When my Mother passed away she was cremated. My father did not bury her ashes. He wanted them in beautiful urn and he wanted to keep them in his room. It sounds sweet. He moved in with us and his new room was mine and hubby’s former room. He moved Mom into his new room. He also hung her picture above her ashes. Every night he would cover the urn with one of his sweaters. It was sweet in a we spent 50 years together and we are still together kind of way. He needed a room of his own and I needed my room back so while his room was being built he went to stay with my sister. The problem is that he didn’t take Mom with him to visit Sis. He decided that Mom would not travel well. This assumption was built on Mom’s previous travel history. She had been on a plane only a few times and was not fond of it. The thought of putting Mom in the cargo hold did not bode well with him. He was afraid that she would get lost. I can just picture my sister going to the airport to get him and the two of them at the luggage carousel only to be told that Mom didn’t make it off the plane and is now headed to Chicago. He also did not want to ship her via a private service. “Things happen on those flights to you know. Did you ever see the movie Cast Away?” Well there is just no arguing that point with him. I can’t count the number of times that a private carrier has gone down in the ocean and lost all of the packages on board except for a basketball and one other package. The number is too overwhelming. Needless to say, Mom stayed put while Dad went on his travels.
We moved back into our room. While I missed Dad, I was so happy to be back in my room and to sleep in my own bed that I was just beside myself. Then I looked up and saw Mom’s picture staring back at me. And it’s not one of those little 3 by 5 pictures. No this is the industrial strength portrait size 20 by 20. It’s a picture of Mom when she was twenty years old before they were married. Right next to her industrial strength portrait is a montage of pictures of Mom and all of Dad’s other relatives who are also dead. It’s sort of a gallery of dead people. Now I understand the need to have photos of your loved ones in your home. I have them all over my house. Some of the people are alive and some are not. However when they are directly above the urn with remains in it they take on a whole new meaning.
My son and I were putting my room back together. I had made the bed and dusted everything. The last thing that remained was the gallery of dead people and Mom. I didn’t want to take the pictures down. That seems awfully disrespectful because I wouldn’t be hanging them up anywhere else until Dad’s room was ready. They would be stacked in a corner somewhere. I wasn’t comfortable with stacking the gallery of dead folks in a corner so I did the only thing I could do. I put a towel over them. I don’t want to be looking at my Mom’s face after hubby and I are done doing what we love to do in the privacy of our room. That just says pew on so many levels. Once I had covered the pictures the only thing left do was figure out what to do with Mom. I thought of putting her in the closet but in the universe where karma exists putting your dead mother’s ashes in a closet just seems like you would be asking the universe to clobber you in the head. I am thinking maybe I will just put the urn on the floor between the dressers. It would be sort of an out of sight out of mind thing. Again, the whole concept of putting your Mom on the floor just screams universe please mess with me so I decided against that. Ditto for throwing a towel over the urn. I was quite frankly running out of options. I could put the ashes on the shelf in my living room but that would sort of make my dead Mother the focal point of my living room. I have never seen that on an HGTV show and I am not quite progressive enough to walk past my dead Mother everyday on my way in or out of my living room.
After much thought including the ramifications of the universe I decided to leave Mom just where she was and to not look. Yes, that's right, denial. Generations of people have built lives on denial and I was joining the club. I would just pretend that this beautiful urn did not contain the remains of my Mother. It was just a beautiful vase. It worked for a while. Right until I dusted my room. Dad would wrap it in his sweater so the urn never got dusty. Well I was not wrapping the urn with a sweater. To do so would go against my whole mantra of denial leaving me no choice but to dust it. My son suggested that perhaps if I didn’t call it Mom, dusting it might be a tad easier. I can go with that. I must admit calling the urn Mom puts you in a certain frame of mind. I normally dust with a small vacuum using the attachment. It gets all of the dust and leaves no streaks. I am poised with the vacuum in hand and I am picturing Mom being sucked into the vacuum and me having to explain to my Dad how I just vacuumed up Mom, the vacuum being haunted because Mom would come back just to have some fun with me because I accidentally vacuumed her up. I know in my rational brain that this can’t happen. Mom’s ashes are in a bag in the urn or so the funeral director told me. No, I have not looked. Mom in a bag just doesn’t work for me. It also can’t happen because I would have to take the lid off of the urn and stick the attachment in the urn to vacuum it. I know these things to be true but I am taking no chances. I put the vacuum away. A little dust won’t hurt. When Dad’s room is complete the first thing we put in the room is Mom. She is on an end table with the pictures of dead people surrounding her. My son reminds me that I had better learn how to dust Mom. I am taking the cowardly way out. I wrap her in Dad’s sweater. At least now she will be dust free and warm.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Perimenopause, Belzebub and the Smiley Face
I remember hearing a song about smiling faces. The song was a warning of sorts about being aware of smiling faces. I can vouch for being aware of smiling faces. I have a smiley face trauma. My Mom gave me a pamphlet. It had a smiley face on the cover. I should have known better but I was only ten. It told of how having a period made you a woman and that a period was your “friend.” There was a lot of information that was missing from that booklet. There was no mention of “the sprint” which is best defined as the urgent feeling that blood is running uncontrollably down your leg, requiring you to get to the bathroom in a matter of seconds. Not in the pamphlet. Day two was the heaviest day. This was not in the pamphlet either. Day two is the day that I schedule as little as humanly possible. After almost forty years I have learned to accept it. These little events have all become an integral part of my monthly routine. I have embraced the whole womanhood, time of your life theory. If you can’t beat em joint em kind of living. Embrace your reality. I am looking for the positive. My ability to plan my schedule around day two is a skill that I should be able to list on my resume under time management extraordinaire.
Time has marched on. I am almost fifty. The period has decidedly taken on a life of it’s own. It shows up when it wants, stays as long as it wants and leaves when it wants. Day two is no longer as significant as it was. My “friend” used to be regular. Every twenty-eight days, lasting five days and out. Now, the only thing regular about it is that it is irregular. Well, I have had enough of the whole womanhood thing and quite frankly I don’t need more friends. I would be very happy if the whole thing just went away. I am told that that is what is actually happening and I am delighted, overjoyed, and just downright happy about it. I want to do the happy, happy dance of joy. Then it happened. Or didn’t. The smooth transition that I envisioned was not going to happen. The smiley face pamphlet left this part out too. I am very disappointed in the pamphlet. I have been led astray.
Menopause is a condition that you can’t diagnose until it is over. You can’t know if you have completed your menopausal task until you have been period free for a year. What kind of insanity is that? Who thought that up? Would men stand for this? I don’t think so. I can just see the doctor explaining this. “I’m sorry sir but your penis is wilting. It will get smaller and smaller until it ceases to work. Then we will know that you have passed through penisapause.” But wait, it gets better. Because menopause can’t be diagnosed until it is over the powers that be have come up with a name for what happens before the diagnosis. Sort of like, clues. And a name. They had to name it. It can’t be anything without a name. Are you following this logic? I too am having a difficult time comprehending this situation. The saying that “I have some swampland” keeps replaying in my head. The name they came up with for the catch all, not really here yet, but here are a lot of clues is called Perimenopause. I’m not sure who came up with that name but they did not put a great deal of thought into it. It’s like naming your child Beelzebub. It pretty much guarantees the outcome.
I am not even going thru grown up menopause. How sad is that? I used to have periods and cramps. I used to have regularity. Now, I have lots of different vague symptoms. My symptoms are not exactly like anyone else’s symptoms. They are so vague that I didn’t know that I had them and the greatest minds in science didn’t either. Perimenopause includes irregular periods, headaches, excessive bleeding, no bleeding, inability to concentrate, and my personal favorite which is memory loss. There is nothing more exciting than being in the middle of a conversation and forgetting the words after they leave your brain but before they exit your mouth. The fogginess is also fun. It’s all in the attitude. Loosing your car in the parking lot of the grocery store so you have to push the full cart around the entire lot a few times is all the latest in practical exercise. I’m embracing. The best thing about this new exercise is that you can talk to all of the other women who are also walking the lot looking for their cars. We are all in this together. The feeling that you are moving in slow motion and nothing is quite clicking is best described as crappy. It’s not very creative description but pretty accurate. My favorite part of the syndrome that isn’t really here yet but is coming are the pimples. To add insult to injury the pimples are not the little kind that sort of blend in and look like smudges. No, these are the large red ones that look a bull’s eye on your face. These pimples are the kind that don’t get covered up with makeup. The tip is always showing thru. Ah, the joys of womanhood. I don’t recall reading about these in that pamphlet with the smiley face on it.
I think we should sue. Let’s start with Prince Charming. It turns out he isn’t real either.
Time has marched on. I am almost fifty. The period has decidedly taken on a life of it’s own. It shows up when it wants, stays as long as it wants and leaves when it wants. Day two is no longer as significant as it was. My “friend” used to be regular. Every twenty-eight days, lasting five days and out. Now, the only thing regular about it is that it is irregular. Well, I have had enough of the whole womanhood thing and quite frankly I don’t need more friends. I would be very happy if the whole thing just went away. I am told that that is what is actually happening and I am delighted, overjoyed, and just downright happy about it. I want to do the happy, happy dance of joy. Then it happened. Or didn’t. The smooth transition that I envisioned was not going to happen. The smiley face pamphlet left this part out too. I am very disappointed in the pamphlet. I have been led astray.
Menopause is a condition that you can’t diagnose until it is over. You can’t know if you have completed your menopausal task until you have been period free for a year. What kind of insanity is that? Who thought that up? Would men stand for this? I don’t think so. I can just see the doctor explaining this. “I’m sorry sir but your penis is wilting. It will get smaller and smaller until it ceases to work. Then we will know that you have passed through penisapause.” But wait, it gets better. Because menopause can’t be diagnosed until it is over the powers that be have come up with a name for what happens before the diagnosis. Sort of like, clues. And a name. They had to name it. It can’t be anything without a name. Are you following this logic? I too am having a difficult time comprehending this situation. The saying that “I have some swampland” keeps replaying in my head. The name they came up with for the catch all, not really here yet, but here are a lot of clues is called Perimenopause. I’m not sure who came up with that name but they did not put a great deal of thought into it. It’s like naming your child Beelzebub. It pretty much guarantees the outcome.
I am not even going thru grown up menopause. How sad is that? I used to have periods and cramps. I used to have regularity. Now, I have lots of different vague symptoms. My symptoms are not exactly like anyone else’s symptoms. They are so vague that I didn’t know that I had them and the greatest minds in science didn’t either. Perimenopause includes irregular periods, headaches, excessive bleeding, no bleeding, inability to concentrate, and my personal favorite which is memory loss. There is nothing more exciting than being in the middle of a conversation and forgetting the words after they leave your brain but before they exit your mouth. The fogginess is also fun. It’s all in the attitude. Loosing your car in the parking lot of the grocery store so you have to push the full cart around the entire lot a few times is all the latest in practical exercise. I’m embracing. The best thing about this new exercise is that you can talk to all of the other women who are also walking the lot looking for their cars. We are all in this together. The feeling that you are moving in slow motion and nothing is quite clicking is best described as crappy. It’s not very creative description but pretty accurate. My favorite part of the syndrome that isn’t really here yet but is coming are the pimples. To add insult to injury the pimples are not the little kind that sort of blend in and look like smudges. No, these are the large red ones that look a bull’s eye on your face. These pimples are the kind that don’t get covered up with makeup. The tip is always showing thru. Ah, the joys of womanhood. I don’t recall reading about these in that pamphlet with the smiley face on it.
I think we should sue. Let’s start with Prince Charming. It turns out he isn’t real either.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
The Not Skiing, Not hiking Vacation
Vacations are supposed to be fun. They are supposed to be relaxing. I know this because I have seen all of the commercials. Everyone is happy, smiling, and laughing. They are doing things. Sometimes they are in the great outdoors. There can be gentle breezes, or falling snow and a beautiful mountain as a background. Sometimes they are inside observing the great outdoors. Sometimes they are on a cruise ship. It doesn’t matter. They are happy and smiling.
I won a vacation. This should have been my first sign but I missed it. I have never won anything. Ever. In over fifty years, I have never won anything. I was so excited at the prospect of getting away that I couldn’t see past my nose. I won two nights at a ski resort, including lift tickets. I haven’t skied in twenty-five years. This was a sign. I missed it. I got a confirmation email from the reservations dept to let me know that the ski slopes would be closed when we got there but that everything else was open and they hoped we would still be coming and would enjoy the reset of the mountain experience. This was a sign and I missed it.
I know that I haven’t skied but the brochure and web site highlight the 6.5 miles of hiking trails that are as scenic as any ski run. I’m in. I run so hiking is high on my list. I am so in that I go out and get a new pair of hiking shoes. I am also preparing for my hiking experience. I am wearing my new hiking shoes and breaking them in. I wear them to work. I go hiking in the woods near my house. I’m into it.
The day finally arrived. I got up, worked out in preparation for hiking, ate breakfast, showered and was ready to rock and roll. I knew that things were not as they appeared to be when we pulled up. The beautiful ski mountain was covered in brown snow. I know that snow is not supposed to be brown. I also know this from those same the commercials. People were happy and smiling while skiing, or walking into the lodge and smiling. There was no brown snow anywhere. Brown snow aside, the hotel was perfect. It looked like a lodge straight out of the commercial. I’m looking around looking for the hiking trails and a way to access them. It is starting to feel like a vacation. This was a sign. I missed it.
The young lady behind the desk was young and perky. It turns out that the hiking trails were not open either. The web site was incorrect or a just a lie, depending on how you look at intentionally placed false information. I am trying to stay positive. The concept that we had just driven two and a half hours for two days of hiking, that was now not going to happen was lost on the perky one. I dropped the luggage that I was holding and went out the door. I looked up for the black cloud. It wasn’t open that day either but at least it wasn’t advertised as being open.
The most challenging part of the entire vacation non-experience was now having to find something to do. The nearest tourist type activity was thirty-five minutes away, so we did what all good tourists do, we went to dinner. We found a nice restaurant fifteen minutes up the road and went to discuss the options while stuffing our faces. We decided that since we couldn’t get physical we would get cultural. There was a museum in the thirty- five -minute trip away so the next morning we would be tourists. We would soak up the cultural/tourist experience. Maybe this was the sign from God that we were moving too fast. We needed to slow down. So slowing it down became the goal. It wasn’t quite hiking but hey when in Rome. The next morning we slept late, ate a huge breakfast and headed to the museum. The museum was really nice. It had a surprisingly large number of exhibits ranging from Egyptians to Samurai warriors and everything in between. The museum was nice but not all that large. We finished it before lunch so part two of the cultural/tourist vacation was shopping. More specifically, we went outlet shopping which, as every woman knows is a tad different than shopping in Macys or JC Penney or almost anywhere else. The prices are cheaper, the shoppers are more ruthless and in order to have a successful trip you have to be prepared to check every rack. Hubby was not quite up to the task. He waited along the outside of the lingerie outlet. We went in a few stores but decided that riding in the dark when you get lost during the day was probably not the best strategy so we left early and headed for the hotel with the large black cloud hanging over it.
There is a reason why people buy a GPS system. Contrary to the popular myth it is not to get directions. They have objects that give those. They are called maps. The real reason that people by a GPS system is to avoid giving directions between husbands and wives. Of course you don’t see this in the commercials. In those commercials the people are happy and smiling but they are not giving each other directions. They already have their directions, and they didn’t have to yell at anyone to get them.
I didn’t do too badly directionally. We missed a few turns. Hubby felt that he should reverse all of my directions because we were going back the way we came so if you reverse the forward directions we would be heading in the right direction. The only problem with his theory is that I had already reversed directions so he was reversing my reversal. We only went back and forth up the same road three times looking for the correct turns that I had clearly missed because I finally realized that I needed to reverse his reversal of my reversal. I have gotten over this lack of reverse map reading skill. Especially since we didn’t have a real map. We had directions from the ski resort. Yes, those same people who gave us the free weekend with the brown snow, closed trails and large black cloud looming over-head. There is no such thing as a free vacation.
I won a vacation. This should have been my first sign but I missed it. I have never won anything. Ever. In over fifty years, I have never won anything. I was so excited at the prospect of getting away that I couldn’t see past my nose. I won two nights at a ski resort, including lift tickets. I haven’t skied in twenty-five years. This was a sign. I missed it. I got a confirmation email from the reservations dept to let me know that the ski slopes would be closed when we got there but that everything else was open and they hoped we would still be coming and would enjoy the reset of the mountain experience. This was a sign and I missed it.
I know that I haven’t skied but the brochure and web site highlight the 6.5 miles of hiking trails that are as scenic as any ski run. I’m in. I run so hiking is high on my list. I am so in that I go out and get a new pair of hiking shoes. I am also preparing for my hiking experience. I am wearing my new hiking shoes and breaking them in. I wear them to work. I go hiking in the woods near my house. I’m into it.
The day finally arrived. I got up, worked out in preparation for hiking, ate breakfast, showered and was ready to rock and roll. I knew that things were not as they appeared to be when we pulled up. The beautiful ski mountain was covered in brown snow. I know that snow is not supposed to be brown. I also know this from those same the commercials. People were happy and smiling while skiing, or walking into the lodge and smiling. There was no brown snow anywhere. Brown snow aside, the hotel was perfect. It looked like a lodge straight out of the commercial. I’m looking around looking for the hiking trails and a way to access them. It is starting to feel like a vacation. This was a sign. I missed it.
The young lady behind the desk was young and perky. It turns out that the hiking trails were not open either. The web site was incorrect or a just a lie, depending on how you look at intentionally placed false information. I am trying to stay positive. The concept that we had just driven two and a half hours for two days of hiking, that was now not going to happen was lost on the perky one. I dropped the luggage that I was holding and went out the door. I looked up for the black cloud. It wasn’t open that day either but at least it wasn’t advertised as being open.
The most challenging part of the entire vacation non-experience was now having to find something to do. The nearest tourist type activity was thirty-five minutes away, so we did what all good tourists do, we went to dinner. We found a nice restaurant fifteen minutes up the road and went to discuss the options while stuffing our faces. We decided that since we couldn’t get physical we would get cultural. There was a museum in the thirty- five -minute trip away so the next morning we would be tourists. We would soak up the cultural/tourist experience. Maybe this was the sign from God that we were moving too fast. We needed to slow down. So slowing it down became the goal. It wasn’t quite hiking but hey when in Rome. The next morning we slept late, ate a huge breakfast and headed to the museum. The museum was really nice. It had a surprisingly large number of exhibits ranging from Egyptians to Samurai warriors and everything in between. The museum was nice but not all that large. We finished it before lunch so part two of the cultural/tourist vacation was shopping. More specifically, we went outlet shopping which, as every woman knows is a tad different than shopping in Macys or JC Penney or almost anywhere else. The prices are cheaper, the shoppers are more ruthless and in order to have a successful trip you have to be prepared to check every rack. Hubby was not quite up to the task. He waited along the outside of the lingerie outlet. We went in a few stores but decided that riding in the dark when you get lost during the day was probably not the best strategy so we left early and headed for the hotel with the large black cloud hanging over it.
There is a reason why people buy a GPS system. Contrary to the popular myth it is not to get directions. They have objects that give those. They are called maps. The real reason that people by a GPS system is to avoid giving directions between husbands and wives. Of course you don’t see this in the commercials. In those commercials the people are happy and smiling but they are not giving each other directions. They already have their directions, and they didn’t have to yell at anyone to get them.
I didn’t do too badly directionally. We missed a few turns. Hubby felt that he should reverse all of my directions because we were going back the way we came so if you reverse the forward directions we would be heading in the right direction. The only problem with his theory is that I had already reversed directions so he was reversing my reversal. We only went back and forth up the same road three times looking for the correct turns that I had clearly missed because I finally realized that I needed to reverse his reversal of my reversal. I have gotten over this lack of reverse map reading skill. Especially since we didn’t have a real map. We had directions from the ski resort. Yes, those same people who gave us the free weekend with the brown snow, closed trails and large black cloud looming over-head. There is no such thing as a free vacation.
The Unpet People
The woman who used to be my Mother was pacing the floor when we arrived home. She had spent four hours trying to figure out Emma the Wonder Dog and beat a six year old at cards. I had forgotten to give her instructions about Emma the wonder dog when I left. Emma gets bursts of energy. We affectionately refer to her bursts of energy as going physco. We play with her, feed her, or just let her run depending on what she needs.
Mom is not a pet person. She took a different approach. She opened the door and let Emma out. Emma ran out. Emma chewed. Everything she could find. Two hours, a forsythia bush, half a railing, and one piece of siding later the doorbell is ringing. Mom thinks it’s me, although why she thought I would ring my own doorbell is not yet clear. It was Emma the wonder dog. Mom got up four times to answer the door when Emma rang the bell, just to make sure it wasn’t me. She smiled at Emma. She didn’t let her back in the house, but she did smile. I feel for Emma. Mom is not a dog person.
We weren’t allowed to have a dog when we were kids. We got a cat. My Mother would leave a bowl of food out for our cat all day. It had to have food in it. All the time. And a bowl of milk. The cat could be starving and wouldn’t be able to tell us because cats don’t talk. The fact that the cat weighed twenty pounds could have been an indication of the fact that she was getting enough to eat, but the food bowl had to be full. The cat didn’t always weigh twenty pounds. It used to be a kitten. A kitten who needs to go to the bathroom. It hadn’t quite gotten the hang of the litter box thing yet. The manger was on top of the television set. Dad had decided to use beach sand on the floor of the manger for the realism. The kitten found the sand. The kitten liked the sand. The kitten went do-do in the sand. Mom smelled the do-do and went looking for the source. She found it in the manger right next to the three wise men. Her blood curdling scream sends the kitten bolting, and Dad running. Naturally the kitten jumps down and runs right behind the television. Just as naturally Dad chases the kitten. The kitten jumps on the couch and using it as a catapult jumps right into the middle of the Christmas tree which falls over. Right on Dad. My brother and I are laughing hard and trying to rescue Dad from under the tree at the same time.
The kitten didn’t go anywhere after that. Except the couch. And the food bowl. And the milk bowl. And the litter box. The bowls, the couch and to the litter box. That’s it. Before we knew it five years have passed. The kitten grew into a cat. A fat cat. For some reason it decided to venture into the world. She ventured up into the attic behind my brother. He never saw her. No one knew she was missing until later that evening when she was not on the couch at the appointed time. We checked the litterbox. No sign of her. Her food bowl was full. The milk bowl untouched. We searched the house. Every room, every closet. Nothing.
Then we heard this weird noise coming from behind a wall in my parents room. She had fallen through a part of the attic that had no floorboard and was stuck behind a wall. Being the fit and trim animal that she was she decided to nap while awaiting rescue.
My Mother is yelling at my Dad “Fred get the cat out. She’ll starve in there.”
My Dad is laughing so hard his eyes are tearing. Operation obese cat rescue got underway. He lowered my brother down into the space to rescue fat cat who had gone back to sleep. My brother woke her up for her rescue. He thought she should be awake when rescued. Mom got her, carried her downstairs and put her in front of her bowl. “She must be starving.” The cat never ventured again. We never got our dog. Emma the wonder dog never stood a chance.
Mom is not a pet person. She took a different approach. She opened the door and let Emma out. Emma ran out. Emma chewed. Everything she could find. Two hours, a forsythia bush, half a railing, and one piece of siding later the doorbell is ringing. Mom thinks it’s me, although why she thought I would ring my own doorbell is not yet clear. It was Emma the wonder dog. Mom got up four times to answer the door when Emma rang the bell, just to make sure it wasn’t me. She smiled at Emma. She didn’t let her back in the house, but she did smile. I feel for Emma. Mom is not a dog person.
We weren’t allowed to have a dog when we were kids. We got a cat. My Mother would leave a bowl of food out for our cat all day. It had to have food in it. All the time. And a bowl of milk. The cat could be starving and wouldn’t be able to tell us because cats don’t talk. The fact that the cat weighed twenty pounds could have been an indication of the fact that she was getting enough to eat, but the food bowl had to be full. The cat didn’t always weigh twenty pounds. It used to be a kitten. A kitten who needs to go to the bathroom. It hadn’t quite gotten the hang of the litter box thing yet. The manger was on top of the television set. Dad had decided to use beach sand on the floor of the manger for the realism. The kitten found the sand. The kitten liked the sand. The kitten went do-do in the sand. Mom smelled the do-do and went looking for the source. She found it in the manger right next to the three wise men. Her blood curdling scream sends the kitten bolting, and Dad running. Naturally the kitten jumps down and runs right behind the television. Just as naturally Dad chases the kitten. The kitten jumps on the couch and using it as a catapult jumps right into the middle of the Christmas tree which falls over. Right on Dad. My brother and I are laughing hard and trying to rescue Dad from under the tree at the same time.
The kitten didn’t go anywhere after that. Except the couch. And the food bowl. And the milk bowl. And the litter box. The bowls, the couch and to the litter box. That’s it. Before we knew it five years have passed. The kitten grew into a cat. A fat cat. For some reason it decided to venture into the world. She ventured up into the attic behind my brother. He never saw her. No one knew she was missing until later that evening when she was not on the couch at the appointed time. We checked the litterbox. No sign of her. Her food bowl was full. The milk bowl untouched. We searched the house. Every room, every closet. Nothing.
Then we heard this weird noise coming from behind a wall in my parents room. She had fallen through a part of the attic that had no floorboard and was stuck behind a wall. Being the fit and trim animal that she was she decided to nap while awaiting rescue.
My Mother is yelling at my Dad “Fred get the cat out. She’ll starve in there.”
My Dad is laughing so hard his eyes are tearing. Operation obese cat rescue got underway. He lowered my brother down into the space to rescue fat cat who had gone back to sleep. My brother woke her up for her rescue. He thought she should be awake when rescued. Mom got her, carried her downstairs and put her in front of her bowl. “She must be starving.” The cat never ventured again. We never got our dog. Emma the wonder dog never stood a chance.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
The Cuff of Evil
I have seen the infomercials. I must confess right here and now that I like them. There is one in particular that I love to watch. The two celebrity spokes-people convince me that by using their machine for twenty minutes a day or less, I can get in shape. Really in shape. I visualize. It’s fun to watch. I am inspired. Sometimes fate just takes over your life and the cosmos aligns perfectly. A few days after seeing this infomercial for the hundredth time, I got an opportunity to work out on an actual machine. I loved it. A lot. I decided to look into getting one. This is when kismet reared its beautiful head. Someone wanted to give me a machine. All I had to do was pick it up. Did I want it? I had to keep from jumping up and down and yelling “Ooh! Ooh! Now I can look like a celebrity spokesperson. Ooh! Ooh! Yeah!” I tried to maintain my dignity. As soon as I brought the machine home, I felt my transformation starting. The next morning, I am up at dawn. I am ready to rock, roll and sweat.
I can’t wait to try the leg exercises. This wonderful machine comes with a leg cuff made specifically for leg exercises. I am looking at the picture in the book of the cuff in use. I am holding the cuff in my other hand and. I am confused. I’m not sure that my foot will bend that way. The cuff is winning. After much ado, I get it around my foot. Now there are two metal hoops on the cuff of evil. I hook the pulley up to the hook and start to exercise. I close my eyes, focus on my movement, and visualize myself with well toned legs. At that very same moment, I discover an underlying principle of physics and gym equipment. That is, when your leg is attached to a leg cuff, make sure you hook the correct hook on the pulley because if you don’t you become the projectile in a human catapult. A less obvious lesson, but just as important, is that when you become a human catapult projectile you do not create a pretty picture of self -confidence. Think twisted blob on the floor.
Not being one to give up easily, I released myself from the cuff of evil and determined that I would come back another day to beat the machine. The next morning was a new beginning. Fortunately it was not a leg day. I wouldn’t be using the cuff. The routine went smoothly. I had learned from my mistakes. I went through the book the night before and picked out the exercises and studied the proper technique. I had cut the time of the routine down. I was moving along and feeling just a little bit self confident. Maybe even cocky. Right until another principle of physics hit me. Right in the corner of my face above my eye. A handle under pressure when released springs back and hits you in the face. Ouch. I never saw this on the infomercial. Not once. No one ever got hurt. They worked out. They looked fit and happy. In infomercial land, a big part of working out is looking happy. I try to look happy when I’m working out. I will sometimes catch a glimpse of myself and happy is not the word I would use to describe my facial expression. Now, not only do I not look happy but I am bruised. This is not the look I was hoping for.
The next day will be better. I can feel it. Day three of the workout equipment experience. It has good karma. There will be no injuries today. I put on the cuff of evil and start my routine. I am moving along at a good pace. I am nearly finished. I have come through unscathed. I have met the cuff and it is mine. I have won. It is official. I am now a person who works out. I have the credentials. I can say that in conversation.
One last piece of scientific knowledge and I may have this working out situation down pat. Workout shorts slide off of padded gym equipment. I never saw that in any workout article either. I don’t think of it as one large accident waiting to happen. Instead I try to think of it as a learning experience. No pain no gain!
I can’t wait to try the leg exercises. This wonderful machine comes with a leg cuff made specifically for leg exercises. I am looking at the picture in the book of the cuff in use. I am holding the cuff in my other hand and. I am confused. I’m not sure that my foot will bend that way. The cuff is winning. After much ado, I get it around my foot. Now there are two metal hoops on the cuff of evil. I hook the pulley up to the hook and start to exercise. I close my eyes, focus on my movement, and visualize myself with well toned legs. At that very same moment, I discover an underlying principle of physics and gym equipment. That is, when your leg is attached to a leg cuff, make sure you hook the correct hook on the pulley because if you don’t you become the projectile in a human catapult. A less obvious lesson, but just as important, is that when you become a human catapult projectile you do not create a pretty picture of self -confidence. Think twisted blob on the floor.
Not being one to give up easily, I released myself from the cuff of evil and determined that I would come back another day to beat the machine. The next morning was a new beginning. Fortunately it was not a leg day. I wouldn’t be using the cuff. The routine went smoothly. I had learned from my mistakes. I went through the book the night before and picked out the exercises and studied the proper technique. I had cut the time of the routine down. I was moving along and feeling just a little bit self confident. Maybe even cocky. Right until another principle of physics hit me. Right in the corner of my face above my eye. A handle under pressure when released springs back and hits you in the face. Ouch. I never saw this on the infomercial. Not once. No one ever got hurt. They worked out. They looked fit and happy. In infomercial land, a big part of working out is looking happy. I try to look happy when I’m working out. I will sometimes catch a glimpse of myself and happy is not the word I would use to describe my facial expression. Now, not only do I not look happy but I am bruised. This is not the look I was hoping for.
The next day will be better. I can feel it. Day three of the workout equipment experience. It has good karma. There will be no injuries today. I put on the cuff of evil and start my routine. I am moving along at a good pace. I am nearly finished. I have come through unscathed. I have met the cuff and it is mine. I have won. It is official. I am now a person who works out. I have the credentials. I can say that in conversation.
One last piece of scientific knowledge and I may have this working out situation down pat. Workout shorts slide off of padded gym equipment. I never saw that in any workout article either. I don’t think of it as one large accident waiting to happen. Instead I try to think of it as a learning experience. No pain no gain!
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Cinderella, Charm School and Jack Bauer
I am a baby boomer. I was born in the fifties, spent my childhood in the sixties and my teenage years in the seventies. I watched a man land on the moon and was not quite a teenager when Sesame Street came on the air. I also went to charm school. Yes, charm school. Hard to believe that Vietnam was going on and I was learning how to cross my legs while wearing a dress so that young men would not get a peek at my underwear.
I hadn’t thought about Charm school in years. I was watching an episode of 24 and started to laugh out loud. Jack Bauer is going to turn himself in for a hostage swap. He was in handcuffs, and talking in his best Jack Bauer, sexy, low whisper, intimidating voice and all I could think of was how he had his shirt buttoned all the way up. Charm school came to mind. I don’t remember how the episode turned out, but I can pretty much guarantee that the wardrobe person did not go to charm school. I am blaming Cinderella for the whole charm school fiasco. She set the standards so high that the rest of us were forced to go to charm school so that we to would be able to find our prince, and of course, help him to dress correctly. This was the thinking of two normally sane people that I like to call Mom and Dad.
I was very young when I learned about Cinderella. She was looking for the prince. Of course she hadn’t gone to college. My folks raised me with the expectation that I would go to college , get married and then have children. Sort of Cinderella light. I would do it in that exact order. A big part this plan is dependent on finding the prince. I never really thought about the prince showing up. Mom and Dad were taking no chances that the prince would be able to find me or worse that the prince would show up and I would not be prepared. I was a bit hyper in my younger days so my parents kept me busy doing sports all year round. I played softball and was on a swim team in summer, cheerleading in the winter and gymnastics all the time. Clearly there was going to have to be some changes made if I was to find the prince. Apparently the prince does not have directions to the ballpark or the pool. Cinderella did not participate in sports. She didn’t own a glove, or cleats. She did however have a pumpkin and a fairy godmother. I didn’t have those. This being the case, the solution seemed so obvious to them. They sent me to “charm school”. I quite sure that charm schools don’t even exist anymore. They are not actual schools. They are places where young ladies got instructions in the proper art of being a young lady. The charm school teacher kept referring to me as a tomboy. She was not using her warm and fuzzy voice when she made that comment.
I thought I was doing well in charm school. In charm school I learned many skills that have served me well over the years. I learned the valuable skill of the proper way to cross my legs while wearing a dress. The secret is in the ankles. I also learned the proper way to apply makeup. I learned that you don’t button your top button unless you are wearing a tie. That was Jack Bauer’s fashion faux pas. My favorite skill that I learned in charm school is that I can actually place a book on my head and walk across a room without dropping the book. This skill is so diverse that I have it listed on my resume under other skills.
Sadly, charm school was not the great success that my folks were hoping for. The teacher did not understand my unwillingness to cross my legs at the ankles while wearing cleats. She did not understand wearing cleats at all. I tried, in my nicest proper young lady voice, to explain the art of wearing cleats to her. I tried to explain to her that good posture in a dugout is useless. The whole book on the head thing was so inappropriate for a dugout. I tried to explain that in softball upright is not really a good thing.Her position was that white Keds are what proper young wear for athletic endeavors. Cleats were not in her vocabulary. Needless to say, she was not overwhelmed that title nine passed.
She told my folks in her best proper not so young woman voice that there were just some young women who did not quite fit in charm school and I was one of them. She apologized profusely.My parents were shocked. Cinderella was dying on the vine. After charm school there was only one way to restore the Cinderella dream. It seemed so obvious to the normally sane people that I like to call Mom and Dad. Ballroom dance lessons. I’m not sure what those two were thinking but my brother and I along with two of my cousins were sent to a local dance teacher and forced to learn to ballroom dance. In case the prince had gotten directions and found his way to my house, I would be ready. Not only can I walk with a book on my head, and cross my legs at the ankles, now I could also ballroom dance. What a package. The prince showed up and surprise, surprise he doesn’t dance , doesn’t button the top button , doesn’t wear ties and doesn’t need me to tell him how to dress. Where is my fairy godmother when I need her?
I hadn’t thought about Charm school in years. I was watching an episode of 24 and started to laugh out loud. Jack Bauer is going to turn himself in for a hostage swap. He was in handcuffs, and talking in his best Jack Bauer, sexy, low whisper, intimidating voice and all I could think of was how he had his shirt buttoned all the way up. Charm school came to mind. I don’t remember how the episode turned out, but I can pretty much guarantee that the wardrobe person did not go to charm school. I am blaming Cinderella for the whole charm school fiasco. She set the standards so high that the rest of us were forced to go to charm school so that we to would be able to find our prince, and of course, help him to dress correctly. This was the thinking of two normally sane people that I like to call Mom and Dad.
I was very young when I learned about Cinderella. She was looking for the prince. Of course she hadn’t gone to college. My folks raised me with the expectation that I would go to college , get married and then have children. Sort of Cinderella light. I would do it in that exact order. A big part this plan is dependent on finding the prince. I never really thought about the prince showing up. Mom and Dad were taking no chances that the prince would be able to find me or worse that the prince would show up and I would not be prepared. I was a bit hyper in my younger days so my parents kept me busy doing sports all year round. I played softball and was on a swim team in summer, cheerleading in the winter and gymnastics all the time. Clearly there was going to have to be some changes made if I was to find the prince. Apparently the prince does not have directions to the ballpark or the pool. Cinderella did not participate in sports. She didn’t own a glove, or cleats. She did however have a pumpkin and a fairy godmother. I didn’t have those. This being the case, the solution seemed so obvious to them. They sent me to “charm school”. I quite sure that charm schools don’t even exist anymore. They are not actual schools. They are places where young ladies got instructions in the proper art of being a young lady. The charm school teacher kept referring to me as a tomboy. She was not using her warm and fuzzy voice when she made that comment.
I thought I was doing well in charm school. In charm school I learned many skills that have served me well over the years. I learned the valuable skill of the proper way to cross my legs while wearing a dress. The secret is in the ankles. I also learned the proper way to apply makeup. I learned that you don’t button your top button unless you are wearing a tie. That was Jack Bauer’s fashion faux pas. My favorite skill that I learned in charm school is that I can actually place a book on my head and walk across a room without dropping the book. This skill is so diverse that I have it listed on my resume under other skills.
Sadly, charm school was not the great success that my folks were hoping for. The teacher did not understand my unwillingness to cross my legs at the ankles while wearing cleats. She did not understand wearing cleats at all. I tried, in my nicest proper young lady voice, to explain the art of wearing cleats to her. I tried to explain to her that good posture in a dugout is useless. The whole book on the head thing was so inappropriate for a dugout. I tried to explain that in softball upright is not really a good thing.Her position was that white Keds are what proper young wear for athletic endeavors. Cleats were not in her vocabulary. Needless to say, she was not overwhelmed that title nine passed.
She told my folks in her best proper not so young woman voice that there were just some young women who did not quite fit in charm school and I was one of them. She apologized profusely.My parents were shocked. Cinderella was dying on the vine. After charm school there was only one way to restore the Cinderella dream. It seemed so obvious to the normally sane people that I like to call Mom and Dad. Ballroom dance lessons. I’m not sure what those two were thinking but my brother and I along with two of my cousins were sent to a local dance teacher and forced to learn to ballroom dance. In case the prince had gotten directions and found his way to my house, I would be ready. Not only can I walk with a book on my head, and cross my legs at the ankles, now I could also ballroom dance. What a package. The prince showed up and surprise, surprise he doesn’t dance , doesn’t button the top button , doesn’t wear ties and doesn’t need me to tell him how to dress. Where is my fairy godmother when I need her?
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Junior, The Snake and the Vaccuum
I have a snake living in my house. There’s a statement that I never thought I would make. It’s funny how the snake came to live in my house. Junior went to college. He liked college. He decided that he wanted the whole grown up experience and could only get that experience by living off campus so he did. His roommate got a snake. Then roommate had the nerve to leave school to go on tour with a rock band and left the snake behind. Oh goody, Junior inherits a snake. This is a drama waiting to happen.
Graduation day comes and Junior is moving home. With the snake. The snake and I have an agreement. He stays in his aquarium without water and I don’t call animal control. It is the best I can do and I thought it was a very generous offer. I don’t go into Junior’s room simply on principal. I’m not cleaning it. I don’t want to see the snake. I have no reason to go in there. I will give Junior his due because he does take care of the snake. He buys two mice a week to feed him. He put a heater underneath the aquarium without water so the snake is nice and warm. It’s important that the snake stay warm. I am always cold and no one is putting a heating pad under me. Junior also keeps the aquarium without water clean. He changes the stuffing the paper underneath so that the snake doesn’t inhale particles. This is also part of the ritual that I don’t watch. It’s like watching a train wreck.
I read somewhere that bad things happen in threes. I can go with that. Of course some people just go with things happen. It was a day like any other day except that when I turned on my dishwasher it made a grinding noise. I’m not a plumber. In fact I have no plumbing skills or background but I know when you turn on your super duper extra quiet dishwasher that cost a small fortune because it is the super duper extra quiet model, it is not supposed to sound like an engine in distress. That was not critical so I decided to have some coffee and mull it over. I like to mull things over. Except that the milk was not cold. Junior had told me the day before that the milk was not cold when he got his cereal. So I turned the refrigerator to make it colder. It didn’t work. Younger brother informed me that his milk was warm. Besides mulling I believe in signs. This was a sign from God to go out to breakfast but I didn’t pay attention to the sign. I decided to take the more conventional route and call the appliance warranty people who told me they would send someone the following day. At this point my concern is how I am going to keep the food cold enough so that I don’t have to replace a refrigerator full of food that I couldn’t afford the first time I bought it.
There really wasn’t a whole lot to do so I decided to patrol the kitchen. It was my job to stand next to the fridge and open the door as needed to avoid the unnecessary openings and closings of the door. There would be no empty staring into the fridge followed by the exclamation that there is no food in here.
The repairman shows up the next day. He works on the dishwasher first. Unfortunately he forgot his man vacuum. He loaned it to another repairman so he asked hubby if he had one. Hubby gets his man vacuum out of Junior’s room and gives it repair guy. Repair guy says that the super duper extra quite dishwasher needs to be vacuumed out. He says that it has dust in the filter. The problem is that the filter is in the bottom of the dishwasher under the big whirly thing that sprays the water that washes the dishes. How clever of those manufacturers. That’s it. We are good to go. The refrigerator wasn’t quite so easy. It needed a new sensor and the freezer wasn’t working correctly either. It was too cold and had frozen on the inside behind the panels and he took off the panel so he could thaw it out. Naturally it would take several hours and there would be water running out of it into the refrigerator and onto my floor.
I am waiting for the Marx brothers or Allen Funt to pop out but they didn’t. Finally the day of drama has come to and end. Hubby goes to empty out the vacuum. It’s clogged. He forgot that the reason the vacuuming out the snake’s aquarium with out water so that he could give the snake clean chips. Naturally hubby does what everyone who has a clogged vacuum does. He puts his mouth on the vacuum to blow the clog out. He decides to share the triumph of cleaning the clog with us. At that very moment Junior decides to share with us that the snake always carries salmonella and that Dad really shouldn’t worry he probably won’t get salmonella. The snake is still alive. Hubby hasn’t got salmonella, the refrigerator is working and the super duper extra quiet dishwasher still isn’t. Life is back to normal.
Graduation day comes and Junior is moving home. With the snake. The snake and I have an agreement. He stays in his aquarium without water and I don’t call animal control. It is the best I can do and I thought it was a very generous offer. I don’t go into Junior’s room simply on principal. I’m not cleaning it. I don’t want to see the snake. I have no reason to go in there. I will give Junior his due because he does take care of the snake. He buys two mice a week to feed him. He put a heater underneath the aquarium without water so the snake is nice and warm. It’s important that the snake stay warm. I am always cold and no one is putting a heating pad under me. Junior also keeps the aquarium without water clean. He changes the stuffing the paper underneath so that the snake doesn’t inhale particles. This is also part of the ritual that I don’t watch. It’s like watching a train wreck.
I read somewhere that bad things happen in threes. I can go with that. Of course some people just go with things happen. It was a day like any other day except that when I turned on my dishwasher it made a grinding noise. I’m not a plumber. In fact I have no plumbing skills or background but I know when you turn on your super duper extra quiet dishwasher that cost a small fortune because it is the super duper extra quiet model, it is not supposed to sound like an engine in distress. That was not critical so I decided to have some coffee and mull it over. I like to mull things over. Except that the milk was not cold. Junior had told me the day before that the milk was not cold when he got his cereal. So I turned the refrigerator to make it colder. It didn’t work. Younger brother informed me that his milk was warm. Besides mulling I believe in signs. This was a sign from God to go out to breakfast but I didn’t pay attention to the sign. I decided to take the more conventional route and call the appliance warranty people who told me they would send someone the following day. At this point my concern is how I am going to keep the food cold enough so that I don’t have to replace a refrigerator full of food that I couldn’t afford the first time I bought it.
There really wasn’t a whole lot to do so I decided to patrol the kitchen. It was my job to stand next to the fridge and open the door as needed to avoid the unnecessary openings and closings of the door. There would be no empty staring into the fridge followed by the exclamation that there is no food in here.
The repairman shows up the next day. He works on the dishwasher first. Unfortunately he forgot his man vacuum. He loaned it to another repairman so he asked hubby if he had one. Hubby gets his man vacuum out of Junior’s room and gives it repair guy. Repair guy says that the super duper extra quite dishwasher needs to be vacuumed out. He says that it has dust in the filter. The problem is that the filter is in the bottom of the dishwasher under the big whirly thing that sprays the water that washes the dishes. How clever of those manufacturers. That’s it. We are good to go. The refrigerator wasn’t quite so easy. It needed a new sensor and the freezer wasn’t working correctly either. It was too cold and had frozen on the inside behind the panels and he took off the panel so he could thaw it out. Naturally it would take several hours and there would be water running out of it into the refrigerator and onto my floor.
I am waiting for the Marx brothers or Allen Funt to pop out but they didn’t. Finally the day of drama has come to and end. Hubby goes to empty out the vacuum. It’s clogged. He forgot that the reason the vacuuming out the snake’s aquarium with out water so that he could give the snake clean chips. Naturally hubby does what everyone who has a clogged vacuum does. He puts his mouth on the vacuum to blow the clog out. He decides to share the triumph of cleaning the clog with us. At that very moment Junior decides to share with us that the snake always carries salmonella and that Dad really shouldn’t worry he probably won’t get salmonella. The snake is still alive. Hubby hasn’t got salmonella, the refrigerator is working and the super duper extra quiet dishwasher still isn’t. Life is back to normal.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Things I Don’t Need to Know
As a parent I wondered what the long -term effects that television viewing would have on my children. My children are almost grown and I am concerned about what effect television will have on me. I am sitting here watching television and there is a commercial on for E-D, which is also known as erectile dysfunction. Someone, somewhere has decided that the entire population needs to know about erectile dysfunction. How does the person who writes these commercials come up with them? What is the thought process when writing about erectile dysfunction? And the big question is how do you tell your Mom that you wrote that commercial? The bigger question is why exactly do I need to know about this condition and the medicines that are used to treat it?
I would imagine that if I had erectile dysfunction my doctor would already know what medicines are available to treat it. If I hadn’t gone to the doctor about my erectile dysfunction knowing the name of the medicine that can treat it would be useless.
According to the commercial, it is imperative that I know that there are two types of medicines that are now available to treat this condition? One is for having sex immediately and one is a long-term slow acting in case you want to have sex within a thirty-six hour time frame. Oh good. I feel so empowered having this information.
My favorite part of the commercial is the part that tells us that if you have an erection lasting for more than four hours you should call a doctor. No kidding. If you need a doctor or a commercial to tell you that I would guess that erectile dysfunction is not your worst problem. The part about that statement is not even the statement itself; rather it is the visual that I just don’t need to have floating in my head. Have you ever seen anyone with a four-hour erection? Me either. Where are those men?
I also like the part where the man and the lady are sitting in these two separate old-fashioned bathtubs that are on the beach overlooking the ocean. I am not a doctor. I do not play one on television but I am a woman who can state categorically that if your spouse is spending long periods of time in a tub it will affect his erection. I have the urge to scream at the television “Get out of the tub!!” Again, I am not a doctor but perhaps if they were in the same tub the condition would be helped. It may be kind of difficult to get an erection if your partner is in the next room and all you have to look at is an ocean, or maybe not. Sex may be difficult when in separate locations.
Perhaps the man hurt himself dragging the tubs to the beach. Maybe the dragging of the tubs or the lifting of the tubs has contributed to the erectile dysfunction. At the end of the commercial the narrator goes thru a very long list of possible side effects from using the medicine and under which conditions you should not take the medicine. Perhaps they should include the possibility that dragging large heavy tubs to a beach may cause e-d.
The next commercial for E-D comes on and this time the couple is at home. Again they are outside in their yard in separate tubs. I am prompted to ask how the tubs got from the beach to their yard. I may have tub issues because I keep focusing on the problems that could be created by the damn tubs. Do these people perhaps own a tub company? I have been to many beaches and have never seen a set of matching tubs overlooking any of them. There is no one I know that has a set of matching tubs in their back yard. I know a few folks that have hot tubs in their yards but no one with the matching tubs. Clearly, I am hanging around with the wrong people. If they indeed own the tub company that would explain why separate tubs keeping popping up at the places they frequent. If they do indeed own the tub company then shouldn’t they know that being in separate locations really isn’t good for erection problems? Maybe not. Maybe the folks that are hawking medicine for erectile dysfunction should rethink the whole tubs in the commercial thing. Maybe they should just have an actual sit down and talk for thirty seconds about erectile dysfunction and their medicine because every time I see this commercial I start to laugh. I just can’t get passed the tubs. Or the four hour erection.
I would imagine that if I had erectile dysfunction my doctor would already know what medicines are available to treat it. If I hadn’t gone to the doctor about my erectile dysfunction knowing the name of the medicine that can treat it would be useless.
According to the commercial, it is imperative that I know that there are two types of medicines that are now available to treat this condition? One is for having sex immediately and one is a long-term slow acting in case you want to have sex within a thirty-six hour time frame. Oh good. I feel so empowered having this information.
My favorite part of the commercial is the part that tells us that if you have an erection lasting for more than four hours you should call a doctor. No kidding. If you need a doctor or a commercial to tell you that I would guess that erectile dysfunction is not your worst problem. The part about that statement is not even the statement itself; rather it is the visual that I just don’t need to have floating in my head. Have you ever seen anyone with a four-hour erection? Me either. Where are those men?
I also like the part where the man and the lady are sitting in these two separate old-fashioned bathtubs that are on the beach overlooking the ocean. I am not a doctor. I do not play one on television but I am a woman who can state categorically that if your spouse is spending long periods of time in a tub it will affect his erection. I have the urge to scream at the television “Get out of the tub!!” Again, I am not a doctor but perhaps if they were in the same tub the condition would be helped. It may be kind of difficult to get an erection if your partner is in the next room and all you have to look at is an ocean, or maybe not. Sex may be difficult when in separate locations.
Perhaps the man hurt himself dragging the tubs to the beach. Maybe the dragging of the tubs or the lifting of the tubs has contributed to the erectile dysfunction. At the end of the commercial the narrator goes thru a very long list of possible side effects from using the medicine and under which conditions you should not take the medicine. Perhaps they should include the possibility that dragging large heavy tubs to a beach may cause e-d.
The next commercial for E-D comes on and this time the couple is at home. Again they are outside in their yard in separate tubs. I am prompted to ask how the tubs got from the beach to their yard. I may have tub issues because I keep focusing on the problems that could be created by the damn tubs. Do these people perhaps own a tub company? I have been to many beaches and have never seen a set of matching tubs overlooking any of them. There is no one I know that has a set of matching tubs in their back yard. I know a few folks that have hot tubs in their yards but no one with the matching tubs. Clearly, I am hanging around with the wrong people. If they indeed own the tub company that would explain why separate tubs keeping popping up at the places they frequent. If they do indeed own the tub company then shouldn’t they know that being in separate locations really isn’t good for erection problems? Maybe not. Maybe the folks that are hawking medicine for erectile dysfunction should rethink the whole tubs in the commercial thing. Maybe they should just have an actual sit down and talk for thirty seconds about erectile dysfunction and their medicine because every time I see this commercial I start to laugh. I just can’t get passed the tubs. Or the four hour erection.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
I Win
Today was not a particularly good day. We all have crappy days. Sis and I have a little game called I WIN. It’s the dark cloud that follows each of us at some point in time. Who had the worst day? You win! My boss was not happy with my work and held nothing back in letting me know. I win! You get the idea. I got home looking forward to spending the night quietly. I was walking in the house with my lunch box and a car pulled up. I live at the end of a dead end street and cars frequently use the street as a turn around.
I mentioned to hubby that there was a car out front. He is the official car checker person in our household. He accepts this responsibility and does it with enthusiasm. He looks out and sees the car, stopped next to our van. The person is out of the car. He watches to see exactly what they are doing. Hubby is beside himself. They appear to be pooping. He starts yelling that there is a guy pooping on our lot. A few seconds pass and he is still yelling about how much nerve it takes to poop in someone’s yard before he runs out of the front door and yells at the pooper telling them to stop pooping in our yard. Then he realizes that the pooper is a lady. She is wearing pink bedroom slippers. And holding a napkin or toilet paper so that she can wipe herself. I’m not feeling gratitude that she brought proper paper. She is pooping on my lawn. She starts yelling back at him to call the police. She must have been a little nervous. Here she is trying to poop in peace and there comes an irate guy yelling at her. He tells her that he did call the police. Then she starts yelling at him that she isn’t pooping. She’s peeing. Whatever she does she is showing her private parts. Parts that quite frankly don’t need to be in my front yard. She’s yelling back at him that she’s peeing. This was her badge of honor. Hubby is yelling back that she is peeing on our land. Now I understand that this is not the Ponderosa but I am in shock. This woman is peeing on my yard and yelling at hubby. She was miffed.
When did it become okay to pee on someone else’s yard? I missed the announcement. Hey, I went to charm school and I am quite sure that peeing in someone else’s yard was not in approval column. She knew we were home. I looked straight at her while walking up the ramp leading into my house. In order to get to my house she had to pull off a major highway, go a few blocks and turn again down my street. This is not a home you stumble upon. I understand having to pee urgently. We have all had that urge. Some of us have even peed in places that were not completely appropriate. I myself have peed in a men’s room or two. The ladies rooms were full and the men’s rooms were not. I always announced myself and had a lookout posted at the door to warn any unsuspecting guy who might have to go. Most guys are very understanding having girlfriends or wives who have been in my predicament. Concert halls are famous for having a lack of facilities for women. I have never peed on someone’s lawn, someone’s property, or next to their house. I prefer bathrooms. It’s sort of a rule that I have. The pooper/peeer finished her business while hubby was yelling at her to take her parts and go home and pee in front of her own house if she had such a thirst for the outdoors experience. This was a picture in itself. He is yelling at her and she is yelling back while bearing herself in pink bedroom slippers and wiping herself. She brought her own paper. Why didn’t she put that much thought into finding a bathroom that was not in the great outdoors. Hubby finally came back in the house when she got in her car. She pulled backwards, turned her wheel and starting blowing her horn which she did for several minutes in front of my house. She was highly annoyed.
I wondered if the lawn lady would return at night. If she was that miffed she knows were I live. Maybe she has a hubby who also enjoys the outdoor experience. Maybe there are children as well. This whole family could come and just pee intermittently on my yard. What if their real thrill is the after dark outdoor experience. I decided that the whole experience was overwhelming so I went to bed. Done. Go into denial. It’s amazing how television numbs the mind when you need it to. I got up this morning and went to get the paper, and there was a large wet spot on the porch. I looked at my son and he at me. I have seen that same spot every morning that there is dew for 20 years but today was a day of possibilities. I win!
I mentioned to hubby that there was a car out front. He is the official car checker person in our household. He accepts this responsibility and does it with enthusiasm. He looks out and sees the car, stopped next to our van. The person is out of the car. He watches to see exactly what they are doing. Hubby is beside himself. They appear to be pooping. He starts yelling that there is a guy pooping on our lot. A few seconds pass and he is still yelling about how much nerve it takes to poop in someone’s yard before he runs out of the front door and yells at the pooper telling them to stop pooping in our yard. Then he realizes that the pooper is a lady. She is wearing pink bedroom slippers. And holding a napkin or toilet paper so that she can wipe herself. I’m not feeling gratitude that she brought proper paper. She is pooping on my lawn. She starts yelling back at him to call the police. She must have been a little nervous. Here she is trying to poop in peace and there comes an irate guy yelling at her. He tells her that he did call the police. Then she starts yelling at him that she isn’t pooping. She’s peeing. Whatever she does she is showing her private parts. Parts that quite frankly don’t need to be in my front yard. She’s yelling back at him that she’s peeing. This was her badge of honor. Hubby is yelling back that she is peeing on our land. Now I understand that this is not the Ponderosa but I am in shock. This woman is peeing on my yard and yelling at hubby. She was miffed.
When did it become okay to pee on someone else’s yard? I missed the announcement. Hey, I went to charm school and I am quite sure that peeing in someone else’s yard was not in approval column. She knew we were home. I looked straight at her while walking up the ramp leading into my house. In order to get to my house she had to pull off a major highway, go a few blocks and turn again down my street. This is not a home you stumble upon. I understand having to pee urgently. We have all had that urge. Some of us have even peed in places that were not completely appropriate. I myself have peed in a men’s room or two. The ladies rooms were full and the men’s rooms were not. I always announced myself and had a lookout posted at the door to warn any unsuspecting guy who might have to go. Most guys are very understanding having girlfriends or wives who have been in my predicament. Concert halls are famous for having a lack of facilities for women. I have never peed on someone’s lawn, someone’s property, or next to their house. I prefer bathrooms. It’s sort of a rule that I have. The pooper/peeer finished her business while hubby was yelling at her to take her parts and go home and pee in front of her own house if she had such a thirst for the outdoors experience. This was a picture in itself. He is yelling at her and she is yelling back while bearing herself in pink bedroom slippers and wiping herself. She brought her own paper. Why didn’t she put that much thought into finding a bathroom that was not in the great outdoors. Hubby finally came back in the house when she got in her car. She pulled backwards, turned her wheel and starting blowing her horn which she did for several minutes in front of my house. She was highly annoyed.
I wondered if the lawn lady would return at night. If she was that miffed she knows were I live. Maybe she has a hubby who also enjoys the outdoor experience. Maybe there are children as well. This whole family could come and just pee intermittently on my yard. What if their real thrill is the after dark outdoor experience. I decided that the whole experience was overwhelming so I went to bed. Done. Go into denial. It’s amazing how television numbs the mind when you need it to. I got up this morning and went to get the paper, and there was a large wet spot on the porch. I looked at my son and he at me. I have seen that same spot every morning that there is dew for 20 years but today was a day of possibilities. I win!
Toxic Bread
There are people in this world that like to bake bread. They are good and kind people. There are people in the world who get paid to bake bread. They are called bakers. Use these people wisely. I am not a baker. I like to go to a store, and buy my bread already made. They are so nice at the store, they even wrap the bread for me.
It is all Martha Stewart’s fault. I need to blame someone, so I might as well blame Martha. She started this whole movement. It has invaded my house. It has trampled on my domain. It started out with the best of intentions but then it went horribly wrong. Hubby thought he was doing something kind when he got me a bread making machine.
I put the bread maker, still in its’ box, underneath a chair in the kitchen. I dusted the box lovingly every day. A few days later I opened the box and took out the directions. They were written by people who know how to bake. I thought I should take my time and read them over and over again. I was trying to pace myself. I estimated that it would take me at least two weeks to really understand them. It took me three.
I knew the day would come when I would have to use the machine. I would have to make the attempt. There are only so many times a grown woman can dust a box off without feeling really guilty. Well, today the jig was up. Today was my day of reckoning.
I opened the box and removed the machine. Then I dusted off the machine. It was easier than the dusting off the box. I carefully followed the directions for cleaning it before using it. I measured out all of the ingredients and placed them in the machine, in the exact order specified in the recipe. The yeast is not allowed to touch the liquid ingredients or something horrible will happen. I don’t know what the horrible thing is, but I figure that the people that know how to bake know what the horrible thing is, and that is good enough for me.
Then comes the test. You are supposed to close the lid and plug it in. Then press the MENU and punch in all the right numbers telling the machine what size loaf to make, what kind of bread it is, and how long you want to bake it. Then you push start, it goes beep and starts.
My machine did not read the instructions. The second the plug hit the socket it started to beep. The little digital area was flashing. I couldn’t get it to stop. I pressed the stop button. I pushed the MENU button. I pushed every button. It wouldn’t stop beeping. It wouldn’t take my instructions and it was making a noise. It sounded like thumpwak, thumpwak, thumpwak. I don’t know much about mechanical things but I know it’s not supposed to sound like that. This machine has a mind of it’s own. In desperation, I finally grabbed a chair, and a flashlight. I stood over the machine with the mind of it’s own, pressing on the MENU button with the force of a weight lifter. It finally responded with the correct screen. Success at last! I punched in the selected items and the machine with a mind of it’s own started doing something that resembled what the instructions said it would do. I set it for an ultra fast cycle. In 58 minutes I would have fresh baked bread. Maybe I should not be mad at Martha.
About half way through the baking process a smell started wafting through the house. It was not the smell of bread baking. It was the smell of burning rubber. The children kept popping into the house. One whiff of the burning rubber brought “What’s that SMELL?” and grasping their noses as they ran back outside.
The buzzer went off exactly 58 minutes later. I lifted the lid and stared into my bread machine. The pan that holds the freshly baked bread was half empty. It was supposed to hold a pound and a half loaf of freshly baked bread. I lifted it gingerly out of the machine hoping against all odds that the rest of my one and a half pound loaf was hanging out the other end of the pan. It wasn’t. I am the proud baker of a 3 inch cube of bread. The bread is still sitting on the counter. I am not sure what I am supposed to do with a 3 inch cube of bread. I’m afraid to let the children eat it. There is obviously something genetically wrong with my bread cube. This 3 inch cube has enough yeast and ingredients for a pound and a half loaf. It is one large chemical imbalance. I have visions of trying to explain to the doctor in the emergency room why I let my children eat a super concentrated, chemically imbalanced, 3 inch cube of bread, as the child protection people come and haul me away.
The machine with a mind of it’s own is back in it’s box. Out of respect to Martha, I have given the box a new place. It is not under the chair. The box is now covered with cute shelf paper. It is my own personal step stool. This is the true calling of the machine with a mind of it’s own. It looks cute, helps me when I need it and no longer beckons me to bake toxic 3inch cubes of bread. I sent a letter of thanks to my bakery.
It is all Martha Stewart’s fault. I need to blame someone, so I might as well blame Martha. She started this whole movement. It has invaded my house. It has trampled on my domain. It started out with the best of intentions but then it went horribly wrong. Hubby thought he was doing something kind when he got me a bread making machine.
I put the bread maker, still in its’ box, underneath a chair in the kitchen. I dusted the box lovingly every day. A few days later I opened the box and took out the directions. They were written by people who know how to bake. I thought I should take my time and read them over and over again. I was trying to pace myself. I estimated that it would take me at least two weeks to really understand them. It took me three.
I knew the day would come when I would have to use the machine. I would have to make the attempt. There are only so many times a grown woman can dust a box off without feeling really guilty. Well, today the jig was up. Today was my day of reckoning.
I opened the box and removed the machine. Then I dusted off the machine. It was easier than the dusting off the box. I carefully followed the directions for cleaning it before using it. I measured out all of the ingredients and placed them in the machine, in the exact order specified in the recipe. The yeast is not allowed to touch the liquid ingredients or something horrible will happen. I don’t know what the horrible thing is, but I figure that the people that know how to bake know what the horrible thing is, and that is good enough for me.
Then comes the test. You are supposed to close the lid and plug it in. Then press the MENU and punch in all the right numbers telling the machine what size loaf to make, what kind of bread it is, and how long you want to bake it. Then you push start, it goes beep and starts.
My machine did not read the instructions. The second the plug hit the socket it started to beep. The little digital area was flashing. I couldn’t get it to stop. I pressed the stop button. I pushed the MENU button. I pushed every button. It wouldn’t stop beeping. It wouldn’t take my instructions and it was making a noise. It sounded like thumpwak, thumpwak, thumpwak. I don’t know much about mechanical things but I know it’s not supposed to sound like that. This machine has a mind of it’s own. In desperation, I finally grabbed a chair, and a flashlight. I stood over the machine with the mind of it’s own, pressing on the MENU button with the force of a weight lifter. It finally responded with the correct screen. Success at last! I punched in the selected items and the machine with a mind of it’s own started doing something that resembled what the instructions said it would do. I set it for an ultra fast cycle. In 58 minutes I would have fresh baked bread. Maybe I should not be mad at Martha.
About half way through the baking process a smell started wafting through the house. It was not the smell of bread baking. It was the smell of burning rubber. The children kept popping into the house. One whiff of the burning rubber brought “What’s that SMELL?” and grasping their noses as they ran back outside.
The buzzer went off exactly 58 minutes later. I lifted the lid and stared into my bread machine. The pan that holds the freshly baked bread was half empty. It was supposed to hold a pound and a half loaf of freshly baked bread. I lifted it gingerly out of the machine hoping against all odds that the rest of my one and a half pound loaf was hanging out the other end of the pan. It wasn’t. I am the proud baker of a 3 inch cube of bread. The bread is still sitting on the counter. I am not sure what I am supposed to do with a 3 inch cube of bread. I’m afraid to let the children eat it. There is obviously something genetically wrong with my bread cube. This 3 inch cube has enough yeast and ingredients for a pound and a half loaf. It is one large chemical imbalance. I have visions of trying to explain to the doctor in the emergency room why I let my children eat a super concentrated, chemically imbalanced, 3 inch cube of bread, as the child protection people come and haul me away.
The machine with a mind of it’s own is back in it’s box. Out of respect to Martha, I have given the box a new place. It is not under the chair. The box is now covered with cute shelf paper. It is my own personal step stool. This is the true calling of the machine with a mind of it’s own. It looks cute, helps me when I need it and no longer beckons me to bake toxic 3inch cubes of bread. I sent a letter of thanks to my bakery.
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