A Woman In Her Fifties Gives Thanks....

Tonight I'm thankful to have had those years of active, hands on, raising the kids parenting. Even the years of active, hands on, raising the kids parenting of dozens of other people's kids. And more thankful to be beyond them.
More thankful yet for October's hysterectomy. Just in case God was thinking of exhibiting that sometimes odd humor and sending some late life baby our way. (I think our priest is still traumatized from our marriage prep when he happily announced there "is still time for the two of you to have babies" and I yelped out a very unladylike, un-Catholic response.)
After a day with the second grade, and grandson, on a field trip, I am all for the certainty that comes with a hysterectomy. Tired doesn't even begin to cover what we felt by the time we had tromped around the state museum, eaten with 100 kids at The Old Sphaghetti Factory (what daredevil thought THAT was a good idea??) and driven 2 1/2 hours home.
The relief at telling the class goodbye, kissing Josh on the forehead and getting into our quiet car was immense. Quiet. No little boys showing me how loud they can make phony fart noises, no little girls flirting with taunting little boys, no teachers holding up three fingers and wondering why 100 voices didn't cease. Or at least diminish.
I had seen those three fingers so much by the end of the day--and nothing happening as a result--that I wanted to bend two of them down and yell, "You're holding up the wrong friggin' finger, lady!"
With a couple of night's rest the reflection of the day sums up to a pretty good time. The museum is interesting, not too big, not too small. The kids tried every single thing in the place and surely learned something worthy along the way. Maybe even learned some not so worthy things but I'm confident I've bought silence with a few well placed Hershey bars.
The kids considered the day a success because they got out of school, rode a flat faced bus, visited Santa and forever traumatized unsuspecting restaurant patrons who were simply looking for a quiet meal.
Kevin considered the day a success because he got to spend it with Josh and shape some young minds a la that Norman Rockwell fuzzy mental picture he sometimes places over reality.
The real success was mine. I only made two kids cry in the course of the day and I made it back with no more, no less, than the 4 kids assigned directly to our care before we left the school this morning.

A Woman In Her Fifties Takes The Bus

Mr. L. and I scored 2 of 4 coveted spots as bus riding animal keepers chaperones for Joshua's field trip next week. Today his teacher (she of the former Colts Cheerleader fame) phoned his mom to offer us a get out of jail free pass chance to NOT ride the bus. "Some of the grandparents, if they're older, prefer not to ride the bus," says Ms. FCC. "Older?" Really? If she hadn't thrown in THAT word, I would have jumped at the chance to escape a captive bus ride with a hundred sticky, germy, excited-on-the-way-there,tired-and-grouchy-on-the-way-back second graders. The word was thrown down, however, so this woman in her fifties takes the bus. Just to prove she's as perky as any former NFL cheerleader.

Is there much use in hoping for a snow day as early as the 10th of December??

Gran-Natomy

Kevin set up 7 year old Joshua's computer today so we could talk via Skype. I objected strenuously to the idea of introducing another bit of technology into our days but was clearly outmanned by Josh, his mom and gramps.

So tonight we tried it out. Kevin sat on the sofa and I stood behind him while he adjusted lighting, camera and volume for our first ever live online visit with Joshua.

We could hear him perfectly. He could only hear choppy bits of our side of the conversation. Since we aren't nearly as entertaining or funny as we like to think, the seven year old clearly had the better side of things so far.

We couldn't see him at all. He, however, could see us quite clearly.

So clearly, in fact, that his mother felt compelled to offer this information:

"Just so you know, mom, what he can see is just the top of grandpa's head and a full on shot of grandma's boobs right through her pajama top."

I had been thinking we could work on his Spelling together online. Maybe do his Reading assignment. A little Math. Never, not once, did I plan to cover Anatomy.

I had a few suggestions for where grandpa might want to store the video camera now that it's been removed from the computer.

Hello, God? Can We Talk...

Yes, it's me again. Frequent caller, sparodic listener.

First I want to thank you for nearly a week and no call from the cancer center about Mr. L's recent blood work. No news is good news in our cancer experience. If you do manipulate (and you can tell I'm still conflicted on that whole possibility) those details, thank you.

Now, to get to the topic of the day, can we talk about spiders? I'm a bit arachnophobic. I'm not the scream high pitched squeals don't like spiders kind of girl. I'm the totally lose my voice, become immobilized and break out in a cold sweat don't like spiders kind of girl. Especially certain spiders in certain spaces.

You and I know the reason; no point in inviting anyone else into that nightmare, but I do wonder why you thought spiders were necessary? I mean, you gave snakes a feature role in Creation that explains their whole lack of popularity. But what were you thinking with the spiders? And why so many kinds, each more creepy than the last? And the hair. And all those legs. What, what, WHAT were you thinking?

Whatever your thoughts lo those many years ago when Creation came into being, could you cut me a little spiderless space right now? Like the other night, fresh out of the hospital, when I hobbled down the hallway, intent upon coaxing my objecting body into some basic bedtime hygiene, and--poof--there on the floor, right next to my foot was a spider. A spider who surely had a starring role in one of the Harry Potter movies. A big spider. A big hairy spider.

And I lost my voice, my painfully limited ability to move and my already dwindling calm attitude. Not cool. Not at all, at all. Pretty much all I had getting me through the moments last week was a strong vein of chutzpah and it flew out the door in the face of one hairy spider.

Then today when Mr. L. retrieved me from my bored housebound reality. Was the spider who suddenly materialized out of nowhere, clickety-clacked his spidery legs across the dashboard and disappeared into the vents just another freak of nature?

Or are you working overtime to answer Mr. L's prayers? He seems to think he could use a little heavenly help in dealing with what he considers to be an argumentive patient. Admittedly the first spider did distract me from my illicit intent to sneak a quick soak in a forbidden bubble bath while Mr. L. was napping. And after today's revelation, I won't be slipping out of the house with my camera for any forbidden driving until I see the lifeless remains of a certain truck dwelling arachnid. And we both know Mr. L. won't be producing that kill for at least another 2 weeks, per doctor's instructions.

Please, Lord, not to question your decisions, but please don't put any spiders in the M & Ms jar or on my comfortable chair in the backyard. Those small selfish comforts are really, well, comforting right now. Please don't take away my chutzpah and my chocolate all in the same week.

In case Mr. L's prayers have zeroed in on the weight of my sewing machine and box of favorite fabric, you can disband any potential army of spiders there. I'll wait until Mr. L. is here to lift it for me. I promise.

Take a spin with Liz at A Mom on Spin for your own conversation with God.

Dear So and So...

Dear Mr. Nurse in the surgical recovery area--What in my groggy demeanor gave you the impression I would be entertained by your nickname for the hospital's habit of scheduling most gynecology surgeries for the same day each week? "Bloody Crotch Day" you called it? Really? And here I thought it must be Give A Jerk A Job Day. Normally I would have seen a certain morbid logic in your humor that I might have found worth a chuckle. But timing is everything, sir, and a couple of hours after surgery isn't the time. I hope you get a chronic prostate infection, an impatient doctor with large fingers and a Groundhog Day like repetition of the same exam again and again.--Affectionately, Recovering Hysterectomy Patient

Dear Mrs. Nurse--Dr. Who said to do What to Whom? Not to me, he didn't. How do I know? Because my doctor is a she, not a he, because my doctor is a gynecologist, not a urologist, and because I am not the owner of the penis you were supposed to be threading a catheter into so that poor man could go home.--Sincerely, Now WIDE AWAKE AND ALERT Patient

Dear Hospital--Two words. Staff training. You need some serious help in a few areas. You are a lawsuit waiting to happen.--Non-litigious But Genuinely Concerned Patient/Consumer

Dear Husband--Happy Birthday. Next year. No recovering from anything for either of us on your birthday. Deal? I owe you a good dinner and more.--Love, Your Sleepy Slightly Drugged Up Wife

Drop in at Kat's place for your own Dear So and So...

Three Month News

Kevin's 3 month checkup day again. Oncologist thought things looked good, sounded like they should, felt like they ought to feel.

So now we wait for Kev's blood work to come back and hope those numbers don't show anything that would cause a call back to the clinic. The neuropathy in his hands and feet continues, always there, worse on some days, unpredictable as to what might trigger it. It's pretty clear by now that this will be a permanent side effect of the chemotherapy treatments, not a passing thing. One of those realities they definitely soft sell pre-treatment. Everything else looked/sounded/felt ok to the medical assistant, nurse practitioner, doctor, 4 year resident and lab tech who each got a turn at him. He also got a seasonal flu shot and scheduled a pneumonia shot for next week.

Under the heading of avoiding invasions of his personal space--always a good thing from Kev's view--he got a couple of bits of good news today. First, I talked with his surgeon's office in Indiana and Dr. Francis says if he's not having any additional/new symptoms of constriction in the bowel surgical area, he can push the next colonoscopy off until April. One year from the last one. Second, his oncologist says he doesn't have to have another PET/CT scan until the end of the year/beginning of next year. Kevin hates the PET/CT possibly more than the colonoscopy since it adds additional radiation exposure to his already over-exposed body so this was exceptionally good news.

Three more months ticked off the Cancer Come Back Meter. This is good news.

Have a Plan, Version .09 (aka Make a List)

Today is Clean the House Day. Why? Because it's on the list I made. The To Do Before Surgery List.

My essential rule. Have a Plan. Having a list is almost as good as having a plan.

I'm not sure why cleaning the house made the list. Probably because it was suggested on one of the several forums I visited while seeking information. For The Plan.

FYI, I've categorized the forums from Essential Information to Good to Know to HYSTERical Women Having Hysterectomies. I didn't last long at that one. And they haven't emailed me a reminder to drop back in.

Anyway, somewhere along the line, there was a suggestion of having things done pre-surgery so you won't have to worry about doing them later. What I realized today was that it's not likely I'm going to worry now or later about the house being clean. Or super clean anyway. Scratch that one from The List.

See? I'm already ahead of the game.

I did clean the bathroom--the bathtub being my comfort zone when I feel rotten and I want a really clean comfort zone in the coming days--and I made a mental list of things I will never purchase again. Bathroom things. Things Kevin delicately refers to as "girl stuff." No more.

With all the $$ I'm going to save on that "girl stuff" I can do some serious shopping. My doctor said it was important to walk after surgery. She probably meant at the outlet mall. Recouperative Shopping. Who could possibly argue with that plan?

Dear So and So---

Dear Grocery Patron--I am as uncomfortable with debit cards as you. But, for gosh sakes, if you're going to write a check in the grocery store line, you could fill out the store name and date sometime in those interminable hours minutes of waiting in the line. Something sooner than two minutes after your order has been scanned, price checked and bagged. Maybe master multi-tasking and learn to write and visit with the cashier at the same time. At least have located your checkbook and pen somewhere in your cavernous Vera Bradley tote. Aren't those things known for their incredible organizational pockets anyway? Use them.
And don't get me started on your sport of coupon diving in the depths of aforementioned Vera Bradley. I leave you with one word. Organize. ---Patiently Waiting Organized Person Behind You in Line

Dear Body--Yes, I know you are 50 now. But you seem to be forgetting who owns who. I am in charge and I would very much like you to remember it. Just give me a little break here and tow the line. I'm not kidding.---Thinking of Turning You in Under the Cash for Clunkers Program

Dear Grandson--While it is all about the fun and the learning and the teamwork and sportsmanship blah, blah, blah I expect you to kick some soccer butt this weekend at your tourney. Really. Granny is not sitting outside on a cold rainy day at 7:30 in the morning to see niceness. I want to see some serious soccer.---Love, Soccer G-Ma

Kat's got you covered for your own Dear So and So rambles...

A Woman in Her Fifties

Science be damned.

I've never understood the female practice of tottering around on sky high heels with pointy pinched toes. Or the lies we tell about how darn comfortable it is to walk around with your heel perched 4 inches above the ground while your 4 inch span of toes is compressed to 2 inches.

I spent 25 years working from my home. Working at home gives one a lot of dress code options. The freedom, for instance, to wear comfortable footwear. Since I hadn't gotten a job in the 18 months or so since moving here and the Drive-Thru Feed Barn doesn't have a dress code, my feet have lived in a seasonal rotation of croc sandals, sneakers and an occasional suede boot. No heels, nothing confining.

However, a princess does what she has to do when representing the royal throne in the public working world. Which means when a job possibility loomed, I dug out my funeral-holiday party-wedding heels from the depths of the closet.

They weren't too bad during the interview. I overlooked the fact that I probaly hadn't walked more than 50 yards and congratulated my feet on their adaptability.

Work Day One brought the realization that production layouts have to be logged out on a computer located in a far corner on the production floor then hand delivered to a desk at the opposite end of the building from my desk. Several times a day.

By Day Four the bulging blisters on the back of my foot had broken leaving a little more room for the growing callouses on my toes.

On Day Six I realized if there was a fire in the building I would probably fry as I scrounged under my deak to locate the shoes I had pried off swollen feet while working at my computer.

Somewhere between the oozing blisters and the burning sensation running up the back of my calves, I had an ephipany; a moment of clarity in the making since I was 12 years old and nagged my mother into buying my first pair of heels.

A woman in her fifties doesn't wince when she steps out of the car and into the work day. She doesn't hope the sheer agony of standing for 20 minutes while the boss tells a funny story in the hall isn't showing in her face. She doesn't sit in her favorite chair until she's within seconds of peeing her pants because it hurts too much to walk 20 feet to the bathroom.

A woman in her fifties wears comfortable shoes.

Dear So and So...

Dear Bird Singing Outside my Window at 5:30 AM last Saturday--I get it. You're hungry. And I've been out of feed for two days. I know I've made the commitment to keep those feeders full and I'll go to the Drive Thru Feed Store today. But listen to me, you perky crimson moron, it was five-freakin'-thirty. On a Saturday. It was still dark outside, for gosh sakes! Darkness on a Saturday morning means it's officially still night and I am officially still sleeping. Keep it up and I'll take away the black oil sunflower seed you love and fill those feeders with nothing but cracked corn. Sincerely--Mrs. Audobon

***

Dear Tiny Town--If you're going to close the two main roads in town, one leading through town to the east, the other leading out of town to the west--at least post an alternative route. Don't assume that everyone in town knows to go up two blocks, turn at Esther Mae's house, go three blocks to where the old cemetary was and turn left to get back on the highway.
And why are there so many one way streets in a town this size? Everyone in the county could drop in at the same time and there wouldn't be enough people to cause a congestion.
That said, sometimes you are terribly quaint and old-timey. Loved the tractor parade to kick off the Corn Festival. It was worth being trapped in town for an hour.
---A New(ish) Neighbor
***
Dear Person Who Drives 30 MPH for 17 miles each day at 4:30 in the afternoon. On the two lane state highway with a speed limit of 55---I know there are some tight curves on this road. And a few hills and very little shoulder. But, really, 30 MPH? The entire way? In dry weather on sunny days? I know the hulking power under the hood of the Kia may be intimidating but could you at least pull over every now and then to clear up the snaking line of traffic behind you?
Impatiently--The Leader of the Parade of Drivers in Your Rearview Mirror.
***
Dear Commuter Karma---What is it with you that has me stuck behind Super-Cautious-Driver for 17 miles and the only times oncoming traffic allows for passing SCD we are traveling in those tight curve no passing or blind hill zones? Why don't you give me a break and go kick around the civil engineer who planned that road?
--Commuter In Search of the Tao of Driving
***
Dear Civil Engineer--Listen, I keep looking at the rocks, trees, flowers, fences--anything--in the vicinity of those tight back to back curves along my commuter route and I don't see a single thing that indicates they couldn't have been plowed under in favor of a straight roadway. Nada. No burrowing owls, no rare field mice, not a single swamp rose or rare prairie grass. This isn't scenic, you goofball, it's annoyingly slow in good weather and outright dangerous in bad. And I figure all those twists and turns increase my commute distance by a good 8 miles. I've put in an appeal to Commuter Karma to have you punished. Expect to spend your eternity riding in a silver blue Kia at 30 MPH with two old ladies on a road that stretches forever into the horizon.
Helpfully---Driver Who Aims for the Straight Road

Visit Kat for more Dear So and So inspiration

She's Turning 50...

...it's getting closer. My quest to somehow mark these final days of my forties continues. Well, not so much that I care about marking my forties; more about the fact that I'll be fifty. Soon.

It's been a few days since you've had the benefit of my forty-nine, pushing fifty, year old wisdom. Tonight, I bring you this little nugget:

Sometimes the most charitable thing you can say is "No."

That's a big revelation from the woman who's spent close to 50 years trying to please as many of the people as much of the time as she possibly could. And increasingly resenting the hell out of it.
Father Dan presented the idea one day at Mass. Since I rarely agree with anything Father Dan has to say, the idea stuck with me so I could pick it apart later and prove him wrong and I spent some serious time thinking about it.

Father George clinched the deal a few weeks later with this treasure. "Make your 'yes' mean 'yes' and your 'no' mean 'no.' Then shut up and eat your soup." And there I was with two indicators that it might be ok to say "no" sometimes. More than ok. It might be the more right, the more honest thing to do.

This was a concept I could really get behind.

I'll admit I was an extreme yesser. No connection was far enough flung for me to be able to say "I just can't get that done..." I mean, I always knew I could get it done, I didn't want to get it done. But I could. So therefore, I should. Right?

No. There. I just said it. Say it with me. "No."

Don't want to handsew tiny glass beads on the neighbor's cousin's ex-husband's sister's daughter's prom dress? You can say "no." In fact, it's probably better to say "no" than to mutter under your breath that drawing attention to that butt with thousands of glittering beads is a fashion faux paus.

Don't want to bake 20 dozen cookies for the club bake sale? You can say "no" knowing that your 'no' is much more charitable than your freudian slip of adding salt in place of half the sugar in those freakin' cookies you didn't want to bake in the first place resentful 'yes.'

In honor of my recently found no-ability and my upcoming birthday, I've ordered this shirt for myself. Since I'm still not too confident with my "NOs" I'm thinking of buying the shirts by the case and just handing them in appropriate moments.

"I need you to volunteer to design a 20 x 40 print to illustrate my new business concept and I don't really have any idea what it should be but I like the color red and I need it by tonight....ok, then I can give you until tomorrow morning...and I'll need a logo and some business cards while you're at it..."

"Here's your shirt....."

So, God? Can We Talk?

Still Me. In case you've accidentally stumbled back on this line. Because I'm pretty certain you took another call in the midst of last week's gender inequity rant inquiry.

Not to worry. I haven't lost my place. We were talking about my new friends The Hormones and the absolute lack of turning-fifty crap which did not befall Mr. L. when he hit that happy milestone. Tonight I'm still dwelling a bit on The Hormones. Trying to decide why they've dropped in now like some never seen before cousin showing up at the beach house and staying for the whole summer.

You know I've been seriously job shopping since late December. Eight months of limited possibilities and even more limited near misses. I spent a lot of that time trying to decide if maybe I've been wrong and you do actively manipulate the day to day details.

As in, maybe you've been trying to tell me that I had a job already. One where the pay was haphazard and the hours long but the benefits were pretty good and the working environment great. Mr. L. was happy and well cared for, the Misses Lorri and the GrandTwoSomes knew where to locate me at almost any given moment which is no small thing when there are crucial stories to be shared. Or babysitting to be done.

Why am I thinking these thoughts, you ask? (Which is, obviously, a rhetorical question since we both know you already know...) Well, having landed, lost and re-captured an interview late last month, I suddenly found myself with a job. Temporary at first but within the second day of work I had a permanent offer.

Here's the thing; that annoying little surgery scheduled for some 3 weeks from now. The one brought on my new BFFs, The Hormones, and their happy sidekicks The Creepily Multiplying Cells.

It's not likely that my job will be held for the 4 to 6 weeks my doctor says I need to be out. Not even the 3 weeks she says I can't drive. Business is business and this is the busy time for the promotions business.

So, what's the deal? Where do I lay the blame for a job given and taken away in nearly the same breath?

Sometimes crap happens?
I forgot to forward some email chain letter to 15 of my best friends?
That damn meatloaf again?
YOU???

Is this your work? A not-so-subtle smack of a reminder that I need to concentrate on doing what I was doing before I sent in that last resume? You know I don't believe you manipulate the details. I really don't. Not that you couldn't. I've just never thought that you do. Seems to conflict with that entire free will thing.

I'm not saying you don't have A Plan. I got to almost 50 without A Plan so, believe me, I understand the need.

But, really, whattheheck IS the plan? And how am I supposed to know if you don't become a bit more obvious? I need more than hints and clues, God. If you could maybe just drop a word document into my 'in' box or leave a printed version on the dining room table. I would offer to shred it after I read it, but, well, you know what went down between me and the shredder.

You could make it out of chocolate, though. It would be consumed. Possibly before it's read. The Hormones would make sure of it.

Yours in Confused Faith---Lorri

Connect with A Mom On Spin for your own heavenly call

The Throbbing Thrill of Fifty...

One week until fifty.

In a true tribute to the way I've lived the past 49 years and 51 weeks, I didn't get around to the insightful daily tributes to turning 50 that I had planned for this month. At least I had a plan. That's a big improvement over the previous 49 years and 49 weeks.

The full impact of 50 is still creeping up on me. Today I was blindsided with another reminder of ownership of a half-century old body. I was excited that Dan Brown's newest book is being released with a large print version.

Large print? When did that happen? My ninety-seven year old grandmother reads those beach trash novels. The ones where a buxom English peasant girl is being ravished by the wealthy land owner until the true heir to the kingdom--disguised as the owner of the local pub--swoops in to save her virtue. Or at least claim it for himself. They're always full of delicate references to the hero's throbbing manliness and the tingling thrill of the virginal heroine. My granny churns through those things. In small print. The ones where the words look like thousands of tiny little ants crowded onto the page.

I had to give up beach novels ten years ago. Couldn't see to read them. Not even with the bi-focals that landed on my face some five years ago. I used to love to crawl into a warm bed on a winter evening and read a good trashy novel until late at night.

Now I tuck myself in at 9 PM with the large print version of Reader's Digest. It's not just the large type that appeals to me. It's those short articles and stories. Falling asleep by 9:15 makes it tough to get through anything classic. Or hot and trashy.

Dear So and So...

Dear September 11, Nine Eleven, Nine One One--You are many things to me. The lovely autumn day our family and friends gathered at an outdoor chapel to watch my sister and new brother-in-law exchange their wedding vows. Exactly six years later we gathered in another location as our oldest daughter was married. That same September 11th was the last birthday a dear sister-in-law celebrated with us. Just as you were about to arrive again she lost a battle with cancer, leaving behind a grieving family including her 3 young children. We gathered that September 11th to begin saying goodbye. I thought we had seen the full course for one date. Intense joy and unbelieveable sadness.
And the next year you arrived again. You were a glorious fall morning. Crisp, not cold, not hot. Brilliant blue sky, white clouds. Full of promise. 9/11/01. Our daughter was pregnant with our first grandchild. I remember our son-in-law phoning from Michigan. He was in a meeting with no access to TV. Could I turn on the TV and tell him what had happened? The children in the daycare were playing around the room and the older kids migrated toward the TV once it was on. I had to turn it off. Both for the kids and for myself. We went outside to play. I remember sitting on the swing with a little one on my lap and one on each side as we watched the other children play. I heard the giggles, the little arguments. The pretending and the planning. And I could not stop thinking about the children in New York, Washington, other places, who had lost parents that day. Who had kissed their moms, their dads, goodbye that morning for the last time. Who had no one coming to pick them up from daycare.
You've changed us, September 11th. Again and again. Some of us have become tougher, harder, because of you. Some of us have become more vulnerable, softer around the edges, because of you. You've brought us together and torn us apart.
I'm sorry you are forever aligned with the sadness and tragic moments that have come to be you in our minds. Because today you dawned again. Crisp and bright and full of promise.
Thank you. May we all work to be the fulfillment of that promise.

Thanks to Kat for writing a poignant letter that helped me put my list of petty pickiness into perspective this day.

THE PRINCESS AND THE JOB

The saga of Princess Working Stiff last saw our heroine as she negotiated the wilds of a Wednesday after work crowd at the grocery story. In a not so princessessly way. Since then, she has:

• received an offer to make the temp job a full time permanent gig
• negotiated said offer into a permanent part-time, 20 to 24 hours a week gig
• agreed to work full time through the month of September to get the department caught up
• dropped into an exhausted stupor every night after preparing the evening repast for the prince
• realized that, overall, she really--truly--isn't a huge fan of people
• rediscovered the pleasures of driving the royal carriage. alone. with her favorite music

Never Trust a Vegetable

Yeah, it creeped me out too.

Some sort of nasty bell pepper dwelling caterpillar was my first guess when I found it inside the pepper-formerly-destined for Kevin's stir fry.

It's something inanimate growing in the pepper. Probably harmless, maybe a seed that's sprouted. But who knows? Maybe it's some "harmless" growth spurred by a chemically induced misfire in bell pepper DNA. Possibly it's the vegetable equivalent of my over-abundant estrogen fueled cell rampage.

Whatever it is, the last time I saw something that creepy looking growing in what otherwise appeared to be a healthy happy place was two years ago when a doctor showed me photos of the tumor he had just found during Kev's colonoscopy.

And that happy epidsode resulted in major surgery for Kevin followed by almost a year's worth of radiation and chemotherapy.

The Misses Lorri have always blamed my meat loaf for that entire incident. I've suspected all along that it was the vegetables. They look all healthy and good for you but you never know what secrets they're hiding.

This is why I've avoided vegetables as much as possible throughout my adult life. You can't trust 'em.

Barbie and Me, BFF

I recently learned that my former BFF is also celebrating a significant birthday this year.
Yep, Barbie turned fifty, hit the half century mark.

I haven't purchased many Barbies since before the Misses Lorri reached their pre-teen years.

The massive box of Barbie (and her clothes, shoes, accessories, vehicles and friends) enjoyed an occasional visit during the days of owning the daycare. But Barbie and I have gradually followed different trails in life.

There were some similarities in the early years. We each got married.

And lived a neat and tidy life in the suburbs with our own Prince Charming.

We raised our families.

And, in my case, several other people's families as well.

Somewhere along the line our paths went in different directions. Barbie became a teacher, an astronaut, CEO of her own company; all while maintaining her fashion icon status.

I stayed at home in my garden when I wasn't bailing out supervising the Misses Lorri through potential arrests, expulsions and general mayheimyouthful indiscretions. Once the Misses Lorri became too old for the legal system to give a rat's ass what I had to say had left the family nest, I began to think about what I might do now that I was grown up even though I didn't do much about doing it. Turns out only Barbie has an entire staff devoted to changing her wardrobe--and, thus, her life--with a few sketches on the art board. The rest of us have to actually DO something. And I found I was immensely qualified for nothing.

Eventually I wondered if this was the only job I might get.

I don't begrudge Barbie her success, her Princess crown or her to-die-for shoe wardrobe. Not even the magic that lets her change her accessories and instantly become a firefighter, a doctor or a top chef.

But that perpetually perky smile is un-natural. Freaky. And nothing's gone south on that body. Doesn't gravity exert any force in her eternally blue-skyed world? I've never seen her mainlining Midol or rushing to the bathroom after a good joke resulted in near social disaster.

We've spent the same 50 years here during which Barbie has become a Cougar while I've become another zoo creature entirely. Something from the Large African Mammals section.

What I'm looking for is a little equity in nature, the passage of time. Fifty years old and I'm supposed to believe she hasn't had a little work done? That she doesn't slink into the bathroom from a darkened bedroom and hope Ken doesn't see her before she gets the bags compressed, the furrows filled, the eyelashes faked and the hair fluffed for daytime viewing?

Happy Birthday, Barbie. I'm sure you'll understand if we don't get together for a drink and dinner. It could take you another 50 years to decide which of your 1,000,000 pairs of shoes to wear and I can't wait. Father Time has not been as generous to me as he has to you. Listen, call me if you ever have a hot flash, bloat up for half the month, realize your bras are older than your office mates or forget where you put the keys to the Malibu Beach wagon only to find them clinched in your fist. We'll talk. That's what best friends do.

So, God? Can We Talk?

Hey, there, God. It's me. Again.

I know I've probably been bothering you a lot lately--and it may be particularly annoying since You know I don't subscribe to the belief that you manipulate the details. However, I'm attempting to fine tune my faith here; get it right, so to speak, so bear with me. Please.

And, if You are handling the details I want to make certain I'm reading the signs right. Like the whole Job (I'm talking employment here, Lord, not Job in the Bible. Although I am aware of the irony in the comparison.) versus Princess thing. And the cookies. You were never completely clear about the last chocolate cupcake, you know, although I chose to take the discovery of additional cookies as a good omen, if not an outright signal to indulge.

All of that, though, is for another day. Today I'm wondering about gender. Yours in particular. I've always been taught that You are genderless. Which worked well for me since for much of my non-makeup wearing, no hair fo-fooing, sensible, non PMS-ing life I've leaned a bit away from the typical gender things myself. What I mean to say, is that I've never needed to see You as sitting on one side or the other.

But lately I've been presented with some evidence that leads me to believe You are firmly male. And possibly biased creation favorably in that direction.

The worst thing visited upon Mr. L when he turned 50 was the AARP card which arrived in the mail. His body wasn't preprogrammed to turn on him after half a century of mainly peaceful co-existence. (We won't include that nasty butt occupying cancer that showed up two years ago. He was well past 50 by then and Shakespeare's Witches the Misses Lorri have always attributed that whole thing to my meatloaf anyway.)

What I'm talking about here, God, are my new life companions The Hormones. As in the ones who have recently awakened in the dark shadow of a fiftieth birthday this month. The ones that make me spit fire and speak in tongues (not in a Godly way either) in almost the same minute that I've teared up during a rerun of Married With Children.

As the Great Creator I think you have a little liability here for those bitches. And their evil intentions. At the very least I expect a free pass in the confessional for certain hormone driven transgressions. An absolute lack of tolerance for *&^$## idiots people. Moods that can go, within about 20 seconds, from Perfectly Content to Wants to Dismantle a Cute Furry Woodland Creature. With no obvious provocation.

I'm hoping you'll cut me a little slack on those or at least understand when I reach around the confessional screen and girl slap Father a few times when he assigns a stupid penance like trying to see the good in everyone or being more patient in the grocery store line.

Yours in Faith---Lorri


So, God? Can we talk?

Architecturally Unsound

Having agreed to the hysterectomy my doctor has been lobbying for this past year, I was annoyed beyond belief to learn that step one was yet another exam. This time to determine just what type of hysterectomy is called for.

"What do you mean you need to have another look to decide what kind of surgery is best? You've been there, what, 14 times in the last twelve months and you've never once thought, 'You know, if I was remodeling this place, I would....'? Really?? When I get invited to lunch at a new place I'm looking at the house as I pull up front and thinking 'What this place needs is a porch. I would knock out that...' While I'm sipping my lemonade I'm comtemplating how I would get more light in the room by enlarging the window and adding some supporting columns. And I'm not an architect. You ARE a surgeon. And you've never once in fourteen visits put mental pen to paper to plan this particular remodel?"

"Hey. I was busy trying to keep the place from falling down completely until you decided to let me take a serious shot at salvage. Think construction project instead of remodel."

Dear So and So---

Dear Person Who Decides What's On Sale--I know you follow me through the store--any store--to see what I have purchased this week just so you can put it on sale next week at deep, deep discount. And add that little **no price adjustments** disclaimer. It's so obvious. ---Observant Consumer
***
Dear Practically One of My Kids Mother of Miss Haylee--Sugar Free mints? Sugar free? Whose idea was this? Were you trying to kill me? I think I've explained there really are no substitutes for sugar or caffeine. Did you think I wouldn't notice? Yes, I know the bag is empty. We live in desperate times. ---Love, Ms. Lorri
PS When you give an enormous bag of M & Ms along with a bag of mints, Kevin can sometimes be confused and think the M & Ms are for him. In the future please make it crystal clear that the M & Ms are mine too. There appears to have been some confusion on this point and a hairy hand buried deep in the M&Ms may have been slapped.
PPSS or however that works....thank you and your lovely family for always thinking of ways to make us smile.
***
Dear Client--Your invective filled email concerning the artwork for your parent's 60th anniversary gift has been appropriately filed. My suggestion that you forward a picture of someone else's parents--since you are so obviously unhappy with the appearance of your own--was sincere. I am an artist, not a magician. ---Sincerely, Princess Working Stiff
***
Dear Prince Charming--I am not well suited for anything other than self-employment. I'm sure you knew this when I insisted it was time for me to have a grown-up job. If it helps at all, I'll put it in writing. You were right. I don't play well with others. Now dust off that white horse and rescue me from myself or resign yourself to mediocrity in the kitchen. And possibly the entire house. Don't make me explain. ---Love, The Girl Dead Tired Middle Aged Woman Standing Beside the Quickly Rotting Pumpkin Holding One Glass Slipper, a bag of cheetoes and a Wacom.

She's Turning 50...

...this month. Ten decades. Half a century.
I was going to post something about turning 50 each day this month. Something fitting, appropriate, for a woman firmly clinging to her forties turning fifty.
And then life intervened in that dark comic way it does, I found myself with a job and "HolyCrapI'mTurningFifty" took a backseat.
It's amazing how much less time there is for ruminating on the big moments in life when you're working through the minutes in each day.
In any case, I need to mark these final days in my forties. I considered running amok and blaming a mid-life crisis. I've noticed a person can get away with a lot of general dumbass-edness by invoking the midlife crisis clause.
But the truth is, I don't have the freakin' energy to run amok. Not enough to even jog amok.
I got a job, coincidentally--or not so coincidentally if you happen to be my friend Father John, who often reminds me "there are no coincidences in God's plan"--on the first day of my month of turning 50. The first job I've ever had where I'm not the owner of the business. Not even the a boss. Father John may be on to something. It's possible God thinks I need to learn that I'm not the boss. (I wish He was a little more clear on this one--I see a lot of situations that could use a good boss...)
So here I am with a significant birthday looming and a still-has-the-new-smell-on-it job and I'm still wondering 'what will I do when I grow up?' I haven't exactly had a firm goal in life. Even now I have trouble nailing the "what" part of what I would do with my life if I had a do-over granted.
Which isn't likely.
All of which leads to my almost fifty year old wisdom for today:
There won't be enough time to do all the things you think you would a) like to do. b) be good at doing. c) ought to do. So choose wisely.

Grocery Store Karma

In 8 months of getting a job being my job, I had forgotten that things like grocery shopping have to be done even though I am tired at the end of the work day. I pushed the August 31 expiration date on Sweeney's milk as far as I could this morning.

I also forgot that many other princesses are facing the same reality, making the grocery store something of a battlefield at 5:30 on a Wednesday evening.

It started in the parking lot when some fit young chick, with healthy knees, whipped her convertible into the parking place I had clearly marked as my own. Knowing full well that I'm not sure yet who is who from where in the new workplace, I refrained from flying the aged old gesture of contempt lest fit chick turn out to be the customer service rep in cubicle number one.

Then I had to stalk an old lady in the parking lot and offer to help with her bags in order to secure a cart.

Finally in the store, ready to shop, list in clenched fist, I hit the aisles with the efficiency of a drill sargeant. And the appetite of a starved recruit.

Note to self.....$167.20, that's why those who know tell us not to grocery shop when hungry.

The other princesses were shopping on the same budget plan--empty shelves greeted me when I went looking for the 10/$10 zippered baggies for my princess lunches. And the B1G1 smoked sausages were a waste without the 10/$10 buns. The place looked like a hoard of locusts had buzzed through in advance of a blizzard warning.

I managed to fill the cart anyway--Cheetos and string cheese are a perfectly acceptable lunch--and staggered toward the mile long check out lanes. Seven lanes open, six are on hiatus while Bagger Boy runs price checks. I contemplate my strategy. Go for the one moving lane or play the long shot that the short non-moving lane will kick into high gear as soon as Bagger Boy nabs a 128 ounce apple juice. As I mentally run the percentages I see fit chick cut off two old ladies and a pregnant mom in the 20 items and under lane. Still muzzled by her vague familiarity to CSR #1, I feel vindicated when I'm tapped on the shoulder by a cashier and told to move over to where she's opening a new lane.

YES! In a move more of vengeance than nice, I bring one of the old ladies and very preggy mom with me to the newly opened lane.

There's a pleasant glow of karma kicking ass as we walk past pushy fit chick impatiently smoothing cash which the under 20 items mechanical cashier repeatedly rejects.

The Princess Diaries continued...

Our princess was last seen joining the drone force as she headed off to punch a time clock, literally....for the first time in her life. Really, folks, a time clock. The princess is dismayed and wonders what happened to the concept of honesty. Really. A time clock!!

Coming home the first evening to no dinner was a total surprise. Princess Working Stiff was certain she had signed up for the meal plan. After all, hadn't Prince Charming nearly always returned to a full meal deal at the castle lo these many years?

As our princess peels potatoes, dices peppers and sautes onion, feeling a bit like Cinderella scrubbing the fireplace hearth while the stepsisters eat cake, she catches a whiff of something else in the air. Wait. Oh yeah, she recognizes that smell.

Enjoli.

I can bring home the bacon.
Fry it up in a pan.
blah blah blah

The princess wonders where she left her sequined gown and feathered boa.

Once Upon a Time, in a fractured reality, a princess answered an employment ad....

First she had an interview. Then the position was put on hold, interview off. After a couple of days to adjust to the disappointment, the job reopened as a temporary spot. Two days later the princess was asked to come out to see the place and talk.

...And suddenly the end of the day was here and the princess realized she had a job. A REAL job, albeit temporary, working for a company, punching a time clock and paying taxes to The Man.

The Princess wasn't entirely sure what what she thought about this new job thing but she thought it could be very interesting and a good change of pace. And it's good to change the pace every decade or so now and then, right?

So tomorrow morning the princess will hang her crown near the door as she carries her lunch, her Wacom and her newly signed time card off to The Art Department of Family Owned Company. The on, off, on nature of getting there has left the princess a little leery about the benefit of this opportunity but, always game for an adventure, she's planning to play on the team.

Princess Working Stiff heads to bed early and sighs thinking that life was easier when all a girl had to do was kiss the right frog and she could be set for life.

Dear So and So---

Dear Whoever Wrote the Copy for the Employment Ad: "Immediate" is not spelled "i-m-m-i-d-i-e-n-t." I thought it was a funny mistake the first day it hit the paper in those BIG letters with the bolded font. For a job in graphics design. After seeing it run for 5 days I realize not only are spelling skills lacking, computer aided spell check is apparently on the fritz.
***
Dear Potential Employer: Not only will I be an asset to your layout and design department, I can spell "immediate" and many other big words. And I AM available for immediate work.
***
Dear Shredder Manufacturer--In my humble opinion, you may have misrepresented the ease with which your product is emptied. I questioned the design in my mind but your ad copy promising the amazing identity theft proof capabilities of your cutting pattern was enough to sway my doubts. On review, I have decided that no one wants to assume the identity of an almost 50 year old, unemployed woman with a rebellious estrogen overload anyway. I am returning your product. By the way, my AARP card which arrived in the mail this week is jammed sideways in the mechanism along with my birth certificate and a bottle of Midol which my arthritic hands could not open.
***
Dear Grocery Store Coupon Generator. What was in my cart that prompted you to spit out two coupons for future purchase of laxatives? Was it those crappy fiber bars that Sweeney eats? The raisin bran? The probioticfiberenhancedantioxidantbalanced yogurt drinks? You never spew forth with multiple coupons for Hershey or Mars products. Did you think I hadn't noticed??

Blog Posts Past

I must be sinking into hormonal morbidity. I tear up over everything. Today it was watching the fawns by the woods. Thinking that I had seen this little family come full circle since I moved here. Their moms are the fawns I watched grow through last summer.

Not content to beat myself up with the present, my trip down memory lane took me trolling through August blog posts past.

8/2007. Kevin is newly diagnosed with cancer. The blog becomes an easy way for family and friends to stay informed of his progress. And it gives me a place to rant and rave and be thankful all at once. And probably keeps me from squeezing the life out of a few Dead Doggers.

8/2008. Kevin is immediately post-chemotherapy. We ride our bikes again. He can sit down in the evening and stay awake for 30 minutes instead of 3. Ice cream returns to his menu while he figures out how to live with what we'll find out are permanent side effects. I'm measuring how to put a life back together post-cancer caregiver.

Long, drawn out days to 8/2009 Fast forward to 8/2009. We've settled into what Kevin calls "our new normal." He's still working through the change of side effects. He appreciates little things he was so surprised cancer disrupted. Being able to have ice in his drink. Smells that smell right. Taking a weekend nap instead of a daily nap. I've realized you can't reassemble the same life post-cancer because some of the pieces got misplaced in the process and some of them don't fit anymore. So you put together a new puzzle. Bring some of the good from those innocent, pre-cancer,days. And some of the bad too, just so you don't ever get complacent again. Wiggle around the new pieces, flex the old ones until you find the fit. Figure out what I want to do now that I'm all grown up....

My Karma got Hit by a Truck...

eff Karma, Fate, Nature, People, the Economy, Inter-Planetary Alignment. Whatever it is that makes things turn out the way things turn out. And toys with me in the process.

It has to be some sort of karmic kick in the rear that I score a job interview for a graphics design/layout artist position and then lose the interview in almost the same breath.

I sent in a resume on Saturday. Yesterday I was offered an interview. For a job with "digital photography experience a plus." In a company which got rave reviews in my research. A job I can so do and do so well. A job that's not 60 miles away and that needs filled immediately.

Disappointment not being in short supply, today while I'm pondering the possibility that I may have oversold myelf on my resume letting the fates mess with my confidence, the phone rings. Interview canceled. Position put on hold.

Another job lost to the economy before I even have a chance to lose it on my own lack of merit. I would at least have liked the opportunity to show them how much talent, loyalty, creativity, energy, skill and general office bonhomie they couldn't afford. (and let them know how cheaply it can actually be had...)

Monday Musing...

***I've realized I can be creative or I can be neat and tidy. The two events will not occur simultaneously. A cataclysmic clash of worlds (and resulting tsunami wave of mess) occurs when I feel creative in multiple directions.

***The fabric/patterns/sewing stuff obliterating the dining table and the pile of tutorials/notes/doodles in front of my monitor are witness to the reality noted above.

***I would seriously consider donating a body part to the creator of the Wacom. Just to let him/her know how essential their product is in my day.

***There is something immensely satisfying about taking a yard of cloth or an empty frame on the computer and transforming it into something unique, amazing, beautiful.

***Sometimes you do hit a home run. As in scoring a most excellent job interview for a most excellent position as a graphics artist with some digital photography work thrown in for good measure. Yeah, that would be me. Now to round the bases without tripping....

Wise Eyes

Second Grade.

You know your grandson is still a wonderfully young boy when his second grade teacher is a former Indianapolis Colts cheerleader and you realize he would be much more impressed if she was a former Indianapolis Colts player!

Dear Joshua, I love how you see the world at seven years old. There is so much wisdom in the depths of those baby blues! And sometimes a not small dash of quirky innocence too. Don't let go of the innocent part too quick, kid.

Love--G-ma

ps--I can make a good guess that there will be a lot more daddies helping out in your classroom this year than in previous years. Isn't it nice that the dads want to take a turn as room parent and general all around helpers instead of always leaving those jobs for the moms?

Dear So and So---

Dear Sadistic SOB Who Designed the Roll Out Shelf on My Computer Desk--Yes, I know I considered it quite the selling point when I bought your product. However, after multiple occasions of forgetting to move my drink BEFORE sliding the shelf in, I have decided that either you secretly own the carpet cleaning company or I am simply too stupid to safely operate such elaborate mechanisms.

***

Dear Body--It's true, I've largely ignored the owner's manual. I keep you clean; I don't bother with polish though and I've never once had you detailed. I feed you low grade fuel from the soft drink and chip aisle and the only thing premium in your diet is that I don't buy off brand soda. I've skipped most of the routine maintenance milestones, avoided regular tune-ups and generally ignored any system warning lights. Still, I am dismayed by the mutiny in progress. Do forty-nine years mean absolutely nothing to you? Where's the loyalty? Let's get back on track here; don't make me sacrifice a few inner parts just to prove to you that I mean business.

***

Dear Backyard--Thank you for keeping me company this last week. I appreciate your quiet support more than you know. You are a peaceful place rather than a lonely place and I thank you for that peace.

***

Dear Husband--while I know you are exhausted from a long week of 20 hour work days while you've been traveling...and it's very endearing when you tell me you're counting the minutes until you are home with me, please be aware that I have been alone for some 7223 minutes of the 7260 you have been gone. This accounts for 2 minutes interaction with the grocery store cashier, 5 minutes with the 77 year old lady from two doors down and 30 minutes spent negotiating control of my uterus with my gynecologist. It's ugly here. Come home bearing gifts.

Garden Goddess

Main Entry: gardener
Pronunciation: \ ˈgär-də-niŋ r, ˈgärd-niŋ r \
1 one who makes into a garden
2 to ornament with gardens

It's official. I have regained my status as a gardener.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I introduce The Tomato. Lovely, you say? Yes, it is. And there have been 23, count 'em, 23 before this one. From a little 2 x 2 plot in our downsized reality.

I'm not just a gardener. I'm a niche gardening goddess.

Can't Buy Me Love...

...but $4.99 can buy me enough baked chicken for three meals and a cashier who calls me "Honey." I knew I had been home alone too long when I wanted to go back in the store for something, anything...just so I could hear an in-the-flesh person call me "Honey" again.

I considered slipping her a five spot and asking her to say my name out loud.

Kevin is out of town for another week of leadership training. Being on my own 24/7, no job to go to, in a town where I know almost no one, is making me crazy. I've gone through enjoying the silence to talking to myself to talking to the plants. To hearing them talk back.

(And don't remind me of those chaotic years of children living at home, & daycare kids all day when I used to wish for some extended time alone...As my mind rolls the tape of my mother saying... Be careful what you wish for....Be careful what you wish for...you might get it.)

Tanning Solutions

I have a polite middle aged woman's version of the classic farmer's tan. The mid-life woman's version stops just below her knees where her discrete capri pants cut off the sun and starts again on her upper arms just below where the hemmed edge of her cap sleeved t-shirts rest. In between, from shoulder to knee, is a blackout area that hasn't seen sunlight in 15 years.

I was noticing this while waiting in my doctor's office today. She was called away to deliver a baby. Again. What's with babies waiting to make their grand appearance on my time? It must be some sort of gyno rhythm; I cover up with a sheet the size of a hand towel and somewhere nearby a laboring woman is suddenly at ten and ready to push.

It's getting to be common place. Me sitting in a less than private place with some very private places more exposed than I'd like for longer than I want while my doctor delivers a baby. I don't really mind waiting while babies get born; I mind waiting near naked while babies get born. It's a timing issue. Maybe we need to separate the specialty after a certain age. Those of us with no reproductive plans could opt for a GYN who doesn't have the OB attachment.

At the very least, since the blackout zone is on display, they could put in some tanning lights so I could even up my polite middle aged woman's tan.

Monday Musing

***My Response: Lovely. Here's a look at my office today.
...Mr. L.'s intial email: Take a look at our classroom. (panoramic video of typical gray classroom with no windows, multiple tables, overhead flourescent lighting)

***if the cat insists on staying around here, the least he can do is eat the bird in the woods. The one with the song that triggers the baying response from the dogs across the creek. Or he can skip the bird and just take out the dogs.

***if dark clouds really intend to throw down rain, they should give a girl more than a two minute warning. Some thunder or something. So she can pack up her office with a little care.

***in an absolute pinch a girl can balance a laptop, two cameras, one external hardrive, a cell phone, a cordless phone, a Wacom and her notebook while opening the backdoor and blocking the entrance of the cat who doesn't live here. A girl can be pretty certain the power supply to the computer will dry out with time.

***although logic demands that the Pepcid AC, consumed to quell the painful gut gnawing caused by having Pepsi for supper, should not be rinsed down with more Pepsi, sometimes life thumbs its nose at logic.

Dear So and So...

Dear Person Who So Miserably Failed to Understand the Concept of Leadership--"Sam, there are three people on this staff that I always stuck up for--Steve, Sue and Sally" was really no way to say goodbye to the fourth member of the staff . Bad mouthing TPTB, those who hold your paycheck--and now your severance--in the pages of their account books, is also bad karma. By the way, the moment you demand respect--and fail to exhibit it toward others, above and below your position--you have disqualified yourself from deserving it. You might find some insight in this that reveals why you were let go yesterday. And, just so you know, Gumby is not saying you are #1 as he waves goodbye. Not at all, at all.

*****

Dear Sam--Did you wake up this morning with a job to go to? And who didn't? I think that about covers it. But if you want to send your Gumby to my house, I'll fix him up with a special wave too.

*****

Dear Catless Person--I don't really care if it was the economy or a hard heart that caused you to throw her away in the woods out back. She's hungry and lost and looking in my window for her family. You suck.
*****
Dear Husband--Storing the hideous apple streusel fiber bars in the box labeled "Oats and Chocolate" fiber bars is just mean. Isn't it punishment enough that there are fiber bars in my pantry instead of Hershey bars? I should have listened when my nose tried to warn me as I opened it. Instead I had to spit saliva sticky apple streusel fiber bar into my hand. And rinse my mouth out with alcohol. I suggest you check your shoes.

Step One--Admit You I Have a Problem

I need a Twelve-step program. In fact, I think that's one of the steps.

The only program I'm admitting to vaguely wondering about is one for out of control mint consumers. LifeSavers Wint-O-Green mints to be precise. And you have to be precise because the others just won't cut it. Do you understand that? Don't hand me some cheap imitation or a nasty peppermint or crappy tictac. LifeSavers Wint-O-Green.

I've known I have a problem. After 15 or so, my tongue feels funny and my gut hurts, a burning pain that requires Pepcid AC to relieve.

Kevin keeps them stashed in his brief case and underwear drawer for those truly ugly moments. This time I instructed him not to enable me. No replenishing the hidden mother lode once I discovered and mined it. No emergency stash. Tough love.

I ran out in all the obvious places early last week. And the less obvious by that Tuesday morning. Perfect timing. I was on a nothing to eat order for 18 hours before surgery Wednesday and I would use that time to get through the first No Mints Hours. Made it to Thursday night before I started searching the house. By Sunday I had eliminated the stash in the console of our truck, searched the sock drawer and the toes of each sock in case my dear husband was getting wiley or actually thought I meant what I said about cutting off my supply.

This morning I found myself jonesing for mints in the seedy underside of the passenger seat of the Rendevous. I scored three, wrapped and pristine. I'll admit I would have eaten them if they were unwrapped and sticky with carpet fuzz.

If I wasn't kicking the habit I would be interested in the online site I found, totally by accident, today. http://us.myflavia.com/product/index.jsp?productId=3457750 Notice the box you can tick for auto delivery. No more slinking into CVS for a bag and stopping into the WalGreen's down the road for another. Not that I'm interested. Not at all.

Monday Muse...

***how does a toilet just magically break? Sprout a hole in the lower corner of the front of the tank? And how does a tenant manage to make that phone call to the landlord (or me, as the case may be) with any comfort level? "...just sat down and it broke..." I'm not saying it's not true, I'm saying it's uncomfortably weird. I've put it at the top of the list of phone calls I wouldn't want to make to my landlord.

***if I throw out the cooked bacon when I'm cleaning the refrigerator and then I regret it because I could go ahead and use it in the green beans I've decided to cook for dinner, is it bad form to retrieve it? If it landed in the grass out back, not in the dirt where the deer raid the feeder, and the crows haven't gotten to it yet and it's way too late in the morning for the raccoons to have given it a taste test? I mean, I boil the heck out of the pot of beans anyway....

***this email today, filed under the heading of Why does Mr. L. even bother trying to keep me in the real world loop...

My Response: Nothing on my end. I mean the usual everyday stuff like world peace negotiations, meeting with the UsedToBeBig Three in Detroit to pound out a plan where they learn to play nice with our money, teleconference in with world economic leaders to determine why, why, why M & Ms were $2.94 a pound yesterday at Menards. Other than that I'm clear. Oh, and do laundry. It's been awhile and I noticed you are wearing your swim trunks as underwear.

Mr. L's initial email:
Saturn goes in by 11am Tuesday to Monro
MIO Wed for a short meeting on Visual
Bob says change brakes at his shop is fine anytime.
What else is happening this week?

***if I ride my bike the half mile up to the local drive-thru liquor store (now there's a marketing plan that just begged for government intervention), can I buy one can of beer? To go? Should I bring my own plain brown paper bag like the cloth bags I take to Kroger or will one be provided? And will it be like stopping into the winery down the road for a bottle of wine--where they expect I might actually know something about wine? (I don't.) Will JR (and I can pretty much assure you his name tag will be spelled "JR," pronounced "Junior" And it will be his legal name and spelling.) at the drive-thru ask me what I want to serve with the beer? And will he even blink when I tell him I want to poke holes in it with a nail and stuff it up the rump of a chicken on the grill? I'm betting not.

GeekSpeak

Nickel-Metal Hydride.
My husband can actually use those words together in a sentence. I'm not sure what impresses me more--that he can formulate and explain a sentence around those words--and knows whattheheck he just said--or the fact that he can do all that and, still, he picked me.
Sometimes it's a bit much for me though. I just wanted to know if he could swap the fades-a-little-quicker-every-day cordless phone for the one already on the charger in his office. When I moved here we had three of those chargers; one for each phone in 3 different rooms, novel idea that that may be. Now there is one and it lives, or dies, in the Guest/Office/Exercise/AirDryingLaundryTooDelicateForTheDryer Room.
Anyway, I'm getting sidetracked here and your eyes are glazing over like mine do when Mr. L. talks about things like Nickel-Metal Hydride batteries. Especially when all I usually want to know is 'can you make it work and does it come in any other colors?'

This Is My Brain...

...and this is how it feels for a few days after the hospital.

And why I object so loudly to the whole repeated production of D & C w/hysteroscopy. Everything pertinent to the actual surgery/biopsy routine is feeling pretty good. I'm not interested in any mountain biking but overall I'm good to go. It's the general anesthesia induced cobwebs in the brain that bug me for days.

We gotta stop doing these or I gotta find a doctor who's sympatico with my bite on a strap it'll be over in a few minutes approach.

Good Morning, Mammogram!

My breasts and I headed to the hospital at 7:20 this morning. (Via car, no biking today. The scarecrow guy is still riding by a couple of times a day looking for corn after last week's caper. And Kevin says I can't have a pet.) Why did I schedule this thing for this early? This week?

If you haven't had a mammogram, discard all the pain filled stories you've heard. And certainly schedule one if you're in my age range. (You know, that certain age.) The mammogram itself isn't bad. (Thanks, honey, for doing your part in getting these things used to being handled.) It's the lead up and wait that gets to me. The perky technician--who won't be old enough for her own mammogram for another 18 years--tells me to take off everything from the waist up and put on a "gown" that opens in the front. Dusty rose. It's not even a gown, more of a cape; shorter than the ones you get at a good hair salon and with one flimsy ribbon to tie. Center front.

Someone obviously needs to rethink what and where we're trying to cover here.

Miss Pre-Mammogram collects me and goes over a few questions and instructions. Ol' Dusty Rose is kind of cool here; I mean, once the breast feeding years are over how many times in life does a civilized woman get to rakishly toss her cape off one shoulder and reveal a bare breast? (note to my daughters...I do not want a detailed list of venues and dates where you may have executed this very move...)

We go through the contortions of breast placement on shelves which surely have been stored in the freezer, the infamous compression, "hold your breath," snap a picture and release. Reposition in another come hither pose. "Right arm here, down more, push in closer, stretch up on your toes..." More awkward than agony. Miss P-M--who is a very competent technician even though my favorite bra is older than she is--leads me back to the waiting room and instructs me to wait, in my dusty rose glory, while they take a look at the films.

This is where the territory gets rough. Like the bathroom line in McDonald's, women like to make small talk in these places. I apparently missed that female trait and prefer to wait in silent invisibility. No such luck today, my stealth mode isn't working. An identically dusty rose caped woman smiles. I am going to have to be pleasant, possibly friendly. Crap. I nod and try to decide if she's new to the arena or in the midst of waiting for her own clear to go signal. And I try not to make eye contact, the implicit symbol of accessibility. Doesn't matter, she mentions the weather. I smile. She asks a question. Great. Now I have to respond. Another encounter. So we chat. In our common half dressed mammogram splendor. She gets the all clear and continues to chat me up while she's in the changing room. Ack! This is too similar to the through-the-stall-door bathroom chatter that I'm so lousy at. If she flings open anything to show me the incredible storage capabilities, I am going to hurl.

Miss Pre-Mammogram comes back in. I can't catch a gynelogical break these days. They want "more films." Apparently the left side isn't as naturally photogenic as the right side. And Talky Talkerton has finished changing and continued chatting. A reality that continues as she walks with me across the hall to the refrigerated meat locker radiology room on her way out. Her "Good Luck" as I head back toward the atom smasher makes me pause. Good luck? Do I need good luck?

Two more shots of the reluctant leftie and I'm good to go. Presumably for another year but now there's that whole "good luck' question floating in the air. I am encountered out for this week. Where's freakin' George Clooney when a girl needs him?