell of his cigarette doesn't make me want one. The scent of the ashtray permeates my nostrils and gags me.

Physically, once I make it past that three day mark, I'm pretty sure I'm passed that part of the addiction. My body is no longer going through withdrawl from nicotine. It's the mental, and I'll go as far to say, the emotional part of the addiction that gets me.

We're all pretty much creatures of habit. Smoking was a habit.

When I sit at the keyboard to write, I'd have a smoke when I finished what I was working on. If I were doing some housework, and decided to take a break while the floor dried, I'd have a smoke. I'm not totally sure my car would actually run properly while driving alone if I didn't smoke at the same time. When I get done eating, I think hmm, a cigarette would make a fine dessert. A cup of coffee and a menthol cigarette, well, it doesn't get much better than that.

So, as you might have caught the drift, I decided once again that it's time to quit. It's only rational that I'd throw something else on my plate since I'm battling with some weight gain. I also decided to cut diet soda out of my daily routine due to the fact that artifical sweetener can contribute to one's appetite and bloating. Naturally, I'm going to test myself to my limits and add no smoking, too.

I'm not exactly quitting because I fear for my health. I wish I could say that motivates me, but that's only a small part of it. A lot of it is financial with the rising cost of gas, I don't even want to know how much it'll cost to heat the house this winter. I'm trying to cut corners wherever possible, and it seems like smoking is less important than say cable internet.

I have a feeling there's something that definitely separates a smoker from a non-smoker. What makes me want to smoke is the mental part of it. Even if my brain isn't calling for the nicotine fix, my hands and mouth want to welcome a cigarette. To me, it was an enjoyable experience.

I've never been the type of smoker who MUST.HAVE.A.CIGARETTE.NOW. I never excused myself from a non-smoking facility to go smoke outside. Even when I worked, I only smoked in the evening at home. I think it's fair to say that I've definitely had a mental/emotional addiction to smoking.

Non-smokers will never get it. There's a lot more to just lighting a cigarette and smoking it. Since I've stopped, I feel as though I've buried my best friend, as pathetic and illogical that sounds. It gave me something to do with my mouth and hands for all these years. Albeit they don't call them cancer sticks for nothing, cigarettes were at my side for a lot of pivotal moments in my adulthood.

So, I'm taking Chantix that I got back in the fall, but didn't follow through with. Because, honestly, it wasn't the time. The few days I did take it, the Chantix gave me some freaky dreams. Not freaky as in most will say weird, vivid, and lucid. But freaky more in a nightmarish, off-the-charts sort of way.

One night, so far, I dreamed that I was wearing footie pajamas in the back yard of my youth. Ted Danson and most of the cast of "Cheers" were having a cook-out.

Last night, I dreamed that my friend and I were chosen to be on Flavor Flav's new show. At first, I was totally appalled because there was no way I was going to be on a dating show because I was married, and secondly, I had no desire to date Flavor Flav. It turned out that it was a stand-up comedy reality show, and the only thing my friend and I had to do was sit in the audience and watch. I was relieved. So far, no nightmares like the last time, though dreaming of Flavor Flav does come frightening close.

Anyway, I sure do miss it, and I'm trying to be an adult and make a wise choice. Technically with the Chantix, I should continue smoking for a week, but I haven't. It's not that I don't want to, but I'm trying to be bigger and stronger than this monkey the size of a gorilla that I've carried on my back for so long.

Meeting Up with the Future

I had to run to the bank this morning for the youngest child to get his paycheck cashed. Since I was in the downtown area of the boomin' metropolis that is my hometown, I decided to stop into the herb shop.

I walked in, and the woman asked, "Can I help you?"

"I hope so," I sighed. "Since they banned ephedra, I've gained more weight than I'm willing to admit."

She gave me a look of compassion. Her eyes said to me, "Oh, honey, I know."

"Show me what you've got because I'm getting desperate," I told her.

Now, I know nothing beats healthy eating, exercise, and weight training. It's a double-edged sword of great size and portion. And speaking of great size, so is my ass. My once svelte physique has grown soft, lumpy, and downright middle-agish.

Okay, by svelte, I mean my once "built-like-a-chubby-12-year-old-boy" form has transformed into a "built-like-a-chubby-12-year-old-boy-with-Gynecomastia."

I don't suppose I should complain that I've got more boobs than I've had in a very, very long time. The problem is baby's got more back than she's had in a long time, too.

The lady at the herb store showed me a few things, which probably would have added up to about $300.54. Then she brought out a packaged two-week supply of the same ingredients. In years past, I bought the pre-packaged herbs, then containing ephedra, and I had great success with it.

That double-edged sword I mentioned is this - when you need to drop a few pounds, chances are you feel so much like a slug, you really have trouble getting back into it. When I'd take ephedra for a couple weeks, my energy returned. I'd notice inches dropping, and this would motivate me to get out the work-out DVDs and weights.

I didn't rely on ephedra to maintain my weight. But it did help give me the boost of energy I needed. If a couple pounds started sneaking up on me, I'd take it for a few weeks, and I'd get a handle on it...as opposed to getting the lovehandles that I'm soon to be sporting any week now at the rate I'm going.

But as it usually goes, some asshats have to ruin something good for everyone else by abusing it. I somehow suspect that crystal meth was being made out of it as opposed to the actual worry that the dumbasses who were abusing it were dying from it.

So we'll see what happens.

Also, when I was out and about, I stopped by the grocery. I saw my future, and it made me smile a little.

This old woman, and by old, I mean she had to have been 80 at the minimum exited the check out lane and headed for the doors.

"If that bitch was any slower, she would have been going backwards," she proclaimed to the others she was with.

"I could have got behind that register and scanned my shit quicker than that slow ass. I guess they don't hire nothing but damn retards at this store."

What proved the point even further that this will be me in 40 years or so was her long, white ponytail.

I suspect by the time I'm 80, my hair will finally be that long. Because heaven knows, anytime my hair starts to get a decent, shoulder-length, I go do something stupid to it the inevitably fries it to the root.

And there was the white thing. I assume by the time that I'm that old, I will have given up on Miss Clariol.

If the woman hadn't been thinner than a rail, I might have actually thought I time travelled and witnessed my future self as an old broad.

The Homecoming

It's been a rough week around here after the horrid demise of two of the cats. The youngest son still isn't quite sure what to do with his anger. And honestly, I'm still devastated.


I'm a cat lover. Have been since I was an itty bitty thing. My mom has photos of me as a baby with a cat cuddled at my feet while I slept. Guess she didn't buy into that whole "cat stealing a baby's breath" thing.


A quick perusal shows even more photos of me always dragging around a cat, dressing it in doll clothes, and other acts of forcing the poor critters into submission by cramming my feline friends into doll carriages and highchairs.


Since we live in a small, rural sort of town, my home has become a revolving door of cat rescues and arrivals. If a cat shows up on my doorstep hungry, it gets fed. This drives my husband insane. It's come close to being grounds for divorce on several occasions. Yet, it doesn't stop me from taking care of strays.


About a month ago, Mr. Biggs came up missing. It wasn't so unusual not to see him for a few days considering he's a tom cat with tom cat business to see to from time to time. He'd show up for a few days, get himself a bite to eat, recoup, and hit the road again for a few more evenings out with the lady cats.


About a month ago, no more Mr. Biggs. Or Biggie, Biggie Butt, Biggsey Boy, or Nut Boy (which is what my husband called him). I'd more or less written him off as dead. It happens. And I know if you want to keep a cat alive and well, keeping it inside is the best place for it. But I figure if they're free-spirited enough to want to go roam about, I'm not stopping them. And if they were strays to begin with, well, I do my part giving them food and love. If they want to hang about outside, stop in for a while, then I'm okay with that, too. I've got a few "insider" cats, but most go out after they're done eating and napping.


Well, today, I was filling the outside food bowl when I caught a glimpse of a large tiger cat walking towards me. I paused as my brain tried to fill in what was wrong with the picture. It was then that I realized oh holy crap, Mr. Biggs is back!


I honestly didn't think I'd ever see him again. He'd been gone a long time. My son thought I was having some sort of fit at the back door, yelling and oh my gawding.


Biggsey came in, had something to eat, and plopped down on my son's lap where he proceeded to purr and drool incessantly. I guess he was so happy, he couldn't control his spit.


He got down and settled in for a nap.

He doesn't look too enthralled, does he? I think the look says, "Just what in the hell is that?"

That is Little Turtle, apparently the brother of the poor little yellow kitten who was murdered by the Pit Bull. Little Turtle is the new Shrek. My son is coercing the poor kitten into submission, trying to get him trained to sleep on his pillow and love him just like his poor ole cat Shrek did.

This is Gunter, or Gunnar, depending on whether you're feeling German when you call him by name. He's also Gunny, Gunny Butt, and Gunny Sack. Gunny was an orphan. His mother showed up, gave birth to him and five other kittens. She abandoned them, and he was the only survivor. He was taken care of by another mother cat. I also bottle fed the little crossed-eyed freak. God, I love him.

His look back to Biggs seemed to say something like, "Dude, I don't know where this thing came from."

Anyway, I've become one of those people who posts photos of their cats. Heaven help me, I didn't think I'd get this boring, but I'm glad Mr. Biggs is back. It warmed my heart to see him again, and helped to ease just a little bit of the grief.

Boys I Want to Marry

I'd been kicking around the idea of doing a weekly sort of thing here. This came about after I saw a photo of Haywood Nelson. He played Dwayne on the TV show "What's Happening."


It got me to thinking, as I'm prone to do. A lot. Too much.

The one thing I remembered was that he was cute. I had such a crush on him. Dwayne's "hey, hey, hey" could make me melt. I wanted to marry him. That's how I expressed mad, mad affection for any boy who happened to catch my eye when I was a youngin'. I was going to grow up and marry that boy.


This made me think of all the boys I found cute and wanted to marry, and what they inevitably taught me about myself, music, books, poetry, culture, or life in general.


I thought a moment and realized that Dwayne was not the first boy I wanted to marry. The first was Rick Dees. I'd been working on a write up about him earlier today. But as usual I got all sidetracked by trying to meet my column deadline and breaking up fights between these heathen children. Then I was totally distracted, so I started stopping by the blogs I read most often. I stopped by my friend's blog, Street Vein.



Mr. Street Vein and I happened upon each other on the internet. This is my favorite photo of him, and what I love even more is the caption, "Sinners Welcome."

He describes himself as a writer, progressive, thinker, intolerant of others, historian, left-wing, realist, humorist, skeptical, neurotic, pro-choice, anti-war, visionary, blind, dreamer, non-religious, out of style.

How could anyone read that and not want to be his new best friend?


He's even written a novel. And he's a fine writer at that.


One must go read his latest blog entry. Really, you must. Go ahead, then come back and finish reading. I'll wait.


Okay, now tell me how brilliant is that?


About a year ago, I got this wild notion to start stepping out of my comfort zone. I made it a goal to do something I wouldn't normally do at least once a week. I originally said once a day, but quite frankly, I tend to be wound as tight as an antique clock that's spring could inevitably inflict bodily harm when it finally uncoils. Throwing caution to the wind on a daily basis could have had me well on my way to a Xanax prescription.


Street Vein encourages everyone to make a list of rules we follow because they are conventional. Just sit down and start listing those things brought on by tradition. As the list becomes long, pick an easy one, and then break the rule.


He writes:

... Next, tell some jackass in your circle of “friends” that they are negative, unsupportive, and you no longer want to associate with miserable fucks like him/her. Admit to friends and strangers your deepest dreams and fears – screw ‘em if they think you’re weird. You are, but so are they.

... Speaking of uncomfortable positions – hang out with people you have nothing in common with and learn something about them, and yourself. The next time your gut says, “I’d like to try that,” but your mind says “No, you’ll look foolish,” go for it. Did I mention this will change your life?

Once a day, check off one of the stupid “rules” and begin to experience real freedom. You can thank me later.

I ask - how is that for a life changing revelation? Seriously.


So, Mr. Street Vein is hopefully one of many "Boys I Want to Marry" that I'll feature from time to time. No matter how cute Dwayne from "What's Happening" was, surely anyone can see why I made my choice today.


Get started on those lists. Let me know what you come up with when you decide to start breaking those traditions and what happens. I'm going to get started on my list, as well.

Note: "Boys I Want to Marry" is not to be taken in a literal sense. If your first thought is, "Oh my gawd, she's married and she's making blog entries about other boys she wants to marry, why I never!" you shouldn't be reading my blog in the first place. It was merely how I expressed myself as a young girl. When I was seven years old and watched Rick Dees perform "Disco Duck" on TV, I announced to my grandma that I wanted to marry him. Because of course, I was young, and when you loved someone, it was in my estimation that the logical thing to do was marry him. My immature mind and vocabulary limited my ability to express triggered emotions. Perhaps they still do.

You Talk Funny

For the past couple days, I've noticed my 17 year old doing some weird pronunciations.

"What am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know."

"We're going to go to a movie."

I can't exactly explain what was tipping me off that he sounded different. It was the "o" sound. It didn't sound normal in some words.

"Since when are you from Minnesota?" I asked him. Not that there's anything wrong with being from Minnesota, mind you. I remember once meeting someone from the fine state, and there's was something about their accent that caught my attenion.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Mom," he said.

"Sweden? Norway? Who have you been hanging out with lately who talks funny?" I inquired. (The italics and bolds are foreshadowing, but I'll stop that now.)

"The same people I've hung out with all summer," he snipped, getting annoyed with his dear, ole mom.

"I don't know, but you're talking funny," I told him and let it go.

The next day, I noticed again his odd pronunciations, mainly of the letter o. I pointed out he did it again, and he pressed that I explain. I said "go" as a normal person from these parts would say it. And then I said it again, how I perceived he was saying "go" but with a Minnesota, some place north of here, Scandanavian twang.

"Uh, Mom, there's no difference in what you've just said. Say them again."

I did, and said ok, whatever, maybe I'm just hearing things, and let him go on his merry way.

It hit me. I'm the one he's been around who talks funny. I've been told that I have a very distinctive voice - to the point that it has given me a complex. I've been told that while someone doesn't recognize my face right away, they recognize the voice as someone they know. At my fifteen year high school reunion, someone I had been friends with through much of middle and high school, didn't recognize me. (It's safe to say that I did my blossoming way after I crossed the stage and accepted my high school diploma.)

"I didn't recognize you, but I knew that I knew the voice," she told me.

I've been asked, "Where are you from because you sure don't sound like a Hoosier."

I don't know how a Hoosier sounds, but I do know that if I fall into the right crowd of individuals, I can land's sake, pert near, reckon, and ain't got with the best of them.

I have, in fact, been told I sound like I'm from Michigan or Minnesota.

My mother-in-law, from upstate NY, told me once that I talk funny. She assured me that the children speak just fine. But me? I talk funny, and she didn't understand how the kids didn't end up speaking the way I do, but she was glad they talked normal.

I've come up with several theories on this phenomenon.

My voice is slightly deeper than would expect coming from me. I was plagued with many, many bouts of swollen tonsils and strep throat as a child. It was to the point that the last time my mom dragged me to the dr. again with tonsilitis, the dr. said the next time, we really needed to consider having the tonsils removed.

This scared the beejeebers out of me. The next sore throat I got, I grinned and beared it because I wasn't about to tell my mom and be taken to the hospital. A girl told me in first grade that she had her tonsils out. She brought the jar to show and tell that held the contents that once resided in her body.

At recess, she told us they put her to sleep. Dogs were "put to sleep," and I wasn't having any part of that.

"But how did they get them out?" I asked. I couldn't figure how anyone could get their hands into one's throat and get them out. It looked to be close quarters to me, so I couldn't even fathom how a dr. went about it. And because I didn't understand the finer dynamics of surgery in general, other than they typically cut someone open, I had to ask.

"They put a needle up my butt, and got them out while I was put to sleep," she said.

That was it. It was all I needed to hear. No one, and I mean no one was going to put me to sleep like a dog and stick anything up my behind, much less a needle. I'd gargle with salt water on the sly. I'd take cough drops and throat lozenges from my grandma's house and self-medicate. I would have done anything to avoid the needle-up-the-rump.

Is it possible this ended up damaging my vocal cords? I think it could be an explanation. It took great lengths to speak in such a way that my mom wouldn't say, "You've got another sore throat again, don't you?"

Also, as far as my pronunciation goes - I've been told on many occasions that I do a great job of enunciating. "Did you go to school for broadcast journalism?" one person inquired. "It sounds like you've been trained to speak clearly."

While I've never been schooled on enunciation, I did grow up with great-grandparents close at hand. Great-grandparents who were hard of hearing. I do remember being expected to speak up, not talk so fast, and to speak clearly. One great-grandma was not only hard of hearing, but also blind. I've remained close to grandparents, one of whom is still living and doesn't care much for wearing her hearing aide.

So I suspect that's a fair explanation of my ability to enunciate. Perhaps that has led to my strange pronunciation of the "o" sound and other vowels. I don't know why it's taken so long to pick up on my son's mimicking my accent. Perhaps, we've spent so much time together this summer, I'm noticing it.

Regardless, I'm the one who talks funny who he's been hanging out with this summer.