Our Christmas was very good this year. We kept to simple things, tried really hard to NOT use the charge card for ANY purchases and just kept to the Spirit of Christ as best as we could.
The fellowship and fun of being with family where we shared a meal and the comfortable companionship of togetherness was enough for me.
We have talked about going to a cabin lodge or the beach for Christmas one year and just taking our collective holiday spirit with us on the road. It would be so much fun. We can play games, laugh, talk and reconnect.
Our lives seem to be so fragmented sometimes. Technology, for all its wonders, sometimes separates instead of drawing us close.
Rick and I have emailed each other while sitting in the same room. Stupid I know, but there you have it.
I'm thankful to know that a baby born in a manger was so much more than just a baby. I'm quite sure other babies were born that same night in Bethlehem. But they came for their own purpose and mission. That baby came to be the messiah. There wasn't an alternate plan nor a different Shepherd who calls our names to be gathered into His fold.
Though the world chaps at "religion" today, the feelings I have for the Savior and the blessings in my life go beyond "religion" and into what I hope and pray are living embodiments of how I have been taught and the lessons that have shaped my spirit.
Merry CHRISTmas and Happy New Year!!
December 28, 2011
December 23, 2011
Rejoice because thorns have roses
It's all in the way you choose to look at things.
I'm 49+ years old and had my first mammogram November 25, 2011.
I had my second mammogram a week later followed by an ultrasound.
Thanks to the "thorns" on the medical rose, I have been diagnosed and will have surgery January 6th, 2012 to remove what they have found.
Where does this all lead?
No clue, but I have already chosen what comes next.
I'm going to live.
A thorn in the flesh is just a minor consideration when you know the beauty and fragrance of the rose that accompanies the tiny prick in the flesh that the thorn may or may not give you.
But often, we spend our mortal lives living in fear of what might be instead of opening up the doors of our heart to receive what is already there on the doorstep that can be life-altering for good.
I love roses.
They have infinite beauty within each delicately scented petal. It's almost as if you can see the carefully left behind thumbprint of the Master upon each one as you look upon the wonder of the singular creation of each blossom.
God doesn't make mistakes.
Whatever journey this all takes from lump to life is not a mistake at all. It's a learning curve.
I've always like to learn new things.
Even when the learning curve has been bumpy or painful, I am thankful because there is always a reason that any particular classroom has been opened up to my use. God wants me to know something new about His love and care for me as his daughter. I just have to be willing to put in my time and faith to receive the lesson He has so skillfully prepared for me to receive.
Sometimes, like pruning back a bush that is overgrown and tangled, the process of becoming more tomorrow than I am today really and truly hurts. I don't like to be so severely "trimmed", but there of necessity must be times where the Master Gardener sees the beauty within which can only be found through the refining process of removing that which is no longer needed for this part of the lesson.
Gardens are an apt metaphor for our lives. We all want to be that idyllic setting where the love of the Lord is in evident bloom in our lives. Yet we forget all to soon that the process of becoming a thing of beauty in His hands requires the care and keeping of one who knows that the weeds and distractions must be plucked from the tender soil and removed from the rootstock. We must be fertilized and grow through the adversity of life that is sometimes a bitter solution to drink, yet a necessary one if we wish to become that rare specimen the Father has seen within us all along.
Sometimes, so mangled have we become through the challenges we face that we are not even able to receive the Light upon our growing parts. It is in those times that the things that block the reception of Light must be removed. And it is with the skill and delicacy of the Master Surgeon that cuts are made, dead and decaying processes and actions must be removed and the opportunity to bask in the warmth and glow of His presence must be restored.
Only then are we able to renew our roots, take stock in new growth and become a vital and glorious representation of the measure of our creation.
All of my life, Momma told me to "bloom where I was planted" and to "take joy in the journey". I truly am trying to do so. I have moments of fear, but I'm trying to replace them with evidences of my faith... to say my prayers like they really matter and to remember that whatever load I think I have is nothing when compared to the agony of other souls tied to mortal chains which I could never bear.
As I tried to go to sleep last night digesting the thoroughly undigestible contents of a painful day, I was moved to a rush of tears as the warm and tender thought of Gethsemane came to my mind.
There I pictured my Savior enduring the agony of my problems without one thought for His own discomfort or pains. He took it all upon himself in a private moment meant for Him and me alone. There were no others crowding His thoughts. It was and is a vivid view of the fact that Jesus Christ doesn't see any of us as just another number in the vast host. He literally took it all upon Himself and paid in His blood for everything that I feel helpless to endure alone. And then he has promised that I will NEVER be left alone through this whole thing.
I am so thankful for my family and friends who are indeed the roses in the garden of my life. And more especially thankful I am to the Master of the Garden who tends with care each delicate bloom so that He can, through His power and grace, make beauty from the thorns.
I'm 49+ years old and had my first mammogram November 25, 2011.
I had my second mammogram a week later followed by an ultrasound.
Thanks to the "thorns" on the medical rose, I have been diagnosed and will have surgery January 6th, 2012 to remove what they have found.
Where does this all lead?
No clue, but I have already chosen what comes next.
I'm going to live.
A thorn in the flesh is just a minor consideration when you know the beauty and fragrance of the rose that accompanies the tiny prick in the flesh that the thorn may or may not give you.
But often, we spend our mortal lives living in fear of what might be instead of opening up the doors of our heart to receive what is already there on the doorstep that can be life-altering for good.
I love roses.
They have infinite beauty within each delicately scented petal. It's almost as if you can see the carefully left behind thumbprint of the Master upon each one as you look upon the wonder of the singular creation of each blossom.
God doesn't make mistakes.
Whatever journey this all takes from lump to life is not a mistake at all. It's a learning curve.
I've always like to learn new things.
Even when the learning curve has been bumpy or painful, I am thankful because there is always a reason that any particular classroom has been opened up to my use. God wants me to know something new about His love and care for me as his daughter. I just have to be willing to put in my time and faith to receive the lesson He has so skillfully prepared for me to receive.
Sometimes, like pruning back a bush that is overgrown and tangled, the process of becoming more tomorrow than I am today really and truly hurts. I don't like to be so severely "trimmed", but there of necessity must be times where the Master Gardener sees the beauty within which can only be found through the refining process of removing that which is no longer needed for this part of the lesson.
Gardens are an apt metaphor for our lives. We all want to be that idyllic setting where the love of the Lord is in evident bloom in our lives. Yet we forget all to soon that the process of becoming a thing of beauty in His hands requires the care and keeping of one who knows that the weeds and distractions must be plucked from the tender soil and removed from the rootstock. We must be fertilized and grow through the adversity of life that is sometimes a bitter solution to drink, yet a necessary one if we wish to become that rare specimen the Father has seen within us all along.
Sometimes, so mangled have we become through the challenges we face that we are not even able to receive the Light upon our growing parts. It is in those times that the things that block the reception of Light must be removed. And it is with the skill and delicacy of the Master Surgeon that cuts are made, dead and decaying processes and actions must be removed and the opportunity to bask in the warmth and glow of His presence must be restored.
Only then are we able to renew our roots, take stock in new growth and become a vital and glorious representation of the measure of our creation.
All of my life, Momma told me to "bloom where I was planted" and to "take joy in the journey". I truly am trying to do so. I have moments of fear, but I'm trying to replace them with evidences of my faith... to say my prayers like they really matter and to remember that whatever load I think I have is nothing when compared to the agony of other souls tied to mortal chains which I could never bear.
As I tried to go to sleep last night digesting the thoroughly undigestible contents of a painful day, I was moved to a rush of tears as the warm and tender thought of Gethsemane came to my mind.
There I pictured my Savior enduring the agony of my problems without one thought for His own discomfort or pains. He took it all upon himself in a private moment meant for Him and me alone. There were no others crowding His thoughts. It was and is a vivid view of the fact that Jesus Christ doesn't see any of us as just another number in the vast host. He literally took it all upon Himself and paid in His blood for everything that I feel helpless to endure alone. And then he has promised that I will NEVER be left alone through this whole thing.
I am so thankful for my family and friends who are indeed the roses in the garden of my life. And more especially thankful I am to the Master of the Garden who tends with care each delicate bloom so that He can, through His power and grace, make beauty from the thorns.
December 20, 2011
Raindrops keep falling on my head
I'm seriously considering buying stock in umbrella companies. I'd make a killing.
Today, the phone rang and a command performance at the doctor's office is on the table for me tomorrow. Yippee.
Blood test results are in and they want to see me face to face to share what will not be happy news. Of this I am sure. Having worked in a doctor's office and making some of these calls myself to anxious patients I know that when the doctor calls, the news isn't good. They don't call and say "yippee, everything was great!". It's more like "Hmmm. Can you come in and discuss this."
I'm kind of at my breaking point right now. I'm planning to show up at the doctor's office in my workout clothing because I am going to the gym regardless of what results they share. I'll either celebrate the good news or pump iron and do crunches to the bad with a loud blast of music from the headphones in my bag.
Whatever the news is, I'm afraid to hear. It is sure to be a life-altering moment no matter what is pronounced. How do it get through this?
People are praying. Lots of people.
And Beth came over so we could cry together - she over the loss of EZ and missing his ever-ready presence in her life and me over news that could well terrify me to death if the malady isn't enough to do it.
Sometimes trying to see past your own issues to help someone deal with their own is a blessing. Right now, I need all the blessings I can get. Trying to sort out my emotions about all of my issues is getting to be a bellyful. I'd rather do my best to try to comfort Beth for all of her hurting in the absence of her wonderful puppy and friend. It reminds me so much about my own feelings of loss, hurt and emptiness when my beloved Smokey died. It's a wound that just aches. Time helps, but there will forever be a paw print stamped upon my heart from Smokey. It is no different for Beth. Even if you accept a new furry friend into your life, it will never be the friend who has gone on before.
I hope I help her to feel better. Sometimes I fear that my own minor crises in life are overshadowing the greater burdens of a larger world than my own.
Is there any of this that makes any sense?
Not sure... not sure at all sometimes. God knows the sense in all of this. And upon His understanding and strength I must depend.
Today, the phone rang and a command performance at the doctor's office is on the table for me tomorrow. Yippee.
Blood test results are in and they want to see me face to face to share what will not be happy news. Of this I am sure. Having worked in a doctor's office and making some of these calls myself to anxious patients I know that when the doctor calls, the news isn't good. They don't call and say "yippee, everything was great!". It's more like "Hmmm. Can you come in and discuss this."
I'm kind of at my breaking point right now. I'm planning to show up at the doctor's office in my workout clothing because I am going to the gym regardless of what results they share. I'll either celebrate the good news or pump iron and do crunches to the bad with a loud blast of music from the headphones in my bag.
Whatever the news is, I'm afraid to hear. It is sure to be a life-altering moment no matter what is pronounced. How do it get through this?
People are praying. Lots of people.
And Beth came over so we could cry together - she over the loss of EZ and missing his ever-ready presence in her life and me over news that could well terrify me to death if the malady isn't enough to do it.
Sometimes trying to see past your own issues to help someone deal with their own is a blessing. Right now, I need all the blessings I can get. Trying to sort out my emotions about all of my issues is getting to be a bellyful. I'd rather do my best to try to comfort Beth for all of her hurting in the absence of her wonderful puppy and friend. It reminds me so much about my own feelings of loss, hurt and emptiness when my beloved Smokey died. It's a wound that just aches. Time helps, but there will forever be a paw print stamped upon my heart from Smokey. It is no different for Beth. Even if you accept a new furry friend into your life, it will never be the friend who has gone on before.
I hope I help her to feel better. Sometimes I fear that my own minor crises in life are overshadowing the greater burdens of a larger world than my own.
Is there any of this that makes any sense?
Not sure... not sure at all sometimes. God knows the sense in all of this. And upon His understanding and strength I must depend.
December 15, 2011
Making the Breast of a bad situation...
So, I went to the doctor.
The results of the TWO mammograms and follow-up ultrasound are in.
The follow-up will now have a follow-up.
I'll be meeting with my surgeon on December 22nd. Ho ho ho and a very merry Christmas to you, too.
It's not the first time I've been under the gun during the Holiday season and perhaps that might be fitting. Right now, I am thinking very much about the life and mission of the Savior. Though he started in a manger, he didn't stay a baby forever. That tiny babe of Bethlehem grew up to be the Divinely appointed Savior of the world. The words of the "Messiah" remind us that 'surely, he hath born our griefs and carried our sorrows'. There is something soothing about knowing that he is carrying the weight of all that troubles the human heart.
The grief and sorrow of things that don't work the way you expect. Even the sorrows that come from worry over a pound of flesh skillfully arranged into a woman's breast...
I don't know what the further biopsies will reveal. Right now, I'm scared but okay. If the tests show that the breasts gotta go, then I hope my life is worth more than a couple of pounds of flesh that are more show than substance. They aren't that big anyway.
I just wish that the timing would be better since it is obvious that this particular "cup" can't be "passed from me". I don't want to ruin everyone's holy day of Christmas with a nagging concern for my personal issues. It makes me feel horrible.
While I am no martyr nor am I unconscious of the fact that everyone has an appointed time to come and an equally important appointment with our departure from mortal life, I am not really enjoying this view into my own mortality. It makes me feel so exposed, vulnerable and, well, human. I hope for more time in this part of my journey. And I feel like that human part of me that is struggling to stay welded to the divine that also makes up my being is not keeping up its end of the equation by bailing on me this way.
Just who gave my boob permission to go develop a problem like this anyway? No one asked me about it and I didn't receive any messages from the "Head Office" telling me this particular trial was coming down the pike. But I suppose that would defeat the purpose, now wouldn't it. God isn't malicious or cruel. He allows nature to take its course and works through natural means to bring about the purposes he has in mind. It's just sometimes that those life lessons we are to have sorta suck like lemons....
My patriarchal blessing talks quite frankly about the Job-like aspects of my life. That is kind of a scary reminder that the world will ALWAYS rage around me this way. I don't always have the kind of fortitude for the battle and frankly, some days, I'd just like a nap. When I was younger, I didn't understand what that admonition was all about. I still don't, but as you go over the scars and map of my life via the procedures I have endured, it is certainly a cautionary "jobian" tale of just what God might have in mind.
Despite knowing that we don't all get the same journey precisely because we are different children on an individual learning curve, there are days I think in my finite understanding that I wouldn't mind trading my trials for those of another.
I hate feeling so vulnerable and scared. Being a wussy isn't part of my normal nature. Sure, I have my moments, but most of the time, I am charging hell with a water pistol. The reality is I'm concerned for me, but more concerned for other people who might depend on me. I simply don't want to let anyone down. I don't want my concerns to derail their happiness nor to prevent them from achieving their life purposes.
But now, the breast has spoken. The leviathan that is the mammography machine and its equally formidable minion of the ultrasound machine have spoken and what they said was not fit for public consumption.
Will things be okay, be altered or be gone?
At this point, I really don't know and I'm too frightened to really contemplate it.
I'm trying to rely upon the mental image of a pair of scarred hands, wounded in my behalf, resting atop my head to take away a bitter moment that he has already endured in Gethsemane for me.
From what well may be a very damage breast, He is taking on the feelings and fear and making the best from the situation in the way HE designs. I just have to have the faith to believe that He will show me what that best way is and how I can do what is needed and learn the lesson that He wants to share.
The results of the TWO mammograms and follow-up ultrasound are in.
The follow-up will now have a follow-up.
I'll be meeting with my surgeon on December 22nd. Ho ho ho and a very merry Christmas to you, too.
It's not the first time I've been under the gun during the Holiday season and perhaps that might be fitting. Right now, I am thinking very much about the life and mission of the Savior. Though he started in a manger, he didn't stay a baby forever. That tiny babe of Bethlehem grew up to be the Divinely appointed Savior of the world. The words of the "Messiah" remind us that 'surely, he hath born our griefs and carried our sorrows'. There is something soothing about knowing that he is carrying the weight of all that troubles the human heart.
The grief and sorrow of things that don't work the way you expect. Even the sorrows that come from worry over a pound of flesh skillfully arranged into a woman's breast...
I don't know what the further biopsies will reveal. Right now, I'm scared but okay. If the tests show that the breasts gotta go, then I hope my life is worth more than a couple of pounds of flesh that are more show than substance. They aren't that big anyway.
I just wish that the timing would be better since it is obvious that this particular "cup" can't be "passed from me". I don't want to ruin everyone's holy day of Christmas with a nagging concern for my personal issues. It makes me feel horrible.
While I am no martyr nor am I unconscious of the fact that everyone has an appointed time to come and an equally important appointment with our departure from mortal life, I am not really enjoying this view into my own mortality. It makes me feel so exposed, vulnerable and, well, human. I hope for more time in this part of my journey. And I feel like that human part of me that is struggling to stay welded to the divine that also makes up my being is not keeping up its end of the equation by bailing on me this way.
Just who gave my boob permission to go develop a problem like this anyway? No one asked me about it and I didn't receive any messages from the "Head Office" telling me this particular trial was coming down the pike. But I suppose that would defeat the purpose, now wouldn't it. God isn't malicious or cruel. He allows nature to take its course and works through natural means to bring about the purposes he has in mind. It's just sometimes that those life lessons we are to have sorta suck like lemons....
My patriarchal blessing talks quite frankly about the Job-like aspects of my life. That is kind of a scary reminder that the world will ALWAYS rage around me this way. I don't always have the kind of fortitude for the battle and frankly, some days, I'd just like a nap. When I was younger, I didn't understand what that admonition was all about. I still don't, but as you go over the scars and map of my life via the procedures I have endured, it is certainly a cautionary "jobian" tale of just what God might have in mind.
Despite knowing that we don't all get the same journey precisely because we are different children on an individual learning curve, there are days I think in my finite understanding that I wouldn't mind trading my trials for those of another.
I hate feeling so vulnerable and scared. Being a wussy isn't part of my normal nature. Sure, I have my moments, but most of the time, I am charging hell with a water pistol. The reality is I'm concerned for me, but more concerned for other people who might depend on me. I simply don't want to let anyone down. I don't want my concerns to derail their happiness nor to prevent them from achieving their life purposes.
But now, the breast has spoken. The leviathan that is the mammography machine and its equally formidable minion of the ultrasound machine have spoken and what they said was not fit for public consumption.
Will things be okay, be altered or be gone?
At this point, I really don't know and I'm too frightened to really contemplate it.
I'm trying to rely upon the mental image of a pair of scarred hands, wounded in my behalf, resting atop my head to take away a bitter moment that he has already endured in Gethsemane for me.
From what well may be a very damage breast, He is taking on the feelings and fear and making the best from the situation in the way HE designs. I just have to have the faith to believe that He will show me what that best way is and how I can do what is needed and learn the lesson that He wants to share.
December 12, 2011
She said "yes"!
It's hard to believe that my young'un is this old, but he is.
Thomas and his newly affianced sweetheart Tianna are about to embark on their life together ...
May 12th of 2012 is the day.
I'm so happy for them, I could just about bust!
And yeah, for all you grammarians, I know the approved phraseology is "I am so pleased that I feel I might burst with happiness." but it ain't country enough to cover the emotion. Some times, saying it how it feels is the best anyway.
Since I just don't have a whole lot of extra words to add, I'll just say this:
CONGRATULATIONS TO MY SON THOMAS AND HIS LOVELY TIANNA!!
December 7, 2011
People Let Me Tell You 'bout My Breast Friends
I got back my first mammogram.
It was not good.
When they CALL YOU and tell you to "come back in for some more angles and further testing", it's not because the tech was enjoying the view, if you know what I mean. It's more like, we don't like what we saw... not at all. And, relatively speaking, I'm a smart gal when it comes to this kind of thing. And, sadly, I know from past experience that this kind of phone call could spell trouble with a capital "B" and I mean boob, you spell it "breast' and we're talking possible cancer.
Having danced with the "Big C" before for another type - because one type apparently ISN'T enough for me - I know full well what a cad he really is. I say 'he" because even a really mean woman wouldn't take another gal's boobs. It just seems pointlessly cruel.
But, guys who lack boobs (and no, 'man boobs' do NOT count!), seem to invent ways to see just how tough a gal really is. It is the only conceivable explanation for the mammography machine and the required removal of every shredded pretense of dignity that you may once have possessed. Men inventing the procedure would also explain why the attendant is required to grope you like an over-eager bad prom date who skips out without even buying you dinner or being carted off to "juvie hall" to pay for the experience at your expense. It would also explain why, with tears in your eyes and running down your cheeks, you tell the attendant, "NO! I'm just fine! Let's get this done!!"
I can virtually guarantee that if the male inventors of the mammography machine had their "man berries" shoved into a vise and crushed like grapes, there would be a sudden uptick in non-invasive technology and a whole lot less groping. Well, maybe everywhere but San Francisco...
As I was there today for the repeat mammogram and the further procedures that were to fill my day, the morbid side of me set in and I began to realize something... it truly begs consideration of this "fact"... the diagnosis is in my "good breast".
Yeah, I realize that sounds ridiculous because you aren't supposed to play favorites, but the left side has always been a bit, well, perkier and better shaped than the right. Until now... I'm beginning to wonder about just what might have caused the perkiness since that is the side currently being scrutinized, smashed and radiated within an inch of its life.
Questions popped into my head from the second that I got off the phone to make this "fun" appointment. The "dread" part hasn't taken over because I refuse to allow myself to wallow in what might be until I am presented with full evidence of what is going on and how we can handle it.
Hmm. Bad choice of words there. I think I have been "handled" enough today, thank you very much.
It sounds almost sacrilegious to talk about the body as if it was merely the sum of its parts be they great or small. Yet, I have grown quite accustomed to having my breasts be right where there are. The thought of them being in a lab smear on a microscope slide is slightly disconcerting. And further, the consideration that they may or may not both be going away entirely is disturbing. I am not a fan of being totally flat-chested, it being a native condition for a majority of my life. But to be fair, what I have now isn't much more than that since it's mostly the accumulation of too much junk food and every time I lose weight, they go away.. the boobs that is, not the junk food.
And I can't consider going with a 'single'. That would just look stupid. Like half a mustache... The "twins" have been together forever... quite literally. They are a matched pair, or at least as matched as my asymmetry allows. There are two of them and they have been side by side through the training bra stage to the sports bras and to the push up bras that made me look like I had something when I don't.
But what if I don't have anything there in the due fullness of time? Can I live with that? *SIGH*
Yep. It's just a pound of flesh. Quite literally in my case, I am sad to say... the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.
Of course, I am not trying to jump the gun. We don't have a definitive diagnosis yet. I'm just trying to sort out what life might be like. Because right now, I do not know what comes next. I truly don't. We wait for word from the doctor who was reading all the various tests to see what his clinical eye and wisdom decrees to be the next step if indeed a next step is to be taken at all.
The worst part of this is that it is an area of my life where I need help and prayers from those who love me in spite of me. I have to tell them news that may turn out to be just a big scare and mean nothing in the long run or which may well alter the landscape of life for us all. I hate making other people feel sad, particularly when I am the reason for the sadness. And, oddly enough, it seems like these earth shattering announcements regarding my health have always fallen in December. Ho, Ho, Ho! A very un-merry Christmas present to say the least. Try to gift wrap this kind of information and make it exciting... uh, not so much.
I'll try to remain positive about all of this.
I keep talking about needing to lose weight and if a couple of boobs gets the ball rolling, so to speak, then so be it. That isn't to say I'm happy about the thought of it. Because I am not. We have been taught to think in our minds "come what may and love it". So, if this is something that is to come to me, then I reckon I'll get to learn to do something besides shop for bras... which never fit right anyway.
There is one aspect of the whole cancer issue that IS truly troubling... the people that might be left behind should this get ugly.
While I'm a pretty bright gal who managed to graduate from school and understand that I'm not the center of the universe, I'd like to believe that the people I love might consider me to be somewhat important and maybe even nigh unto irreplaceable.
Is that vanity?
If so, then chalk that up to my fragile ego needing a stroke or twelve. We ALL want to be someones world or at least a significant enough chunk of their world that if we were gone they'd miss us once in a while.
But my ego is sufficiently well developed enough to not want to die at all. Too many lives NEED me. At least that's what I tell myself when I'm tired, cranky and worn out from running the calendars of everyone else on the planet...
I have one favor to ask though. Keep my and my two breast friends in your prayers. That really isn't such an odd request. Though I may indeed be a charter member of the I.B.T.C. (Itty Bitty Titty Committee), I have no desire to be the president of the pushing up daisies chapter of "so long! it's been good to know you!"
I still feel like I have things to do, people to help, places to go and adventures to enjoy. I'm just praying that Our Father feels the same way...
It was not good.
When they CALL YOU and tell you to "come back in for some more angles and further testing", it's not because the tech was enjoying the view, if you know what I mean. It's more like, we don't like what we saw... not at all. And, relatively speaking, I'm a smart gal when it comes to this kind of thing. And, sadly, I know from past experience that this kind of phone call could spell trouble with a capital "B" and I mean boob, you spell it "breast' and we're talking possible cancer.
Having danced with the "Big C" before for another type - because one type apparently ISN'T enough for me - I know full well what a cad he really is. I say 'he" because even a really mean woman wouldn't take another gal's boobs. It just seems pointlessly cruel.
But, guys who lack boobs (and no, 'man boobs' do NOT count!), seem to invent ways to see just how tough a gal really is. It is the only conceivable explanation for the mammography machine and the required removal of every shredded pretense of dignity that you may once have possessed. Men inventing the procedure would also explain why the attendant is required to grope you like an over-eager bad prom date who skips out without even buying you dinner or being carted off to "juvie hall" to pay for the experience at your expense. It would also explain why, with tears in your eyes and running down your cheeks, you tell the attendant, "NO! I'm just fine! Let's get this done!!"
I can virtually guarantee that if the male inventors of the mammography machine had their "man berries" shoved into a vise and crushed like grapes, there would be a sudden uptick in non-invasive technology and a whole lot less groping. Well, maybe everywhere but San Francisco...
As I was there today for the repeat mammogram and the further procedures that were to fill my day, the morbid side of me set in and I began to realize something... it truly begs consideration of this "fact"... the diagnosis is in my "good breast".
Yeah, I realize that sounds ridiculous because you aren't supposed to play favorites, but the left side has always been a bit, well, perkier and better shaped than the right. Until now... I'm beginning to wonder about just what might have caused the perkiness since that is the side currently being scrutinized, smashed and radiated within an inch of its life.
Questions popped into my head from the second that I got off the phone to make this "fun" appointment. The "dread" part hasn't taken over because I refuse to allow myself to wallow in what might be until I am presented with full evidence of what is going on and how we can handle it.
Hmm. Bad choice of words there. I think I have been "handled" enough today, thank you very much.
It sounds almost sacrilegious to talk about the body as if it was merely the sum of its parts be they great or small. Yet, I have grown quite accustomed to having my breasts be right where there are. The thought of them being in a lab smear on a microscope slide is slightly disconcerting. And further, the consideration that they may or may not both be going away entirely is disturbing. I am not a fan of being totally flat-chested, it being a native condition for a majority of my life. But to be fair, what I have now isn't much more than that since it's mostly the accumulation of too much junk food and every time I lose weight, they go away.. the boobs that is, not the junk food.
And I can't consider going with a 'single'. That would just look stupid. Like half a mustache... The "twins" have been together forever... quite literally. They are a matched pair, or at least as matched as my asymmetry allows. There are two of them and they have been side by side through the training bra stage to the sports bras and to the push up bras that made me look like I had something when I don't.
But what if I don't have anything there in the due fullness of time? Can I live with that? *SIGH*
Yep. It's just a pound of flesh. Quite literally in my case, I am sad to say... the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.
Of course, I am not trying to jump the gun. We don't have a definitive diagnosis yet. I'm just trying to sort out what life might be like. Because right now, I do not know what comes next. I truly don't. We wait for word from the doctor who was reading all the various tests to see what his clinical eye and wisdom decrees to be the next step if indeed a next step is to be taken at all.
The worst part of this is that it is an area of my life where I need help and prayers from those who love me in spite of me. I have to tell them news that may turn out to be just a big scare and mean nothing in the long run or which may well alter the landscape of life for us all. I hate making other people feel sad, particularly when I am the reason for the sadness. And, oddly enough, it seems like these earth shattering announcements regarding my health have always fallen in December. Ho, Ho, Ho! A very un-merry Christmas present to say the least. Try to gift wrap this kind of information and make it exciting... uh, not so much.
I'll try to remain positive about all of this.
I keep talking about needing to lose weight and if a couple of boobs gets the ball rolling, so to speak, then so be it. That isn't to say I'm happy about the thought of it. Because I am not. We have been taught to think in our minds "come what may and love it". So, if this is something that is to come to me, then I reckon I'll get to learn to do something besides shop for bras... which never fit right anyway.
There is one aspect of the whole cancer issue that IS truly troubling... the people that might be left behind should this get ugly.
While I'm a pretty bright gal who managed to graduate from school and understand that I'm not the center of the universe, I'd like to believe that the people I love might consider me to be somewhat important and maybe even nigh unto irreplaceable.
Is that vanity?
If so, then chalk that up to my fragile ego needing a stroke or twelve. We ALL want to be someones world or at least a significant enough chunk of their world that if we were gone they'd miss us once in a while.
But my ego is sufficiently well developed enough to not want to die at all. Too many lives NEED me. At least that's what I tell myself when I'm tired, cranky and worn out from running the calendars of everyone else on the planet...
I have one favor to ask though. Keep my and my two breast friends in your prayers. That really isn't such an odd request. Though I may indeed be a charter member of the I.B.T.C. (Itty Bitty Titty Committee), I have no desire to be the president of the pushing up daisies chapter of "so long! it's been good to know you!"
I still feel like I have things to do, people to help, places to go and adventures to enjoy. I'm just praying that Our Father feels the same way...
November 29, 2011
Snow, milk, bread and eggs
Our resident weatherman is leaving... yep. Dan, Dan the Weatherman is departing for more exciting opportunities elsewhere. For the record, he's the one weatherman who panics people into a frantic drive to the store in perilous conditions for bread, milk and eggs. You know. Winter survival food in the Deep South.
Apparently, covering tornadoes that rip the state to shreds isn't exciting enough to keep him here. He's off to places that appreciate his winter weather forecasts that boost the stocks of companies that sell the milk, bread and eggs. He is off to predict weather in other locales that will appreciate his panic driven warnings of wintry doom.
Yesterday, his forecast called for snow up to 2 inches in many places... and, to be fair, we DO have flakes drifting past the window.
Two inches of snow. That's enough to cripple the area since most drivers here have no idea how to drive in the snow and are a danger to themselves and others. Of course, that can be said for drivers everywhere in snow. People who live in areas blessed with greater snowfall amounts each year tend to get cocky and overestimate their ability to "handle it" on the road and drive like maniacs. This would explain the wrecked cars that are perched precariously on mountainside passes that you can see during the spring thaw. Some eager beaver who KNEW how to handle the blizzard just kept pushing on despite the fact that the semi trucks had all pulled over to the side to wait out the storm.
Stupidity in snow isn't regional. It's a global phenomenon.
But back to the forecast. We have snow. SNOW! Yippee! Visions of hot cocoa and floating marshmallows fill my mind.
The top of the car has a few flakes dusting the surface... time to pull out the sled and hitch up the Huskies for the trip to the gym today. I must remind myself to stop at the store on the way back. I'm low on eggs and this farcical amount of snowfall makes me want French toast with warm maple syrup.
ON YOU HUSKIES!! MUSH!! MUSH!!!
Wait... hold that request... the snow is now mixed with a sleety rainy mix. That doesn't bode well for the forecast of fun. Instead, we get rain. Cold, wet, winter rain. In buckets. Filling the ditches. Making low-lying areas a danger.
So, SWIM YOU HUSKIES!! SWIM!!!!
Good thing they have a well developed backstroke. Nothing worse than being a sled pulled by a dog that flounders around in the water wallowing through the choppy waves created by the panic driven paws doggie paddling along.
Sadly, at 35 degrees, the snowy show will not last long and the ground is far too warm to start planning where to build Frosty the Snowman in our front yard.
Oh well. November is too early for whatever snow and ice we would normally get anyway. Time to sit back, relax and dream of an all SEC National Championship with the Tide clutching the crystal football when it's all over...
Apparently, covering tornadoes that rip the state to shreds isn't exciting enough to keep him here. He's off to places that appreciate his winter weather forecasts that boost the stocks of companies that sell the milk, bread and eggs. He is off to predict weather in other locales that will appreciate his panic driven warnings of wintry doom.
Yesterday, his forecast called for snow up to 2 inches in many places... and, to be fair, we DO have flakes drifting past the window.
Two inches of snow. That's enough to cripple the area since most drivers here have no idea how to drive in the snow and are a danger to themselves and others. Of course, that can be said for drivers everywhere in snow. People who live in areas blessed with greater snowfall amounts each year tend to get cocky and overestimate their ability to "handle it" on the road and drive like maniacs. This would explain the wrecked cars that are perched precariously on mountainside passes that you can see during the spring thaw. Some eager beaver who KNEW how to handle the blizzard just kept pushing on despite the fact that the semi trucks had all pulled over to the side to wait out the storm.
Stupidity in snow isn't regional. It's a global phenomenon.
But back to the forecast. We have snow. SNOW! Yippee! Visions of hot cocoa and floating marshmallows fill my mind.
The top of the car has a few flakes dusting the surface... time to pull out the sled and hitch up the Huskies for the trip to the gym today. I must remind myself to stop at the store on the way back. I'm low on eggs and this farcical amount of snowfall makes me want French toast with warm maple syrup.
ON YOU HUSKIES!! MUSH!! MUSH!!!
Wait... hold that request... the snow is now mixed with a sleety rainy mix. That doesn't bode well for the forecast of fun. Instead, we get rain. Cold, wet, winter rain. In buckets. Filling the ditches. Making low-lying areas a danger.
So, SWIM YOU HUSKIES!! SWIM!!!!
Good thing they have a well developed backstroke. Nothing worse than being a sled pulled by a dog that flounders around in the water wallowing through the choppy waves created by the panic driven paws doggie paddling along.
Sadly, at 35 degrees, the snowy show will not last long and the ground is far too warm to start planning where to build Frosty the Snowman in our front yard.
Oh well. November is too early for whatever snow and ice we would normally get anyway. Time to sit back, relax and dream of an all SEC National Championship with the Tide clutching the crystal football when it's all over...
November 28, 2011
It Comes in Three's
First, we drop some serious coin getting tires, brakes and rotors for the car. Not cheap even with the resident skilled handyman performing the work.
Then second, the washer died. Dead. Can it be repaired? Sure, but at a cost greater than buying a NEW one with the sales for Black Friday going on... naturally, the company no longer makes the model that will match the dryer which still works. Expensive decisions were made... we bought an entirely new set.
Now, our precious college student son Thomas just informed us via text message that his laptop computer has died. Number Three. The dreaded third shoe dropping. Yippee. In the way that I mean NOT... I don't believe the Dallas Cowboy's cheerleaders could be coaxed into a dance line for this announcement.
And by the way, if anyone knows where the money tree is located, I'd appreciate knowing where it is so I can gather a few leaves to pay for all of this. I promise to not be greedy and take them all.
I have begun to think the defining script on my tombstone should simply be a rolling tote board indicating the level of debt that has accumulated directly and indirectly in my life. It might be interesting to watch since there will be times that it will reflect the reality that is a financial blur... see those numbers just whooshing by?
I'm thankful that we have been able to arrange financing to take care of things thus far, but I must confess there are times that I wonder what it must be like for those who are truly monetarily rich to just simply say "sure, here's the money for ____, go right ahead and buy it" without once considering what sacrifices would be needed to pay for whatever "it" is.
Thomas needs this type of technology for school... it's virtually impossible to get along without it otherwise.
I guess until we sort this out he can use the computer lab and hope for the best.
♫ Santa baby, slip a Brinks truck under the tree for meeeeeeeee ♪♫
♪♫ I've been an awful good girl, Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight...♫♪♫
Then second, the washer died. Dead. Can it be repaired? Sure, but at a cost greater than buying a NEW one with the sales for Black Friday going on... naturally, the company no longer makes the model that will match the dryer which still works. Expensive decisions were made... we bought an entirely new set.
Now, our precious college student son Thomas just informed us via text message that his laptop computer has died. Number Three. The dreaded third shoe dropping. Yippee. In the way that I mean NOT... I don't believe the Dallas Cowboy's cheerleaders could be coaxed into a dance line for this announcement.
And by the way, if anyone knows where the money tree is located, I'd appreciate knowing where it is so I can gather a few leaves to pay for all of this. I promise to not be greedy and take them all.
I have begun to think the defining script on my tombstone should simply be a rolling tote board indicating the level of debt that has accumulated directly and indirectly in my life. It might be interesting to watch since there will be times that it will reflect the reality that is a financial blur... see those numbers just whooshing by?
I'm thankful that we have been able to arrange financing to take care of things thus far, but I must confess there are times that I wonder what it must be like for those who are truly monetarily rich to just simply say "sure, here's the money for ____, go right ahead and buy it" without once considering what sacrifices would be needed to pay for whatever "it" is.
Thomas needs this type of technology for school... it's virtually impossible to get along without it otherwise.
I guess until we sort this out he can use the computer lab and hope for the best.
♫ Santa baby, slip a Brinks truck under the tree for meeeeeeeee ♪♫
♪♫ I've been an awful good girl, Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight...♫♪♫
November 15, 2011
Bobbing Along
I truly didn't want to get out of the pool yesterday.
My exercises and PT were long completed, but I wanted to stay in that warm water cocoon of relative peace and quiet. I realize being "pruny" from the water isn't a fashion statement, but I don't believe anyone who knows me will be all that concerned about my lack of care regarding that particular issue.
I just needed some quiet in my overly loud life.
Took Daddy to see a physionometrist yesterday. Fancy word for a doctor who specializes in telling people to go get physical therapy. I'm not sure this exercise will truly help. Lord knows if it does, I'll be happy that it improves Daddy's quality of life.
But I saw the MRI and I understand enough about anatomy and physiology to be a danger to myself and others.
The compression in his spine and the narrowing of the channels for the nerve conduction are so restricted that I'm afraid the repetitive motions will simply cause greater harm.
There are also at least TWO bone spurs which are pressing in upon the already stressed areas of the back. I for sure saw one that is pretty significant in size. But as of this instant, Daddy is NOT a surgical candidate.
Meekly, I took the prescription for the month of PT for Daddy. The folks at the rehab will HAVE to yield to my schedule on this one. With my own needs of rehabbing a still recuperating ankle, I can't supersede the PT I have to do just to get Daddy to his. And I can't keep adding things to an already overfull schedule. It's not like I have a "mini me" closet to draw from to build enough support to fill in the gaps. Sadly, I don't even have a single mini me. That would be both helpful and disconcerting at the same time.
So I spent some time after PT with my head down in the water playing dead. Not that I want to be dead, of course, but some days, it's nice to have a break from the noise outside of my head just long enough to concentrate on the noise INSIDE my head.
Think two BB's rattling around inside a box car...
I relaxed enough to just float drifting along with the current from the water jets.
Sadly, the time came which compelled me to get out of the pool. I hopped into the hot tub long enough to ease the tightness in my leg and ankle then dried off to go home.
It is a pretty good break from life. Sadly, you always have to come back and shoulder your load again, but some days, I think the trip to the pool helps me deal with things a little better.
At least that is the goal.
My exercises and PT were long completed, but I wanted to stay in that warm water cocoon of relative peace and quiet. I realize being "pruny" from the water isn't a fashion statement, but I don't believe anyone who knows me will be all that concerned about my lack of care regarding that particular issue.
I just needed some quiet in my overly loud life.
Took Daddy to see a physionometrist yesterday. Fancy word for a doctor who specializes in telling people to go get physical therapy. I'm not sure this exercise will truly help. Lord knows if it does, I'll be happy that it improves Daddy's quality of life.
But I saw the MRI and I understand enough about anatomy and physiology to be a danger to myself and others.
The compression in his spine and the narrowing of the channels for the nerve conduction are so restricted that I'm afraid the repetitive motions will simply cause greater harm.
There are also at least TWO bone spurs which are pressing in upon the already stressed areas of the back. I for sure saw one that is pretty significant in size. But as of this instant, Daddy is NOT a surgical candidate.
Meekly, I took the prescription for the month of PT for Daddy. The folks at the rehab will HAVE to yield to my schedule on this one. With my own needs of rehabbing a still recuperating ankle, I can't supersede the PT I have to do just to get Daddy to his. And I can't keep adding things to an already overfull schedule. It's not like I have a "mini me" closet to draw from to build enough support to fill in the gaps. Sadly, I don't even have a single mini me. That would be both helpful and disconcerting at the same time.
So I spent some time after PT with my head down in the water playing dead. Not that I want to be dead, of course, but some days, it's nice to have a break from the noise outside of my head just long enough to concentrate on the noise INSIDE my head.
Think two BB's rattling around inside a box car...
I relaxed enough to just float drifting along with the current from the water jets.
Sadly, the time came which compelled me to get out of the pool. I hopped into the hot tub long enough to ease the tightness in my leg and ankle then dried off to go home.
It is a pretty good break from life. Sadly, you always have to come back and shoulder your load again, but some days, I think the trip to the pool helps me deal with things a little better.
At least that is the goal.
November 8, 2011
The Peppered Eye
Pepper is a wonderful thing!
It creates a little spark of fire in the throat and a tingle on the tongue when properly applied. It can mean all the difference between a salad that is just okay, and a salad that is amazing. Pepper is great with eggs and bacon, adds a touch of class to a humble homemade hash and turns a bowl of stew into something worth eating.
But one thing pepper does NOT enhance. . . my eyeball.
I feel like half of my skull is on fire and the flames are licking out of my right eye socket.
HOLY FLAMING CAT SNOT AND FIERY DEATH!!! OOOOOOOOOHHHHH!! This is a pain that should be inflicted on some of the bad people of our world!!
Based on the suffering I am having to endure at my own hand, I'm not sure my love affair with pepper will last much longer if this inferno doesn't get extinguished soon.
Is it possible to go blind by accidental peppering of the eyeball? Can you die from it? Right now, both questions are up for grabs. Can someone PLEASE hose off my eye? I can't possibly be the only one who sees these vivid flames curling up from under my eyelids!!
The sad tale of woe that brought us to this point isn't monumental, unless we are measuring stupidity. Confessing that while I am not more than a modest home cooking kind of gal, I do humbly state that I enjoy cooking most of the time. I like making things that my family will actually want to eat. To that end, I have a little Ziploc bag with some fresh, coarsely ground pepper in it. My supply is dwindling by the day. But ham and navy bean soup needs a bit of pepper to help it cook along, right? A little of the supply must be sacrificed for the soup to have the taste that it needs.
Plunging my clean hand into the bag, I gathered up a couple of pinches of pepper... enough to season not to scorch. After extending the sprinkling of the vital grains over the beans in the Crock pot, I washed my hands. You can't be too careful.
Careful. HA!
I laugh at myself through my tears.
Apparently, one tiny, minuscule hardly even worth mentioning let alone seeing grain of pepper was chameleon-like in its skill and ability to camouflage itself against my finger into flesh tones with a cunning that the military would love to possess. The tenacity with which it clung to my skin even through the washing and drying process would give Velcro a run for its money.
Innocent in my understanding of the tragedy about to befall me, I went to go about my daily morning activities. While sitting at my desk, I casually rubbed my eye.
With fire.
Does the fact that it was completely unintentional matter?
At this point, I am certain that my right eye will never be on speaking terms with me again.
Murine Plus drops, generic store brand drops, water right out of the sink... all have been applied in a liberal deluge to my deeply offended eye and its mucous membranes. They are reporting with great accuracy that the savage attack has left them both irritated beyond all measure for polite society, but that they are now planning some kind of retribution that will involve me having blurred vision for quite some time today.
It is open war.
My protestations that the offending particle of pepper have now been most assuredly washed from the battlefield of topical violence does nothing to sway the eyeball. It has its mind made up. I will now be compelled to walk through this morning with a blurry reminder that the peppered eye is not what's for dinner.
The sting is down to a dull roar now. I have this odd slimy feeling on my eyeball that tells me the mucous membranes surrounding my eye have indeed gone into full battle mode and applied riot gear as they slime coat all the surfaces of the eye to continue forcing the contaminant and the effects of same to retreat from the battle.
It seems to be working.
Perhaps in due time, my eye will forgive me.
But I have the sinking feeling that the next time I reach for my little bag of pepper, my right eye will involuntarily slam shut and refuse to assist in the cooking until the all clear has been sounded by the left eye.
Who knew plain old table top cooking pepper was such a deadly weapon?
Perhaps the stores need to sell it by permit only.
Hmm. Yet another governmental intervention for the perpetually stupid.
*SIGH*
Someone really needs to save me from myself.
It creates a little spark of fire in the throat and a tingle on the tongue when properly applied. It can mean all the difference between a salad that is just okay, and a salad that is amazing. Pepper is great with eggs and bacon, adds a touch of class to a humble homemade hash and turns a bowl of stew into something worth eating.
But one thing pepper does NOT enhance. . . my eyeball.
I feel like half of my skull is on fire and the flames are licking out of my right eye socket.
HOLY FLAMING CAT SNOT AND FIERY DEATH!!! OOOOOOOOOHHHHH!! This is a pain that should be inflicted on some of the bad people of our world!!
Based on the suffering I am having to endure at my own hand, I'm not sure my love affair with pepper will last much longer if this inferno doesn't get extinguished soon.
Is it possible to go blind by accidental peppering of the eyeball? Can you die from it? Right now, both questions are up for grabs. Can someone PLEASE hose off my eye? I can't possibly be the only one who sees these vivid flames curling up from under my eyelids!!
The sad tale of woe that brought us to this point isn't monumental, unless we are measuring stupidity. Confessing that while I am not more than a modest home cooking kind of gal, I do humbly state that I enjoy cooking most of the time. I like making things that my family will actually want to eat. To that end, I have a little Ziploc bag with some fresh, coarsely ground pepper in it. My supply is dwindling by the day. But ham and navy bean soup needs a bit of pepper to help it cook along, right? A little of the supply must be sacrificed for the soup to have the taste that it needs.
Plunging my clean hand into the bag, I gathered up a couple of pinches of pepper... enough to season not to scorch. After extending the sprinkling of the vital grains over the beans in the Crock pot, I washed my hands. You can't be too careful.
Careful. HA!
I laugh at myself through my tears.
Apparently, one tiny, minuscule hardly even worth mentioning let alone seeing grain of pepper was chameleon-like in its skill and ability to camouflage itself against my finger into flesh tones with a cunning that the military would love to possess. The tenacity with which it clung to my skin even through the washing and drying process would give Velcro a run for its money.
Innocent in my understanding of the tragedy about to befall me, I went to go about my daily morning activities. While sitting at my desk, I casually rubbed my eye.
With fire.
Does the fact that it was completely unintentional matter?
At this point, I am certain that my right eye will never be on speaking terms with me again.
Murine Plus drops, generic store brand drops, water right out of the sink... all have been applied in a liberal deluge to my deeply offended eye and its mucous membranes. They are reporting with great accuracy that the savage attack has left them both irritated beyond all measure for polite society, but that they are now planning some kind of retribution that will involve me having blurred vision for quite some time today.
It is open war.
My protestations that the offending particle of pepper have now been most assuredly washed from the battlefield of topical violence does nothing to sway the eyeball. It has its mind made up. I will now be compelled to walk through this morning with a blurry reminder that the peppered eye is not what's for dinner.
The sting is down to a dull roar now. I have this odd slimy feeling on my eyeball that tells me the mucous membranes surrounding my eye have indeed gone into full battle mode and applied riot gear as they slime coat all the surfaces of the eye to continue forcing the contaminant and the effects of same to retreat from the battle.
It seems to be working.
Perhaps in due time, my eye will forgive me.
But I have the sinking feeling that the next time I reach for my little bag of pepper, my right eye will involuntarily slam shut and refuse to assist in the cooking until the all clear has been sounded by the left eye.
Who knew plain old table top cooking pepper was such a deadly weapon?
Perhaps the stores need to sell it by permit only.
Hmm. Yet another governmental intervention for the perpetually stupid.
*SIGH*
Someone really needs to save me from myself.
October 29, 2011
Legally Blond
I have never claimed to understand the inner workings of the process of law.
It is beyond me how giblety Latin phrases can bring help or harm depending upon how they are used and which application they bring to bear.
But I do know that there are a great body of lawyers who fit the Bible's and Book of Mormon's description of them really well.
Matthew 22:35 talks about a slick man whom I am SURE would have advertised on television in a sharkskin suit if only either were available in ancient Jerusalem. He tempted Christ to say something that the Pharisees could twist into a blasphemy or legal corruption with which to justify slaying him. He asked which was the greatest of the laws. Jesus Christ not only told him the answer to the greatest law, but also to the second greatest and thus changed the flow of human endeavor in the holy writ by specifically outlining our personal conduct: we are to love the Lord and our fellowmen and esteem our fellows as ourselves.
In Luke 10:25, we read about a lawyer who attempted to use his assumed brilliance to make the Savior say something he could press a suit against him for uttering. Didn't work out so well. He was treated to a lesson on taking care of the wounded instead of fleecing them for their loot.
Alma 10 shares a scathing rebuke from Amulek to the legal profession who was trying their best to enforce their will through corruption. In verse 17, Amulek shares this opinion of the Book of Mormon lawyers... and it ain't good. "O ye wicked and perverse generation, ye lawyers and hypocrites, for ye are laying the foundations of the devil; for ye are laying traps and snares to catch the holy ones of God."
OUCH.
Lawyers and hypocrites.
Yet when you see the modern day advertisements telling people "GET WHAT YOU ARE ENTITLED TO! GET MONEY TODAY FOR YOUR PAIN AND SUFFERING! CALL ME AND I'LL WORK FOR YOU!", it sort of makes it sound like one phone call can change everything from crap to honey, sunshine and roses.
Money can't fix everything. And in truth, most people do not possess the good sense that God intended them to use when money is involved. They see dollar signs and go hog wild and then wonder where their loot went when their are nothing but moths left in their wallet after the end of the Vegas bender.
Because we were told that we needed to get some specific paperwork in place RIGHT NOW DO NOT DELAY LIFE HANGS IN THE BALANCE FOR JARED, I was calling various legal firms to seek vital information regarding the specifics and the cost of this 'essential' paperwork. The level of panic in me was rising to a fever pitch in the belief that we would not be able to ask for the things Jared needed for lack of a simple piece of legal paper.
Turns out, after talking to a very well informed lawyer who is neither a viper or a hypocrite, that there isn't such a huge rush after all. Since he has YEARS worth of experience in handling these types of cases, not only was he well versed in what to do, but also kindly enough to tell us that there are state laws that cover us and our son. Yes, we are protected to make medical and financial decisions for our disabled son. No, we do not need to bankrupt ourselves to get the paperwork in order by noon tomorrow or risk forfeiture of all that we know. He said that he also recommended that "we get a lawyer across from your courthouse who knows the judge". He said that way, they can handle it quickly and without any undue expense or fuss when the time comes. The lawyer also assured me that there are a great number of people willing to do any kind of legal work for money, but it isn't all necessary nor is it always helpful.
In the due course of time, and when we have the funds saved, we will indeed get the paperwork done to ensure that we have a legal recourse for Jared's long term needs and a conservatorship for his financial issues. The lawyer indicated, however, that most people whom he sees are over 70 years old and have one foot in the grave and are concerned for the adult "child" they will be leaving behind.
We aren't there quite yet...
However, I believe in being prepare in all things insofar as possible, so we will diligently save up the money (and it ain't cheap, folks!!) so that we can pay CASH at the time of the services rendered to have it done. That way, it can be done both in WISDOM and IN ORDER. My heart isn't pounding so loudly in my ears anymore.
And now, I actually feel calm. I think this says it all. "The LORD will give strength unto his people; the LORD will bless his people with peace." Psalms 29:11.
I also thank God that not all lawyers are only in it for the sharkskin suits and the money.
It is beyond me how giblety Latin phrases can bring help or harm depending upon how they are used and which application they bring to bear.
But I do know that there are a great body of lawyers who fit the Bible's and Book of Mormon's description of them really well.
Matthew 22:35 talks about a slick man whom I am SURE would have advertised on television in a sharkskin suit if only either were available in ancient Jerusalem. He tempted Christ to say something that the Pharisees could twist into a blasphemy or legal corruption with which to justify slaying him. He asked which was the greatest of the laws. Jesus Christ not only told him the answer to the greatest law, but also to the second greatest and thus changed the flow of human endeavor in the holy writ by specifically outlining our personal conduct: we are to love the Lord and our fellowmen and esteem our fellows as ourselves.
In Luke 10:25, we read about a lawyer who attempted to use his assumed brilliance to make the Savior say something he could press a suit against him for uttering. Didn't work out so well. He was treated to a lesson on taking care of the wounded instead of fleecing them for their loot.
Alma 10 shares a scathing rebuke from Amulek to the legal profession who was trying their best to enforce their will through corruption. In verse 17, Amulek shares this opinion of the Book of Mormon lawyers... and it ain't good. "O ye wicked and perverse generation, ye lawyers and hypocrites, for ye are laying the foundations of the devil; for ye are laying traps and snares to catch the holy ones of God."
OUCH.
Lawyers and hypocrites.
Yet when you see the modern day advertisements telling people "GET WHAT YOU ARE ENTITLED TO! GET MONEY TODAY FOR YOUR PAIN AND SUFFERING! CALL ME AND I'LL WORK FOR YOU!", it sort of makes it sound like one phone call can change everything from crap to honey, sunshine and roses.
Money can't fix everything. And in truth, most people do not possess the good sense that God intended them to use when money is involved. They see dollar signs and go hog wild and then wonder where their loot went when their are nothing but moths left in their wallet after the end of the Vegas bender.
Because we were told that we needed to get some specific paperwork in place RIGHT NOW DO NOT DELAY LIFE HANGS IN THE BALANCE FOR JARED, I was calling various legal firms to seek vital information regarding the specifics and the cost of this 'essential' paperwork. The level of panic in me was rising to a fever pitch in the belief that we would not be able to ask for the things Jared needed for lack of a simple piece of legal paper.
Turns out, after talking to a very well informed lawyer who is neither a viper or a hypocrite, that there isn't such a huge rush after all. Since he has YEARS worth of experience in handling these types of cases, not only was he well versed in what to do, but also kindly enough to tell us that there are state laws that cover us and our son. Yes, we are protected to make medical and financial decisions for our disabled son. No, we do not need to bankrupt ourselves to get the paperwork in order by noon tomorrow or risk forfeiture of all that we know. He said that he also recommended that "we get a lawyer across from your courthouse who knows the judge". He said that way, they can handle it quickly and without any undue expense or fuss when the time comes. The lawyer also assured me that there are a great number of people willing to do any kind of legal work for money, but it isn't all necessary nor is it always helpful.
In the due course of time, and when we have the funds saved, we will indeed get the paperwork done to ensure that we have a legal recourse for Jared's long term needs and a conservatorship for his financial issues. The lawyer indicated, however, that most people whom he sees are over 70 years old and have one foot in the grave and are concerned for the adult "child" they will be leaving behind.
We aren't there quite yet...
However, I believe in being prepare in all things insofar as possible, so we will diligently save up the money (and it ain't cheap, folks!!) so that we can pay CASH at the time of the services rendered to have it done. That way, it can be done both in WISDOM and IN ORDER. My heart isn't pounding so loudly in my ears anymore.
And now, I actually feel calm. I think this says it all. "The LORD will give strength unto his people; the LORD will bless his people with peace." Psalms 29:11.
I also thank God that not all lawyers are only in it for the sharkskin suits and the money.
October 25, 2011
Old lady glasses leashes
I have officially become the old lady who needs a leash on her glasses.
I always wondered about the level of dotty behavior required in order to need a leash to remember that your glasses were hung around your neck.
But after spending the greater part of half an hour looking for my glasses, I realize I am the dotty old bag who needs the old lady glasses leashes in order to keep from looking more stupid than usual.
They weren't on top of my head.
They weren't tucked one legged down the front of my shirt (a favorite "where did I put them" location that results in fingerprint smeared lenses as soon as I discover them).
The glasses didn't lie askew atop my desk (or more precisely the rubble of my life atop my desk).
Where did I leave those glasses?
I hate not having them and worse yet, I hate having them. Oh, how I miss 20/20 vision!!
I never had fingerprints on my corneas!!
Finally, after looking high and low and in places I don't ever recall having placed my glasses, I found them.
In the laundry room.
Atop the whites.
At this point, I'm not sure if I planned to throw them into the wash for a quick bleach run with the bath towels that accompany me to the gym where there may well be a fungus among us or if I was hoping that somehow a quick spin cycle would somehow right the slightly askew left arm or leg of the glasses that hasn't ever quite been right since I dropped them.
Either way, I now have my glasses back.
They are right here beside me on the des......
HEY!?!?! Where did they go?
They were just here a minute ago!!
Oh! Wait! Here they are! ON MY FACE!
I think I need a room in the hospital ward for the criminally clueless...
I always wondered about the level of dotty behavior required in order to need a leash to remember that your glasses were hung around your neck.
But after spending the greater part of half an hour looking for my glasses, I realize I am the dotty old bag who needs the old lady glasses leashes in order to keep from looking more stupid than usual.
They weren't on top of my head.
They weren't tucked one legged down the front of my shirt (a favorite "where did I put them" location that results in fingerprint smeared lenses as soon as I discover them).
The glasses didn't lie askew atop my desk (or more precisely the rubble of my life atop my desk).
Where did I leave those glasses?
I hate not having them and worse yet, I hate having them. Oh, how I miss 20/20 vision!!
I never had fingerprints on my corneas!!
Finally, after looking high and low and in places I don't ever recall having placed my glasses, I found them.
In the laundry room.
Atop the whites.
At this point, I'm not sure if I planned to throw them into the wash for a quick bleach run with the bath towels that accompany me to the gym where there may well be a fungus among us or if I was hoping that somehow a quick spin cycle would somehow right the slightly askew left arm or leg of the glasses that hasn't ever quite been right since I dropped them.
Either way, I now have my glasses back.
They are right here beside me on the des......
HEY!?!?! Where did they go?
They were just here a minute ago!!
Oh! Wait! Here they are! ON MY FACE!
I think I need a room in the hospital ward for the criminally clueless...
October 21, 2011
More Money Than Sense
While doing my usual morning routine, I was struck by the sudden flash of understanding that people are crazy.
I'm sure that others have figured this out long before now, but I am compelled to say that this is not run of the mill crazy but absolutely fruit bat guano cave filled crazy.
I cannot understand why money makes us crazy, but it does. When we have money in our pockets, the siren song of "spend me, spend me, spend me" sings loudly in our ears and heart showing us the benefits of blowing our entire wad on things that the poor but sane would never even consider.
That is the only possible explanation for why someone would blow their cash to buy ANY of the following.
just in case you think I made this up
#10 WOLF URINE - 100% wolf pee. Really??? WHY??? Regular dog pee isn't offensive enough? So you have to get hyper pee? Are you trying to mark your territory and prevent interlopers from taking the females from your pack?
Or are you trying to impress your drinking buddies (more than likely) with the aromatic scent of your turf?
What would compel ANYONE to part with their hard earned cash for a jug o' pee?
If the need for pee is that great, why don't you just take a Mason jar into your bathroom and save your own for free.
Either way, that is just GROSS. Save your money and your reputation.
#9 STOP EATING POOP - In yet another gross attempt to garner your cash, this is alleged to keep your dogs from eating their own, well, you know... In a random bit of information, they indicate that the product includes yucca, which makes the allegedly tasty poo, taste, well, less tasty. It also contains peppermint and parsley to freshen Fido's breath after his less than savory snack.
I am compelled to ask, wouldn't the peppermint and parsley just make him want to eat the poo all the more since it will mask the offensive odors from his breath?
Doesn't matter. Still GROSS. Is there anything on this list not related to bodily waste? I sure hope so. Because this is just NASTY!!
#8 BODY MIST - blatantly offensive product meant to encourage homosexual encounters. Wrong. Evil. And just plain offensive.
#7 DR. JOHN'S FAMOUS PEE PEE - Really??? MORE PEE??? Who in their right mind really believes that no one knows they are high at work? After a while, they DO notice and carrying around a flask of pee in order to pass a random drug test is a dead giveaway that you are, in fact, a junkie.
Save your money for rehab. It looks like you are gonna need it.
And as a strange question I am compelled to ask, does the DEA get a head's up on who has ordered this product? If not, they should. Can you imagine how many people could be saved from harm if this was tagged and the bust on the dope-heads could happen in a timely fashion?
#6 TANK - Now, we are actually getting into a product that I can see someone purchasing. Can you imagine the reaction at the downtown Christmas parade when this bad boy rolls down the street blasting candy from the gun ports? Nothing says "Merry Christmas" faster than a tank!
Of course, it could start a neighborhood war when you employ it to take out the pesky folks that allow their precious Pinky to poo on your freshly manicured lawn. But your lawn would be poo-free.
#5 LIQUID @$$ FART SPRAY - again with the gross bodily function product?? Is there ANYTHING on this list besides the Tank that is worth the money?? Why would you or anyone else want to descend into frat boy behavior and spend money to do it??
Sure, making rotten egg gas was hilarious in 9th grade chemistry, but aren't we a bit too old to do this kind of thing now?? Really???
#4 UFO DETECTOR - Yes. Along with your tinfoil hat and the colander you are protecting your brains with, a UFO Detector is an indispensable item that fairly screams to the entire world, "I AM A FREAKY NERD!" and who doesn't need that kind of advertising? It's not like your wardrobe hasn't already tipped them off.
#3 ROSWELL SOIL SAMPLE - See #4. If you are in for a penny, you are in for a pound. When you believe our world is under observation by pink bald headed, big eyed aliens, then you'd better have proof of it or your dinner date is going to excuse themselves to the bathroom and never return. Never underestimate the ability of a grown adult person to get out of an 8x8 bathroom window in a crisis.
#2 DEER BUTT - One word: WHY? I cannot imagine any social setting in which your cache would be enhanced by bringing out your deer butt. And what kind of friends are you REALLY trying to attract anyway? The people who would appreciate this kind of item may not be the kind of folks who can upgrade your social standing and in fact, may well be armed and dangerous.
And finally, on our intrepid press to the top of Jackass Mountain, we come to our Number One selection of money wasting bliss.
#1 URANIUM - Yes, it's the real deal. I'm sure the FBI is more than happy to keep track of this little gem in light of the domestic and international terrorism issues of our day. And just how do you plan to explain your "lovely glow" to your parents, in who's basement you are living?
According to the write up, this product is for "educational and scientific purposes only" and what is more educational than learning how to build a proton accelerator or nuke?
Don't worry. When you order this, your lonely days in your underwear wearing, basement dwelling life are over. You will be introduced to a host of nice people who will be your friends in the Supermax. And the guards are such understanding people... not really, but for what you spent on the uranium, you deserve at little kindness because the Feds aren't gonna show you any love when you start setting off their Geiger counters.
I know that this is just a representative sample of stupidity that can be yours for the right price. And I am equally sure that there are a whole lot of other money sapping items of sheer stupidity that are available from retailers with more greed than sense.
But shouldn't you be willing to apply a little bit of caution? I mean you can expect to be branded as a loser for life with some of these purchases.
Oh well. Money never has equated with common sense. If that were the case, we could create a benefits program that would buy a clue for a lot of society.
Y'all have fun. And PLEASE do not put my phone number on speed dial.
I don't want to come pick up your deer butted, fart scented, glow in the dark self from the lockup where your new boyfriend Juan Carlos has decided that your wolf urine is a sexy smell.
Internet shopping is a caution. And y'all ought to exercise some when you are purchasing the next big thing.
I'm sure that others have figured this out long before now, but I am compelled to say that this is not run of the mill crazy but absolutely fruit bat guano cave filled crazy.
I cannot understand why money makes us crazy, but it does. When we have money in our pockets, the siren song of "spend me, spend me, spend me" sings loudly in our ears and heart showing us the benefits of blowing our entire wad on things that the poor but sane would never even consider.
That is the only possible explanation for why someone would blow their cash to buy ANY of the following.
just in case you think I made this up
#10 WOLF URINE - 100% wolf pee. Really??? WHY??? Regular dog pee isn't offensive enough? So you have to get hyper pee? Are you trying to mark your territory and prevent interlopers from taking the females from your pack?
Or are you trying to impress your drinking buddies (more than likely) with the aromatic scent of your turf?
What would compel ANYONE to part with their hard earned cash for a jug o' pee?
If the need for pee is that great, why don't you just take a Mason jar into your bathroom and save your own for free.
Either way, that is just GROSS. Save your money and your reputation.
#9 STOP EATING POOP - In yet another gross attempt to garner your cash, this is alleged to keep your dogs from eating their own, well, you know... In a random bit of information, they indicate that the product includes yucca, which makes the allegedly tasty poo, taste, well, less tasty. It also contains peppermint and parsley to freshen Fido's breath after his less than savory snack.
I am compelled to ask, wouldn't the peppermint and parsley just make him want to eat the poo all the more since it will mask the offensive odors from his breath?
Doesn't matter. Still GROSS. Is there anything on this list not related to bodily waste? I sure hope so. Because this is just NASTY!!
#8 BODY MIST - blatantly offensive product meant to encourage homosexual encounters. Wrong. Evil. And just plain offensive.
#7 DR. JOHN'S FAMOUS PEE PEE - Really??? MORE PEE??? Who in their right mind really believes that no one knows they are high at work? After a while, they DO notice and carrying around a flask of pee in order to pass a random drug test is a dead giveaway that you are, in fact, a junkie.
Save your money for rehab. It looks like you are gonna need it.
And as a strange question I am compelled to ask, does the DEA get a head's up on who has ordered this product? If not, they should. Can you imagine how many people could be saved from harm if this was tagged and the bust on the dope-heads could happen in a timely fashion?
#6 TANK - Now, we are actually getting into a product that I can see someone purchasing. Can you imagine the reaction at the downtown Christmas parade when this bad boy rolls down the street blasting candy from the gun ports? Nothing says "Merry Christmas" faster than a tank!
Of course, it could start a neighborhood war when you employ it to take out the pesky folks that allow their precious Pinky to poo on your freshly manicured lawn. But your lawn would be poo-free.
#5 LIQUID @$$ FART SPRAY - again with the gross bodily function product?? Is there ANYTHING on this list besides the Tank that is worth the money?? Why would you or anyone else want to descend into frat boy behavior and spend money to do it??
Sure, making rotten egg gas was hilarious in 9th grade chemistry, but aren't we a bit too old to do this kind of thing now?? Really???
#4 UFO DETECTOR - Yes. Along with your tinfoil hat and the colander you are protecting your brains with, a UFO Detector is an indispensable item that fairly screams to the entire world, "I AM A FREAKY NERD!" and who doesn't need that kind of advertising? It's not like your wardrobe hasn't already tipped them off.
#3 ROSWELL SOIL SAMPLE - See #4. If you are in for a penny, you are in for a pound. When you believe our world is under observation by pink bald headed, big eyed aliens, then you'd better have proof of it or your dinner date is going to excuse themselves to the bathroom and never return. Never underestimate the ability of a grown adult person to get out of an 8x8 bathroom window in a crisis.
#2 DEER BUTT - One word: WHY? I cannot imagine any social setting in which your cache would be enhanced by bringing out your deer butt. And what kind of friends are you REALLY trying to attract anyway? The people who would appreciate this kind of item may not be the kind of folks who can upgrade your social standing and in fact, may well be armed and dangerous.
And finally, on our intrepid press to the top of Jackass Mountain, we come to our Number One selection of money wasting bliss.
#1 URANIUM - Yes, it's the real deal. I'm sure the FBI is more than happy to keep track of this little gem in light of the domestic and international terrorism issues of our day. And just how do you plan to explain your "lovely glow" to your parents, in who's basement you are living?
According to the write up, this product is for "educational and scientific purposes only" and what is more educational than learning how to build a proton accelerator or nuke?
Don't worry. When you order this, your lonely days in your underwear wearing, basement dwelling life are over. You will be introduced to a host of nice people who will be your friends in the Supermax. And the guards are such understanding people... not really, but for what you spent on the uranium, you deserve at little kindness because the Feds aren't gonna show you any love when you start setting off their Geiger counters.
I know that this is just a representative sample of stupidity that can be yours for the right price. And I am equally sure that there are a whole lot of other money sapping items of sheer stupidity that are available from retailers with more greed than sense.
But shouldn't you be willing to apply a little bit of caution? I mean you can expect to be branded as a loser for life with some of these purchases.
Oh well. Money never has equated with common sense. If that were the case, we could create a benefits program that would buy a clue for a lot of society.
Y'all have fun. And PLEASE do not put my phone number on speed dial.
I don't want to come pick up your deer butted, fart scented, glow in the dark self from the lockup where your new boyfriend Juan Carlos has decided that your wolf urine is a sexy smell.
Internet shopping is a caution. And y'all ought to exercise some when you are purchasing the next big thing.
October 13, 2011
Walmart Funeral... blue plastic bags optional
Walmart isn't well known as a funeral service, but apparently, they do cater to the needs of the recently deceased.
From the gaudy, never fade, colored plastic or silk flowers to adorn the carefully mounded dirt to cover your mortal remains to the actual container that will hold said remains, Walmart is here for you in your time of need.
The website doesn't exactly scream about their merchandise for funerals, but seeking to have a finger in every pie or a hand on every urn, Walmart sells caskets, urns and all sorts of items you might need to take care of your dearly departed family member be they animal or human.
In a cost conscious society, people are looking ever more diligently for ways to save a dime on Aunt Maybelle's funeral and Walmart is here to help.
Funeral home trying to make a unjust profit on your suffering and grief?
Never fear, folks! Walmart is here to help with low priced supplies that will be sent to the funeral home of your choice - and in most states, they HAVE TO ACCEPT DELIVERY because of their state laws that require the consumers to have the ability to shop around for funeral services and merchandise needed to lay to rest those who have passed on before us.
There is one small caveat to this savings bonanza. Walmart does NOT accept returns on funeral items.
So if Aunt Maybelle makes a startling recovery, you are stuck with your purchase of the "Generously sized Star Legacy's Regal Wide Body casket".
Despite the fact that it "has extended dimensions width combined with an adjustable bed", the casket can't be returned unless it is damaged in shipping.
So unless Bubba Ray, the local delivery man, is willing to take a $20 to drop it just a little bit, you are stuck with the "exceptional quality, sleek design and squared corners that add to its contoured look".
Of course, come Halloween next year, that "hand-tailored white crepe interior and hand-painted, high gloss antique gunmetal" will come in handy for your front porch display.You can be thankful that it is galvanized metal, which means that your casket will never rust. So all those nasty kids that let their dogs poop on your yard will get a little taste of their own medicine when you make them poop in their pants after you jump up out of your very own casket on All Hallows Eve.
And, as an added bonus, you can always use the adjustable pillow and mattress to take care of the unexpected house guests that dropped in early for the funeral that now isn't happening.
The one thing that really puzzled me about this mad dash for a slice of the funeral commerce pie however, was the notation on the Walmart site that indicated that you could purchase these items as GIFTS!
G - I - F - T -S. Gifts.
Imagine the surprise on Christmas morning when Uncle Burford opens HIS present."We was thankin 'bout you and thought you might like THIS!"
Of course, it can also make an attractive and timely "Mother-in-Law" gift.
Just who decided Walmart was the next option in line for helping the bereaved through this painful time?
And why on earth is it so dang funny?
Maybe later on I'll have some answers, but right now, I'm too busy thinking about how you'd go about using those handy little gift cards to help you purchase that rose casket you've always wanted when it comes your time to go...
Y'all be nice.
It's a need.
And Walmart is meeting a need.
Just like they always do.
I only have one question: Is it wrong to pick up a six pack of Pepsi and some Cheetos when you're picking up the casket for the services?
October 12, 2011
Downward Dog and Other Lies
"Come, you take yoga class. It be good for you. You see, it easy. You like.'
The little Oriental woman who is in my aqua arthritis class invited me. And yes, she really talks that way, that isn't some kind of biased nonsense. She's only been in the USA a very short time and her English isn't that polished yet.
Because she is so nice and because I am trying to figure out just how this gym membership works out for the various classes I'd like to try, I said yes.
I rode the stationery bike for just over 3 miles as the warm-up. I thought I knew what was coming.
Downward dog is code for 'you will hurt in places that even God didn't know you had'. Then, the fun began.
As we went through various moves, positions and maneuvers, our slightly built diminutive instructor talked about how these moves were relaxing and so easy.
As compared with building a space-worthy vehicle from a toothpick and some cotton balls, that may well be true. But the conceptual portion of the class was a universe apart from the reality that aliens who bent in unnatural ways inhabited that mirrored room.
I closed my eye so that I wouldn't be assaulted by the visual image of me and my contorted body to torture my senses. It was bad enough that I was experiencing it both internally and externally. I had no desire to have a permanent visual record of my agony to replay on loop for all eternity.
Even now, several hours later, I am wondering what the point to the various poses really was. Some of them, alleged to stretch various segments of the body, have left a kind of muscular-skeletal agony that is seldom reproduced in a full impact crash with another vehicle. I can attest to that having been in several collisions during my life.
At the end of the class, we were all encouraged to 'lie flat on our backs with our arms stretched out to our sides' so that we 'could enjoy a brief rest'. I confess that mine was more like a spread-eagle pose of complete exhaustion.
Those serene yogi who teach the various yoga positions on television do not sweat. I doubt that their training allows for it since they are all about relaxation, stretching and being so much more than limber.
Since I am neither serene nor yogi-like in my skills, I think I could rival the production of sweat from the last three Preakness winners. I was actually afraid that I might drown in the pool when it came time for that segment of the exercise.
The next time someone encourages you to join a class because you will like it and it will be easy, realize that there are only three reasons they do this.
#1 - they are new to the class themselves and don't want to go alone and since you already share one class, they feel that they are comfortable enough to ask you to attend,
#2 - they are genuinely hoping you will enjoy something new and different,
or, what I consider to be the most logical selection,
#3 - they are the worst in the class at mastering the yoga positions and they have tagged you as the logical replacement for chief laughingstock in the room.
Downward dog is not for wimps and it hurts if you don't do it normally.
I have come to understand that 'yoga' is another 4-letter word. And today it was really naughty.
The little Oriental woman who is in my aqua arthritis class invited me. And yes, she really talks that way, that isn't some kind of biased nonsense. She's only been in the USA a very short time and her English isn't that polished yet.
Because she is so nice and because I am trying to figure out just how this gym membership works out for the various classes I'd like to try, I said yes.
I rode the stationery bike for just over 3 miles as the warm-up. I thought I knew what was coming.
Downward dog is code for 'you will hurt in places that even God didn't know you had'. Then, the fun began.
As we went through various moves, positions and maneuvers, our slightly built diminutive instructor talked about how these moves were relaxing and so easy.
As compared with building a space-worthy vehicle from a toothpick and some cotton balls, that may well be true. But the conceptual portion of the class was a universe apart from the reality that aliens who bent in unnatural ways inhabited that mirrored room.
I closed my eye so that I wouldn't be assaulted by the visual image of me and my contorted body to torture my senses. It was bad enough that I was experiencing it both internally and externally. I had no desire to have a permanent visual record of my agony to replay on loop for all eternity.
Even now, several hours later, I am wondering what the point to the various poses really was. Some of them, alleged to stretch various segments of the body, have left a kind of muscular-skeletal agony that is seldom reproduced in a full impact crash with another vehicle. I can attest to that having been in several collisions during my life.
At the end of the class, we were all encouraged to 'lie flat on our backs with our arms stretched out to our sides' so that we 'could enjoy a brief rest'. I confess that mine was more like a spread-eagle pose of complete exhaustion.
Those serene yogi who teach the various yoga positions on television do not sweat. I doubt that their training allows for it since they are all about relaxation, stretching and being so much more than limber.
Since I am neither serene nor yogi-like in my skills, I think I could rival the production of sweat from the last three Preakness winners. I was actually afraid that I might drown in the pool when it came time for that segment of the exercise.
The next time someone encourages you to join a class because you will like it and it will be easy, realize that there are only three reasons they do this.
#1 - they are new to the class themselves and don't want to go alone and since you already share one class, they feel that they are comfortable enough to ask you to attend,
#2 - they are genuinely hoping you will enjoy something new and different,
or, what I consider to be the most logical selection,
#3 - they are the worst in the class at mastering the yoga positions and they have tagged you as the logical replacement for chief laughingstock in the room.
Downward dog is not for wimps and it hurts if you don't do it normally.
I have come to understand that 'yoga' is another 4-letter word. And today it was really naughty.
October 8, 2011
Grocery Shopping Can Be Hazardous to Your Health
I live in a small town. We are not well known for much. We DO have the Fiddler's Convention which draws a few thousand people to our friendly community once a year to listen to the bluegrass, the country, the folk and the atmosphere of music on the campus of Athens State University.
Because the town is small, we are shocked when odd things occur. This isn't New York City where the odd is actually commonplace, nor is it L.A. where the odd is considered normal. This is Athens, where we set our watches back about 20 years, where the pace is deliberately slower by choice and inclination and where we believe ourselves to be safe.
But yesterday, I realized that danger is where you find it.
I had found a parking slot near the buggy return at Hometown Grocery. The intent was to get in, get out and get gone. Little did I know that my life was in danger from the second my foot hit the pavement.
As I was walking toward the store, I noticed the Knights of Columbus group hawking Tootsie Rolls for their fundraiser to help the disabled. I continued forward with the intent of telling them to keep the Tootsie Roll but take the donation. That's when fate intervened.
The dude in the car was between 90 and 9,000 and should NOT have been driving. NOT AT ALL. He didn't even look back or into his mirrors while he attempted to back out right over me as I was trying to walk into the store. For the record, I was paying attention. When I proceeded forward, NO CARS WERE MOVING... until HE decided to jack his Caddy into gear and leave his slot without so much as a backwards glance. He didn't even look back one single time when he hit me in my right leg with his bumper as I was walking behind him nor did he look back when I hit his trunk with my clipboard and coupons.
I was then that the lady from the Knights of Columbus shouted out "HEY!!! He's about to hit you!!" Yeah, what was your first clue?
He of the clueless driving aged population already DID hit me and he never even looked backwards, side to side or checked his mirrors. His gold trimmed Cadillac just cruised majestically on as if nothing had happened. Which to his mind, of course, didn't. Not a single thing. I hope I scratched his trunk's paint job with the clipboard and that it rusts clean through in the next rainstorm.
I scooped my beating heart up off the ground and kept walking into the store completely forgetting my donation to the disabled and absentmindedly wondering what it was that I was supposed to do in this store. Oh yeah. I was here to buy groceries. How silly of me! Almost murdered, but the groceries needed to be bought.
Why did that seem so strange now?
As I got my buggy and started the trek through the store, I pondered over the singular event. What would have happened had he actually driven over me? Would he have noticed the not inconsequential "bump" that would have been created when his Caddy ground me into the pavement? What if I had been killed while trying to go into Hometown to buy a rump roast for Sunday dinner? Would it be horrific or hilarious? What kind of News Courier coverage would there be? Would anyone attend the funeral or would the giggles of " it could only happen to HER!" prevent their attendance?
It's hard to gauge just how that would have all panned out since I didn't get killed by the old dude and no one was required to come up with an obituary that tenderly pronounced me better than sliced bread, which all of my true friends would know was a lie anyway.
SOME OLD PEOPLE SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED TO DRIVE!! At the very least, they should have to have a test for their dexterity performed on a regular basis to see just how they are functioning mentally and physically before they are licensed to drive a two ton machine that can kill people in the parking lot of the grocery store.
I realize that taking the keys from someone who is becoming unsafe behind the wheel is hard. I know firsthand. It's worse than hearing you have to have an enema and a quart of 'go lightly'. But for the life of me (and thank God I'm still alive!), I cannot understand why fear of the anger of an elderly person who is learning they are no longer able to drive themselves around trumps the safety of the OTHER people who are dodging, weaving and jumping curbs to avoid being hit by an elderly driver who should not be driving at all!
We complain a lot about teen drivers. They are young, inexperienced and inattentive.
But we need to concentrate a bit of our efforts of complaint towards the elderly drivers. They are old, slow reflexes, inattentive and cocksure of their abilities long after those abilities have jumped the fence never to return again.
Having been left on the sidelines for a good portion of my life through various injuries, surgeries and recoveries, I understand full well why I shouldn't have been behind the wheel during any of those times. I wasn't safe. Yet the elderly don't give a single thought to the fact that they can't see across the living room, are unable to read the newspaper without the highest magnification lens money can buy and are slower than molasses in January in their reflexes. They can drive because by God, they have a license.
Uh. No.
While I'm sure we are all (or mostly all) thankful I wasn't killed in Hometown's parking lot, I can't help but be in fear for the next time I am in a parking area. People of all ages are inattentive. When can I expect that inattention to catch up to me and bring me to the long, dirt nap?
For the record, my favorite color is blue, my favorite hymn is "Dear to the Heart of the Shepherd" and I hate sappy sermons that make people out to be better in death than life ever knew. So when you are planning my funeral from "grocery-cide" please consider those things.
God bless and happy shopping. Be sure and take your crash helmet, football protective gear and a big ol' whacking hockey stick. You never know when you might need to save yourself from some idiot behind the wheel.
Because the town is small, we are shocked when odd things occur. This isn't New York City where the odd is actually commonplace, nor is it L.A. where the odd is considered normal. This is Athens, where we set our watches back about 20 years, where the pace is deliberately slower by choice and inclination and where we believe ourselves to be safe.
But yesterday, I realized that danger is where you find it.
I had found a parking slot near the buggy return at Hometown Grocery. The intent was to get in, get out and get gone. Little did I know that my life was in danger from the second my foot hit the pavement.
As I was walking toward the store, I noticed the Knights of Columbus group hawking Tootsie Rolls for their fundraiser to help the disabled. I continued forward with the intent of telling them to keep the Tootsie Roll but take the donation. That's when fate intervened.
The dude in the car was between 90 and 9,000 and should NOT have been driving. NOT AT ALL. He didn't even look back or into his mirrors while he attempted to back out right over me as I was trying to walk into the store. For the record, I was paying attention. When I proceeded forward, NO CARS WERE MOVING... until HE decided to jack his Caddy into gear and leave his slot without so much as a backwards glance. He didn't even look back one single time when he hit me in my right leg with his bumper as I was walking behind him nor did he look back when I hit his trunk with my clipboard and coupons.
I was then that the lady from the Knights of Columbus shouted out "HEY!!! He's about to hit you!!" Yeah, what was your first clue?
He of the clueless driving aged population already DID hit me and he never even looked backwards, side to side or checked his mirrors. His gold trimmed Cadillac just cruised majestically on as if nothing had happened. Which to his mind, of course, didn't. Not a single thing. I hope I scratched his trunk's paint job with the clipboard and that it rusts clean through in the next rainstorm.
I scooped my beating heart up off the ground and kept walking into the store completely forgetting my donation to the disabled and absentmindedly wondering what it was that I was supposed to do in this store. Oh yeah. I was here to buy groceries. How silly of me! Almost murdered, but the groceries needed to be bought.
Why did that seem so strange now?
As I got my buggy and started the trek through the store, I pondered over the singular event. What would have happened had he actually driven over me? Would he have noticed the not inconsequential "bump" that would have been created when his Caddy ground me into the pavement? What if I had been killed while trying to go into Hometown to buy a rump roast for Sunday dinner? Would it be horrific or hilarious? What kind of News Courier coverage would there be? Would anyone attend the funeral or would the giggles of " it could only happen to HER!" prevent their attendance?
It's hard to gauge just how that would have all panned out since I didn't get killed by the old dude and no one was required to come up with an obituary that tenderly pronounced me better than sliced bread, which all of my true friends would know was a lie anyway.
SOME OLD PEOPLE SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED TO DRIVE!! At the very least, they should have to have a test for their dexterity performed on a regular basis to see just how they are functioning mentally and physically before they are licensed to drive a two ton machine that can kill people in the parking lot of the grocery store.
I realize that taking the keys from someone who is becoming unsafe behind the wheel is hard. I know firsthand. It's worse than hearing you have to have an enema and a quart of 'go lightly'. But for the life of me (and thank God I'm still alive!), I cannot understand why fear of the anger of an elderly person who is learning they are no longer able to drive themselves around trumps the safety of the OTHER people who are dodging, weaving and jumping curbs to avoid being hit by an elderly driver who should not be driving at all!
We complain a lot about teen drivers. They are young, inexperienced and inattentive.
But we need to concentrate a bit of our efforts of complaint towards the elderly drivers. They are old, slow reflexes, inattentive and cocksure of their abilities long after those abilities have jumped the fence never to return again.
Having been left on the sidelines for a good portion of my life through various injuries, surgeries and recoveries, I understand full well why I shouldn't have been behind the wheel during any of those times. I wasn't safe. Yet the elderly don't give a single thought to the fact that they can't see across the living room, are unable to read the newspaper without the highest magnification lens money can buy and are slower than molasses in January in their reflexes. They can drive because by God, they have a license.
Uh. No.
While I'm sure we are all (or mostly all) thankful I wasn't killed in Hometown's parking lot, I can't help but be in fear for the next time I am in a parking area. People of all ages are inattentive. When can I expect that inattention to catch up to me and bring me to the long, dirt nap?
For the record, my favorite color is blue, my favorite hymn is "Dear to the Heart of the Shepherd" and I hate sappy sermons that make people out to be better in death than life ever knew. So when you are planning my funeral from "grocery-cide" please consider those things.
God bless and happy shopping. Be sure and take your crash helmet, football protective gear and a big ol' whacking hockey stick. You never know when you might need to save yourself from some idiot behind the wheel.
September 28, 2011
867-5309
Do you remember where you were and whom you were with when that number became important to you?
I do.
The group 'Tommy Tutone' changed a generation and influence others that have followed with the slightly off center lyrics penned by Alex Call and Jim Keller. One wonders just what inspired their musing and why it became a phenomenon? It's just a phone number, right?
Years after the success from the song, Alex Call claimed there was neither a "Jenny" nor an actual phone number associated with the rambling words that everyone seemed to know. That kind of made me sad because as I sang the words, I truly pictured some beautiful girl who would answer her phone for the wounded young man who so desperately sang her telephone number seeking her help and aid in his troubled life. Now, I am left with the sad image that he called into the void and received only static for his troubles.
But the singers claimed it WAS a real girl and they had posted her phone number on the bathroom wall as a joke and made hay with the results for years laughing at what they had done. Kinda makes me wonder if Elmo La Teca (of the SLC Maverick gas station bathroom stall fame) ever found Jenny's number and what the results might have been?
That number has created problems in the intervening years for those who have actually HAD it as their phone number. Although no area code is provided and we know that the song originated long before 10-digit dialing became the norm in some locations, one can only imagine the puzzling commentary of the folks on the other end of the line when their version of 867-5309 was dialed and some persistent callers demanded to speak to "Jenny".
Worse yet might have been the actual unsuspecting "Jenny" who haplessly answered from HER real area code and phone number who wondered why she was suddenly getting all of these phone calls from half-drunken love starved barflies that sought her attention and advice just before closing time.
Because I care, here's a video of a live performance of the song.
867-5309
Listen to it and remember... then, randomly pick an area code, dial the number and PLEASE ask for Jenny. Then smile and hang up.
I do.
The group 'Tommy Tutone' changed a generation and influence others that have followed with the slightly off center lyrics penned by Alex Call and Jim Keller. One wonders just what inspired their musing and why it became a phenomenon? It's just a phone number, right?
Years after the success from the song, Alex Call claimed there was neither a "Jenny" nor an actual phone number associated with the rambling words that everyone seemed to know. That kind of made me sad because as I sang the words, I truly pictured some beautiful girl who would answer her phone for the wounded young man who so desperately sang her telephone number seeking her help and aid in his troubled life. Now, I am left with the sad image that he called into the void and received only static for his troubles.
But the singers claimed it WAS a real girl and they had posted her phone number on the bathroom wall as a joke and made hay with the results for years laughing at what they had done. Kinda makes me wonder if Elmo La Teca (of the SLC Maverick gas station bathroom stall fame) ever found Jenny's number and what the results might have been?
That number has created problems in the intervening years for those who have actually HAD it as their phone number. Although no area code is provided and we know that the song originated long before 10-digit dialing became the norm in some locations, one can only imagine the puzzling commentary of the folks on the other end of the line when their version of 867-5309 was dialed and some persistent callers demanded to speak to "Jenny".
Worse yet might have been the actual unsuspecting "Jenny" who haplessly answered from HER real area code and phone number who wondered why she was suddenly getting all of these phone calls from half-drunken love starved barflies that sought her attention and advice just before closing time.
Because I care, here's a video of a live performance of the song.
867-5309
Listen to it and remember... then, randomly pick an area code, dial the number and PLEASE ask for Jenny. Then smile and hang up.
September 21, 2011
And the Monkey Flips the Switch
We live in a technological age.
Allegedly.
I am discovering the limits of technology in a most personal
and frustrating way right now. It has been made painfully obvious to me just
how dependent I am upon the Internet to conduct daily business, news, and
contact with the outside world.
Despite having DSL and then switching to a higher speed
Internet service which should have made our lives better, we now have NEITHER
the lower speed, nor the higher speed which was advertised as being “oh so much
better”.
Trust me, it’s NOT better. It’s worse.
Instead of having slow and intermittent service, we now have
NO service at all of any kind. With Rick back in school and our son Thomas at a
school in another state, this service interruption has ground our
communications to a standstill. It also hampers my ability to play online
Scrabble, a minor consideration, but a consideration nonetheless.
I’ve never felt so ‘Stone Age’ in my life.
In our nation, we have the technology to send men to the
moon and communicate with them at distance yet we lack the ability to transact
a single simple request for home Internet service that is both reliable and
fast. Where have we gone wrong?
For crying out loud, I can go to Burger King and transact a
“hold the pickles” order of the most
odd combinations and get exactly what I describe from people who have not yet
graduated from high school however this technological flip of the switch is
apparently beyond the skill level of the kind people at the phone company who
are supposed to be ahead of the curve on their brilliance in all things modern.
I am decidedly NOT amused.
Where are the trained monkeys who led the world in space
flight? Ms. Baker, where are you when we need you most? Oh, yeah, you are dead…
which probably explains our lack of noise free phone and Internet service since
you aren’t here to make certain the proper sequence of switch flipping has
occurred. Maybe it’s time to revisit our employment standards and stop
discriminating against our simian brethren. They could hardly do worse than
their allegedly more evolved relations.
Now, the delightful young man from Bangladesh who is
definitely not named Robert assures me that I will not be billed for this
‘service interruption’ and that they are doing all in their power to assist me
in this request for help.
May I please have a monkey?
I have bananas to pay for the assistance rendered.
I am currently on hold… the eternal game of patience in
suffering. The idea is to see just how long you are willing to put your entire
life at a standstill in order to hear someone in a clogged call center in the
basement of the Hotel Bangalore reassure me that my concerns matter to them.
I’m not buying it.
They don’t care or they would have fixed this mess the first
gazillion times we called begging for help. I realize that they work for Satan,
but I’m beginning to see that for most of them, they not only love their work,
but they love their boss as well. I can see them standing by the water cooler laughing
over how many transfers they can put you through before you lose the will to
live. “Yes, Mujibar, I completed 17 transfers through the entire department,
through billing and through the customer complaint hotline before
‘accidentally’ cutting off her connection right when we were about to ‘resolve’
her issues!” Hilarity ensues as the backslapping and high-fiving one another
gives way to sitar music and dancing until the next call rings in.
Why do we put up with any of this nonsense?
In reality, we put up with it because we don’t really have
an alternative to the phone company. They are evil and they know it and they
revel in that knowledge because they know that we don’t have any other choices.
Even our cellular service goes through Beelzebub’s phone company.
I yearn for the simpler days when hope sprang eternal that
one day we would have flying cars, food replicators and endless energy supplies
through dilithium crystals. I yearn for the days when we understood that
although our relatives are more hirsute than we are, they are actually the ones
in charge as scenes from “Planet of the Apes” scroll through my mind. Now, they
are saying it could be 7 to 10 more DAYS before they are able to ‘address your
issues’. Bull. They have the power. They just don’t want to wield it in my
behalf because I lack the ability to choose something better than the demons
and imps at the phone company to provide the services I desire to have.
So we are back to square one. Waiting. And waiting some
more. The music from “2001: A Space Odyssey” begins to fill my thoughts as I
picture simians in jumpsuits driving phone company trucks… and the monkey flips
the switch… I just wish he’d get to our particular switch a little faster.
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