Christmas Sucks

Christmas sucks because:
We only give gifts because we have to, not because we necessarily are inspired or can afford to. This is not exactly the way Jesus showed up, "Oh, ok...I'll save ya'll...and you get socks too!"

It happens in the winter, which at least where I live, is cold. This makes, shopping (see above) suck. And all that frolicking in the snow...only in the Gap ads, people, only in the Gap ads...

There is not enough time for all the baking, shopping (again, see above), church attending/choir practicing, working (again, see shopping), and still be sane enough to handle the actual day-to-day living. I don't think that anyone gave Jesus sugar cookies and fruitcake. Certainly we could do with more church attending and choir practicing (although, the lady that actually called and YELLED at me this year when I didn't the kids there on TIME this year, maybe she could do with less practicing...) Just...take a chill pill and a V-8 people. It's kids all dressed up at Christmas...and we think it's kinda cute when they mess up. If you practice them into perfection and the parents into stress, all that happens is that no one wants to come to church!

If you do not possess the "fond memories" of Christmas that the pastor refers to in his sermons all during Advent, it makes you feel not only like you are really screwed up, but also makes you worry about whether your kids are lacking them just like you are...yikes! Double whammy, straight to Hell, do not collect $200.

Singles can feel singled out at the holidays. And the unhappily married...well, I can't say there is "nothing lonelier", but being honestly alone can be easier than faking togetherness. I have had years when I had a great time with friends and well I can't say much other than that, but I know that some people have great husbands, and I have it on good authority that some people make great husbands: if you are one of them out there...hats off to you!

Trees! Dragging a perfectly healthy tree that has been chopped down in its prime so that it can sit around and become a mess and fire hazard...I would blame the pagans, but I'm not sure if that was their idea, or just something I heard on TV. Hard to tell anymore. Anyway, fake trees are really no better. I have one, since I am allergic to pine and resented getting sick from them every year (now I just get regular sick.)

My sons had their first experience putting up the tree this year, and complained when our kitten almost tore it down. I assured them that they could get the tree put back together, since only 5 feet of me had put up over 8 feet of tree in years past, there were two of them...and they were well over 5'7" EACH! When they argued that the cat would just destroy the tree again, I argued that if years of trees had survived twin boys, one tree would survive one kitten. The tree got put back up, and stayed up pretty well, in spite of them and the cat. But back to Christmas suckage...

Christmas...well, I guess it doesn't totally suck. Jesus, well, He's cool, and it is about Him. And my kids are cool (most of the time...which is about as often as I accomplish coolness either), and I am fortunate to have a "dearest"...whose non-husbandness makes him cool too. And so, I suppose Christmas is cool...and we will try to make it to choir practice on time, every time next year (yeah, right)!

Morning 10

My morning 10 pills, not morning 10 minutes of break time, as most people would be taking at this of day in the "working world." I feel as though I'm doing because I really have something to say, but it is yet another prescription. This one from Marcel*. Not his real name of course. Nothing and no one has a real name of course...not my therapist, who is the one who prescribed resurrecting my blog, and the doctors are the ones who have prescribed the many pills that I take. The writing is trying to get done before I get to loopy to get the writing done. Sword is beyond double edged, it is threatening to leap into my hands and tempt me greatly to navigate from this page to one hari-kari, or however you spell it. Perhaps spell checking that one is not such a great idea.

Anyway, no one seems to have a real name anymore. Not Marcel, the therapist who prescribes blogging. I imagine he would be better as a merciless Frenchman, chain smoking through our sessions and then with a thick French accent, saying only "Hmph," and "You, get to yer computer. Tell these problems to the Internet. Perhaps you will find someone in cyberspace who cares. As for me, I must go get cafe. See you in two weeks. Au revoir." I hate the French. But Marcel, he is actually pretty cool, even though he isn't French, and doesn't chain smoke. Maybe I can ask him to at my next appointment.

Even my pills go by pet names. Moby Dick is my anti-inflammatory, which I find strange, since it is the smallest of them all. But, I think that is because it's real name is Mobic and I couldn't keep it straight. Again, ironic since it has the shortest name, too. Not easy when you're dealing with mashed potato brain from so much Xanax (the only medication that is also a palindrome. Therefore Xanax is my pal.) Gabapentin is just too big a mouthful, literally and figuratively, and so is just Gabby (and is nice in public, when my friend asks me if I "Have Gabby with me." Sounds more like we are checking to see which of us is making social plans, than if I have meds.) The one that makes me laugh the most is Flomax. I started taking Protonix, which, not surprisingly, is to handle stomach upset. I was struggling for about 6 weeks with such stomach pains that I had finally gotten to a diet of just bananas and rice cereal, which seemed ok to me, but to my boyfriend seemed to be a sign that perhaps something was terribly wrong. That, and I was gassing him out of the bedroom so badly every night that he was keeping air freshener by the beside just to survive.

After just a day or two on the Flomax...I was FINE. Apparently it heals up torn up gut stuff, and all those other pills: the Moby Dick, Pal, Gabby, and all of the other pain stuff, muscle relaxants, anti-depressants, ADD meds, etc. that they've got me taking just to keep me from doing the hari-kari thing that gets so tempting on the days that they don't work tend to rip up the stomach lining in the process. It didn't even take a day before Protonix became Flomax. So, my apologies to all the drug companies out there: but your stuff just doesn't really matter that much, as far as what it's called. What it does, is keep me sitting up, sometimes walking, and apparently from killing myself. That's good. And Shakespeare already covered all that "What's in a name?" stuff a loooong time ago, so don't get all in a huff over copyright infringement, and be glad you're making sure folks walk, talk, digest lasagna and keep from jumping out windows.

Even Marcel probably doesn't probably care what he's called, as long as he keeps people from killing themselves. How he keeps from killing himself after the patients walk out his door is a whole 'nother story. Maybe he does chain smoke. This is probably why he never has an office higher than the second floor: it's not just for the safety for his patients, it's for himself, too. I wonder what he does for his Morning 10?

Bottle of Brains

Under the gun to do something besides sit and watch yet another hour of the National Geographic Channel, since apparently neither my children nor my therapist want to hear anything more about volcanoes, submarines, how a guy survived a free-fall to earth after his parachute didn't open, or how the girl with 8 limbs is doing now (who knew there even WAS a girl with 8 limbs, let alone that we could get an update about her?), here I sit, blogging. Well, it's not only because my family is tired of my recounting my hours of reality TV addiction, but I have joined a group that I thought I never would (hey,I actually multi-tasked and joined two at the same time): the unemployed and disabled. Cool, huh?

It's funny how if you have no job and can't really go anywhere without someone to help...well...I don't know how to finish that sentence, actually. There's nothing really that funny about it. I hafta say, I am not a noble, patient, cool person to look up to right now. I am not bearing all this crap like those people you read about in magazines and stuff (great, so I am asking you to read about me? Well, no, but if you are, sit down, have a cuppa coffee and try to bear with me. I could use the company.) So the thing of it is, I am surprised, I will admit, at my own lack of bravado. I thought I would be one of those cool people. Nope!

Instead, I watch the aforementioned TV, drink a lot of coffee, and don't write all of the cool books I swore I would if I were ever confined to bed (which I feared I would be if my back ever gave up on me, which it apparently has...at least for now...even though I still haven't given up on it. We'll see who is more stubborn in the end.)

I am shocked at the weird thoughts that jump into my head when I am all alone, all day long, with just the cat to hang out with. I don't even know why it is, that the longer you're with yourself, the closer you get to wanting scream out the window, just to check and make sure the rest of the world can still hear you. But believe me, all it takes is one missed car payment to let you know that you're very much missed.

There's no way to know whether it'll be a month or 6 months or more til I begin getting better. And that's just for my back. Then there's the rest of me they'll hafta fix. Anyone have a bottle of brains out there?

First Love

I was a little older than most, when I had my first: rather than being a teenager, like all the other kids, I was already out of school. A college graduate, even. I was 21. And my first love? A 1972, yellow, Volkswagen bug. I bought ‘im with my own money. A thousand dollars cash that I had leftover in funds I had earned from a part time job at the college bookstore that had helped stretch my student loan and grant money. Trying to afford an apartment, even with nine other roommates in a two-floor flat in San Francisco, it took everything I had to make that money stretch!

A car was often a liability more than help, living in The City; parking was impossible to find, insurance rates were outrageous, and with public transportation so abundant, it seemed silly to have a car. The bus stopped right outside my flat, and again right outside the University. The train went everywhere else. True, I had to take the bus, train, shuttle, and a plane if I wanted to visit my parents in Oregon, where I was to end up meeting the love of my life: the bug that I plunked down the last of my cash to obtain. But, I didn’t have the time, money, or desire to see my parents very often while I was going to school. So the bus, train, shuttle, and plane ride only came up a few times a year. Although, when it did, it still sucked. A lot.

In fact, the first time that I had to subject myself to the bus, train, shuttle, plane ride thing, I couldn’t believe that I would ever do it again. My parents had just moved away from the Bay Area to Oregon, which I was informed of after the house was bought and the boxes were about to be packed. My family isn’t always real big on communication. My parents were kind of against talking, hugging, and expressing emotions. We were all more in favor of eating pancakes.

I had just started my junior year at school. Apparently, the parents had taken a weekend trip to Salem where their favorite restaurant, The Pancake House, was. Yes, they drove like 15 hours to go eat pancakes. They would do stuff like that. Even with some of the finest restaurants in the world just 40 miles away in San Francisco, there were no good pancakes. So, they called me upon returning to the home where I had grown up, and said, “Guess, what, we’re moving!” “You’re what?” I asked, not really listening to the first couple of words, but definitely focused once I heard the last. “Moving!” my mother said, breathlessly, “to Oregon, next month! It’s the cutest little house, it’s in Salem, it’s a hundred years old…” I couldn’t focus anymore. It was my turn, “Why? When? What? Why?” I know I asked why twice, but it just didn’t make sense. “Well,” my dad got on the phone, “Look, Sauce.” He always called me that. Short for Sauci. “We don’t like living in California. Your mother never has. And now that you’re all settled in your own place, and you don’t call, write, or visit, we figured that you could not call, not write, and not visit us in Oregon.” Hmph. Go figger! “So, I bought your mom a house.” He finished rather quietly, which was rather like him. No drama. He bought her a house. Not “We bought a house.” He “bought her a house.” Interesting. I had to say something. “So, when are you moving?” “Next month,” he said. “We’re going to put this one on the market, and while it sells, we’re going to get everything ready to go, but you need to be ready to have Thanksgiving in Salem this year.” Hmph. Oregon. Sounded gross.

Well, it was true. I did end up traveling to Oregon for Thanksgiving that year. And, not to give anything away, really, it was gross. But, I digress. I packed my stuff, took the bus to the BART station. The BART train took me to the airport shuttle. The shuttle took me to the airport. I got on a plane for the first time since I was six. I had actually gotten a little tipsy at the airport, and then decided that was a bad idea, once on the plane. I drank coffee on the plane, instead. I tried to get my head together…and I flew to Portland.

My dad picked me up and drove me to Salem in the most freezing cold that I had ever experienced. I was a Cali girl! Even as a Northern Cali girl, what did I know of the cold? I decided that this Oregon thing was the first sign of my parents going completely senile. As we finally neared Salem, I told my dad how glad I was that we were done traveling. I was soooo tired, and with Thanksgiving being the next day, all I wanted to do was sleep and eat mom’s turkey. That’s when he told me that actually, no, we would be having Thanksgiving with Auntie Edie and Uncle John. Augh. Auntie Edie was about half-past crazy, and Uncle John was running way ahead of her on the crazy-o-meter.

I asked if they were at the house already, so I could prepare myself. That’s when he let the other shoe drop. We would actually be going to Uncle’s cabin. That place was just outside of Seattle! That meant almost 5 hours of driving tomorrow. Oh. My. Gosh. I wanted to ask why they hadn’t just flown me into Seattle, but I was too tired, too cold, and too…demoralized…to even ask. I just mumbled something about whether we were close to the new house yet. He announced proudly, “Here we are!” and pulled up in front of the smallest house I had ever seen.

My mom was doing a dance as I walked inside that made her look like she had to pee, but I assumed that she was just really, really proud of what she kept calling her “Little Dollhouse.” I tried to look excited. I pulled off a diplomatic, “Wow.” Inside, there was one actual bedroom. Asking, “Where do I sleep?” she answered with a proud gesture toward a room that looked like part of the living room, but apparently had folding doors that turned it into “My room.” Super. I folded the doors closed, and collapsed. I could hear my parents asking, “What is wrong with her now?” and discussing what they could do to “Adjust” my “Attitude” in time for tomorrow.

As we traveled to Auntie and Uncle’s cabin, my parents told and retold their grand adventure of how they found their precious dollhouse. And how happy they were to escape the rat race. And how delightful their new life was. And how they didn’t miss anything or anyone at all (thanks! I mumbled from the backseat…feeling very two years old). I’d been hoping the holiday would be a happy reunion, and not a pissing match or grudge match, or any other kind of match (and wondering why I expected my family to suddenly morph into “The Walton’s” every year, and why I even knew anything about “The Walton’s,” since I had never even seen an episode when I was growing up. I know I’m a freak. Someday I am going to make a list of all the Great American television…ok…maybe not great, but at least normal, television, that I did not see when I was a kid.) This is the weird stuff that I was thinking about instead of listening to the actual list of stuff of “What was wrong?” with me that my parents had moved onto in the front seat, when we (FINALLY) arrived.

I admit I was not in a proper holiday-ish mood when we arrived. I was not into the whole “Little House on the Prairie” thing my family seemed to be trying to rock that year (ok, that’s a show that I actually watched a few times; I don’t know how I got away with that one). I was cold. I was hungry. I was tired. I had used possibly every form of transportation known to man, aside from a boat, to get to that stupid cabin. In we walked, and the first thing that my Uncle John said to anyone, was directed at me. And that was, “Hey! You’ve gotten fat!” Yep. From the 350 pound man who couldn’t get out of his chair without help? Yep. From the man who had a good 230 pounds on me? Still and again, a resounding yep. I had no response. I thought of some, but none were really Walton’s worthy. Besides, even though I had city-girl mode going on outside, I was all Mary Ellen & John Boy on the inside.

All I could muster for rest of the day, the ride home, the rest of the visit, ride to the airport, and wait for the airplane, was the silent treatment for everyone. Oh, and as a side note: I had to do that whole plane, shuttle, train, and bus trip backwards of course, to get home. As a bonus, the train broke down in the tunnel. Then, the handle broke on my suitcase as I was walking out of said tunnel. No joke. I was so despondent at that point, that I took the last of my cash and hailed a cab to take me the rest of the way to my apartment. I think it was one of the best investments I ever made.

Now you may wonder what in the heck this all has to do with why I fell in love with a 1972 yellow, VW bug. Well, that baby gave me my freedom. Granted, I didn’t give in to the temptation until I was out of San Francisco, and ironically, living in Salem (I know, but it must have been that little bit of “The Walton’s” in me.) With my little bug, I never felt trapped like I did that cold, miserable Thanksgiving. Knowing that your best friend is there to back you up (unless he’s outta gas, in which case, you’re pushin’ ‘im to the curb and calling Triple A) but even then…there’s no insults hurled; no hurt feelings. That’s what a good relationship should be. I know it’s “just a car”, but if you ask almost anyone about their first car they’ll probably get as nostalgic as they are about any first “love”, too.

I Need a Funeral

I have decided that I am ready for my funeral. Not that I am dying, or anything that dramatic. It’s just that it has been a tough week. Well, maybe a tough month. Ok, maybe most of this year so far hasn’t gone all that smoothly. And there’s a lot about a funeral that I could use right now.

–First of all, someone would do my hair and makeup and dress me up in my best outfit. That would be great. I need a make over.
–I would get to lie down for the whole party in a satin lined...well, ok it’s a casket...but still...satin. Comfy. And that nice little satin pillow? That looks comfy, too.
–Everybody would be there. And I mean, EVERYBODY. There isn’t anyone that doesn’t love a good funeral. And since I am still young, it would be well attended. By young, I mean by funeral standards. By dating and career standards, at just around 40...I feel almost past my prime. But for a funeral, I am a draw. “Ooh,” I can just hear my mother’s friends now, “she was so young.” (The same ones that right now are saying “Doesn’t she seem a little old to be wearing/saying/doing that?”)
–People would say nice things and tell funny stories about me. I would like to hear those things right about now. I need to hear how I changed someone’s life, or made someone happy, or just that someone knew I was here for a while and they were glad. Mostly, it’s hard to tell if I make a ripple in someone else’s pond. Unless I cut them off in traffic, and then their finger tells me of that ripple quite clearly.
–I want to hear the CD mix that I know somebody will make of all the music that reminds him, or her, of me. (I am hoping it will be a him.) And that he will pick really cool stuff like “Brick House” by The Commodores (even though that song is about an Amazon woman and I am only 5 feet tall), or “Sweet Home Alabama” by Lynrd Skynrd (even though I am from California, it’s still a great song), or “Highway to Hell” by AC/DC (just for the shock value).
–I love a good buffet and funerals always have the best ones. I want to have some Jello salads and ham and apple pie and ice cream.
–I could use a bunch of prayer. I don’t expect to get to Heaven, or anything right now. I know I have work still to do here. I just think all that singing and praying would be refreshing.
–Most everyone I know is in need of a good cry and a good laugh, and a funeral gives everyone the chance to do some of both.

But, I am out of luck, as usual. ‘Cause I ain’t dying. And nobody seems to be throwing funerals for the living. So I guess I will just take a nap, have a snack, go to church, and celebrate myself as I am: a little tired, a little hungry, and in need of prayer and catharsis. And maybe that is what a funeral provides, after all: catharsis, community, communion, and connection. That is what we all need. I do need a funeral. Don’t we all?

Beauty on a Budget

There's an article in one of the current "women's magazines" that extols the virtues of caring for one's skin, and suggests the proper products for day and night care. As a woman over forty (wow…I knew that was true, but as I type it out, it seems so much more real!) I am looking for every secret I can find. Well, at least all of the ones that don't involve surgery, injections of poison, and applications of chemicals that remove layers of skin and leave one looking like a burn victim for weeks at a time.

Most of the suggestions make sense: moisturize in the morning before applying makeup, use a minimum SPF 15, remove makeup at night, apply moisturizer again, and apply specialized treatments to the eyes and other parts of the face that may be showing signs of age (forehead, lips, and neck are prone to get especially wrinkly, as I have found when I peer into the mirror; the one in my bathroom can be pretty forgiving. It's the rearview mirror in the car that I find really horrifying. I glance into it every day to make sure that I am not going to back into anything, and then I nearly smash into the car behind me anyway, because I am so distracted by the craters I find between my brows, the "laugh lines" around my mouth, and the **gasp** sun damage I can see in spots around my whole face from those silly teen years when I slathered BABY OIL, yes, BABY OIL all over my body and then deep fried myself in the California sun at midday! Oh, if I could go back in time, I would yank that foolish child inside and put on some sunscreen! Well, I would also tell her to have better posture, work harder in school, not worry about boys so much, learn how to ballroom dance, and pay more attention in math class. But since we are not real close to inventing a time machine, I guess I am going to have to live with the sunspots, my inability to dance, and a checkbook that balances only when I open a new account.)

Armed with a newfound appreciation for the importance of skin care, I head to the store to stock up on beauty products. I am a little wary, since along with fine lines, spots, and some deeper regrets that no lotion can ever soothe, I am also burdened with sensitive skin. I have spent fortunes on an array of products in the past, only to end up looking monstrous because of swollen eyes and red, bumpy rashes. Even when purchasing products that are specifically labeled "hypo-allergenic" or sold under the guise of being for "sensitive skin," I will be the one person who is allergic to it. Therefore, if I find a brand that doesn't make me itchy & rashy, I tend to stick to it. I may have to pay a little more, but I will buy a name brand if I can tolerate its formula. I am wary of branching out because of my skin's rebellious nature. I realize though, that I need more than just the one moisturizer that I have been slathering on every morning for 15 years, and so off I go to the dreaded beauty aisle.

Cleansing products are the first order of business, since it is the hardest for me to manage. I will admit: I am a bad girl when it comes to face washing. I commit the cardinal sin of going to bed with my makeup on. Apparently by doing this, I am risking everything from clogged pores (not a big risk for me, since I don't wear foundation, but still) to eye infections, raccoon eyes (not an actual condition, just ugly to wake up with) and stained pillowcases. I am still traumatized from my last experience with makeup "wipes," which left me with swollen eyes and eczema. Ironically, because I had tried to be a good girl and remove my makeup every night, I ended up having to go without eye makeup for 2 weeks before I recovered from the allergic reaction. And this was from a manufacturer that markets their products as being "hypo-allergenic!" But, it is summertime, and I want to be able to wear waterproof mascara, which is notoriously hard to remove, without special products (all of which, in the past, have ended up turning my eyes into red swollen slits.) In addition, the price of these makeup removing solvents is staggering: 25 wipes=$6.99 and that’s with a coupon! One bottle of cleanser: $9.99, and then I still have to buy cotton balls (which always shred when applied to lashes stiffened with mascara, YUCK); or one jar of makeup removing cream: $12.99, YIKES! And then I still have the application & removal issue: cotton balls, tissue, etc. I know myself too well. I will never be able to afford to keep buying those wipes. The cleanser or cream will annoy me if I have to apply it every night and get cotton fluffies in my eyes, and really: if I haven't gotten in the habit of doing this fancy routine in the first 40 years of my life, why would I go to the trouble of doing it now? I need something quick, cheap and easy (and no smarty-pants comments of "that's how I like my men" thank you very much).

As I think about what would be gentle, thorough, and non-irritating (ok, here's where you can insert the comment about "that's how I like my men") it occurs to me exactly where to find the stuff to clean my face. I leave the beauty aisle and head for the baby aisle. Wipes are indeed the answer, just not the ones that are $6.99 for 25! I pick up a box of Pampers baby wipes, the ones for "extra sensitive skin" and they are on sale, $1.69 for 170. And, I can get refills for even less! In the same place I find the other item I will need: baby soap, for a gentle wash in the morning, $1.29. I always hate washing my face in the morning since shower gel burns my eyes, and dries out my face. Problem solved, for just under $3.00.

Now that I have saved so much on the face washing items, I can spend a little extra to get the moisturizer in the name brand that I really like. I get Oil of Olay in the unscented version, so as not to upset my "babied" skin, and with SPF 15, just like the article suggested. I know it’s silly to have a “thing” for Oil of Olay, but my ex-mother in law always used it, and she always seemed so pretty and smelled so good when she put it on. Granted, she was only 35 at the time(yep, 2nd wife of the ol’ ex-father in law, you guessed it), but I was 22 and needed to learn this stuff: I have stuck with the Oil of Olay ever since and because it doesn’t make me rashy, I wouldn’t dare switch now. Plus, I’m not too wrinkly yet, and neither is the ex-mom in law. Now is that coincidence, or Oil of Olay? I am not going to find out the hard way! The special moisturizer for eyes and lips could be a challenge for the wallet, but there's a trick here, too.

First the lips: there are actually special products in the beauty department just for the lips. One can spend anywhere from 99 cents to $10.00 on lip stuff. From Chapstick to special "Lip Renewal" creams, there's a whole line of products dedicated to the kisser. I didn't buy any. When I got home, I looked at my bedside and found that I had the perfect answer: Bag Balm. Although I am not up on "udder" problems, so to speak, I have treated hands, lips, and flu-reddened noses with Bag Balm for years, with great success. The 10 oz. can is a little more than most folks need, but for about $8.99 it is a steal. I tend to get the tiny .5 oz guy, and for $1.99, it is a beauty bargain.

The eyes actually required a little luck. But this was a good lesson in the value of beauty bartering. I wanted to try the Oil of Olay eye "treatment" since I love their moisturizer, and I was sure it would make my eyes smooth and wrinkle free for years to come. However, when I went to buy the stuff, I found that I would pretty much have to qualify for a second mortgage on my home in order to afford it. I was so disappointed. I was tempted to invest in the product anyway, but I just couldn't imagine the budgetary sacrifices I would have to make. Could I promise myself not to have lattes for a year? Maybe, but not likely. Would I eat at home more often? Well, probably, but at this price, it would have to be mac and cheese at home. Bummer. Would I swear not to add to my shoe collection for a whole season? Ha! What good would smooth, non-crinkly eyes do me if I was shlumping around in last year's strappy sandals? I was in a quandary. I mentioned my dilemma at work. A co-worker heard the name of eye cream I so coveted, and she interrupted me to tell me that she had bunches of it at home! Her mother in law bought it for her, and she felt so insulted to have "wrinkle cream" thrust upon her that she wouldn't use it! Granted, she was in her 20's and therefore could have claimed justifiable homicide in this case; but I was too excited to discover a stash of eye wrinkle cream to contemplate helping her commit murder. She offered to give me the eye cream for nothing. And I was tempted to take it. For nothing. However, I thought about having a little moral fiber (it's the only fiber I have; I am not much of a health nut, although now I am finding out that a healthy diet is good for the skin, too, so I may have to shop in the fruit and veggie aisle at the store too. Bummer). So, I mentioned that I happened to have a pretty good supply of hypo-allergenic makeup remover pads (remember, the ones that gave me puffy eczema eyes?) and it turned out that Miss 20's Eye Wrinkle Cream was a big fan of the make up pads. So, we bartered some beauty and both ended up happy. And her mother in law didn't have to die. Hard to say if that was really a benefit or not, but we'll say, just for the sake of argument, that the lady was a good person with really bad gift-giving skills. I hope so, since I am hoping for more wrinkle cream for Christmas.

The point of all this is that you never know where you might make a "beautiful" discovery. There are some items that are a must-have, like a favorite name-brand item. Those things are worth saving and sacrificing to afford. Some things, like cleansers, makeup removers, and lip balms, can all be substituted creatively and inexpensively. And the nicest discovery: friends can trade items that haven't worked out, so that no one wastes and everyone wins. (Unused, of course. It would be kinda gross to share someone else's used lipstick. Remember what your mom always said, "You don't know where that thing's been!" Well, in the case of lipstick, even though you DO know where it's been, it would still be gross. But sharing leftovers of cleanser, moisturizer, and other ill-advised or unwanted gifts, or purchases is not only nice, it's even a form of recycling, if you want to be all "Green" about it!)

So I think I have a pretty good skin care plan now: I can get clean and moist at bedtime, clean and moist in the morning, fill in the cracks and craters around the eyes, Bag Balm my lips so that they are totally kissable, and protect myself from any more of that awful sun damage. Now I just have to stop the aging effects that it turns out I am doing every day when I consume all the bad stuff it turns out is in my diet. Anyone know which part of the grocery store I should start searching for the fat-free, low carb, caffeine free, anti-aging diet foods?

Why I Hate Pantyhose

I had a bad underwear experience today. I know it seems a small thing, but at 6:00 this morning it was a pretty damn big deal.

These were supposed to be some really good underwear, according to the box. “Control top” the box said. Well, good, I thought...I needed some control that is for sure. Things are out of control around the underwear-wearing regions. Control is good. Sounds serious. It’s time for me to think seriously about the underwear region for a change. I have been far too lax for far too long about the whole area.

“Tummy tamer” it said, too. Awesome! My tummy is definitely not tame. It is some wild jiggly thing that “crunches” are not taking care of at all.

And this brand had the added “Thigh Shapers” built in...now granted, these made the underwear look a bit like something my grandma might have worn, but I tell you, I was on a mission this morning. No Mrs. Nice Guy about the cellulite and all that. Today was gonna be my day to look smooth and shapely and these underwear were my ticket to the promised land of beauty. Thigh Shapers, I tell you...squeezing bumps and bulges that I have tried to jog and “power walk” into submission for years. Well, I think I know how they get toothpaste into the tube, now. It isn’t for the squeamish.

So, after the jumping up and down and the pulling and tugging and the lifting and tucking to get all of me into these underwear, I was ready to admire myself. I knew that I had to look as good as the woman in the picture on the box. I mean, she looked damn good. She was tall and lean and blonde and stretched out on this beautiful couch in the sunshine, with a smile...she was so happy! I figured once I got these things on and they worked their magic, I would be ready to see the transformation.

Disappointment is really not a strong enough word. Maybe horror is too strong, but maybe not. I realize that it is not fair to expect that the weather (still cold and wintery, not warm and summery like on the box) would be improved by the underwear. Maybe there was just a little part of me that was hoping...but I accept that it was an unrealistic expectation. The fact that I was still short and brown-haired instead of tall and blonde? Ok, I can understand that I would have had to do more than buy underwear to alter that...and maybe it is time, at age 38 to accept that I am...not...going...to...get...any...taller. Ever.

But the vision that really devastated me, and for which I may have to seek legal action for the emotional trauma it caused, is the sight of my poor flab spilling out over the top, and escaping from the bottom, and, indeed, seeping over the sides of that freaking underwear. It popped out in places that it had formerly occupied, but in greater quantities than it had previously. So I still had a tummy, but it was flat in the middle and bulged out under my tits. I had thighs, but they were flat at the top and sagged down over my knees, like drooping saddle bags. My butt fat was bunched up and pooching up out of the back of the panties like I had a misplaced hunchback.

I looked at my short, bulging, brunette self, with the rain spattering against the windows of my bedroom, with the not-so-magical underwear, and I cried. I was not gonna get taller, thinner, blonder, the underwear was not gonna fit, and the sun was not gonna shine today. Not for me. Not today.

I know that is an awful story. Sometimes we have bad underwear days and it rains and we feel crappy. That was what happened to me. Did I wear that damn underwear all day? Well yes, I did. It was $9.99! Damn right I wore it. It crept up my ass and pinched my waist and was so uncomfortable it made me a miserable bitch all day. I hated it. I wore it though. I wasn’t gonna waste my $9.99.

I guess all I know is that I can live through a bad underwear day. I have had a lot worse days. Yeah, and a lot of better ones, too. Tomorrow will certainly be better. I’ll wear my nice soft “granny panties” that I have had forever and that are 100% cotton and bag and sag in all the same places I do. And that is one giant step toward having a good day.

I am not gonna make myself feel bad ever again about being so short and dumpy and bumpy and brown haired. That was my own damn fault. Next time I buy panties, they better be the kind that come in “bulk” at the Wal Mart for three bucks a 4-pack. They are less painful...all around.

The Great Depression

No, this isn’t a history lesson on the economics of the 1930’s, much as there has been reference to those times in the news lately. Although, now I think about it, it may more appropriate than I may have intended, to conjure those black and white newsreel images of drawn faces, ragged clothes, and the sad shuffling gait of those that wandered the streets during what is now called the Great Depression. Not that I want to discuss the current economic recession, but my own actual depression.

There are many reasons, and at the same time, none in particular, to be depressed right now. Like the economy itself, I have had a “perfect storm,” that perhaps at any other time I could have weathered with no repercussions. But with things in the state that they happened to be at this moment in my personal history, they have gathered to create this Great Depression. I have been fighting back pain for over a year, so the fact that it depressed me now, means that it was just one factor in the many that have contributed to this downturn in my emotional economy. But it is also true that my condition worsened recently, when two of my discs began to bulge in the lumbar area, creating a higher level of pain, and in turn, a deeper level of depression.

As a result of the pain issue, I haven’t been able to work for over a week. And the doctor expects that it will be at least another week before I will return to work. This created a snowball effect in the era of my Great Depression. As I have stayed home from work, I have worried: what is happening there without me? Are they discovering that they don’t need me? Don’t miss me? Are glad not to have me? Are they rifling through my desk? What are they finding? And with the cutbacks going on in the organization, will there be a job there for me when I return? Plus, as I have stayed at home, I have begun to get even more deeply entrenched in this Depression; I have watched too much TV, slept too late, eaten too much junk food. Then I have worried: am I getting fat? No one will want a fat, lazy, TV-addled boring old handicapped gimpy girl around anyway.

And that is the other problem.I have nothing else to do, aside from the TV and sleeping, but go to doctor appointments, where I have just become a cluster of symptoms. Or at least that is what I feel like. I have gone to clinics and hospitals, where I have moved so slowly, and with such pain, that most staff members immediately have offered me a wheelchair because they thought I couldn’t walk on my own. I have been asked things like “How do you like to lie down? Do you use a pillow between your knees?” and “How did you get here, do you have someone who drives you?” and when I have told the staff that I drove myself, they have had a look of horror, like “Gosh sakes, stay off the sidewalks til that handicapped woman gets home!” I hate it. It’s embarrassing. And when I have tried to get up out of chairs or off of exam tables, there is always a worried looking attendant or two, asking how they can best help me up. And then I have gone through the same thing at home, when the kids have been there to help me into/out of bed, onto/off of the couch, etc. Yes, I have been lucky that they are so caring, etc. But it is scary and depressing to have become this person: who is constantly being moved and lifted and shuffled around. It is depressing to have it hurt every time I take a step or sit or stand. I don’t feel young or pretty or sexy or desirable or fun. I feel like my stock has fallen through the floor, and the only people interested in me anymore are those who can profit from my presence: the doctors who might be able to treat me. And I am tired of their attention.

The Great Depression is scary: it came out of nowhere and I don’t know when it will end. It swooped around me one day like the wings of a vampire, sucking the life right out of me. And now I am just waiting…shuffling along, like the people in those 30’s newsreels, waiting for help. I don’t know where it will come from: whether it will be as simple as a friend’s company that will rally me. It might be when I just feel well enough to return to work and see that I have the same old crappy job that I did a week or two ago. Maybe it won’t be until I am completely well, and I don’t know when that might be. Weeks? Months? I don’t know.

Maybe that is what makes any Depression so frightening; we don’t know just what makes them happen, when they will go away, or when they might come back. They might be caused by pain, the loss of a loved one, or the loss of a job. It might happen for no good reason at all. And then one day, just as quickly as it descended, it will lift. Our market will rally, and so will we. So will I.

The Other Woman

There are some subjects that are just not easy to discuss. In this case, I have been in denial about it for a long time, but must finally acknowledge and discuss an issue that may make some of you, as it does me, a little uncomfortable: there is another woman in my boyfriend's life. Yes, it's true: he's a Cat Owner (although I take issue with the phrase itself: no one owns a cat; if anything, the owners are owned by their cats.) When I first discovered this, I was wary. A man who owns a cat? It's practically unnatural! But, given my relationship with my dog, I felt it would be hypocritical to judge him for his cat situation. Therefore, I have accepted this other woman in his life (yes, even worse, it's a female cat) and have chosen to take this as an opportunity to learn something about this Cat and her man.

In the pictures I have seen (we've not met, and that is probably best: cats are jealous types, and from what I've heard, this one sounds especially temperamental) she is a pretty little thing. She's a petite brunette, with big green eyes, and although she is getting a little older, I happen to know that this doesn't bother my dearest a bit. If she misses a jump to the counter and falls, he checks to make sure that she hasn't broken a hip or anything. She hates for him to see her be ungraceful, though. He is a gentleman and will pretend that he didn't see her miss, as long as she doesn't seem to be hurt. She will flick her tail as she walks away, acting as though there was a very good reason that she didn't want to get on the counter in the first place.

She eats like a princess, getting a mix of her favorite canned and dry foods. She never has to eat leftovers, either. He makes sure that the canned stuff is moist, and if not, it gets thrown out. If he has a treat that pleases her palate, she is sure to get part of it. She doesn't even have to beg, like other, less dignified kitties. She merely sits patiently by his side, and he will share bites with her until the last, and that one is always hers. She seems to know this, and doesn't hesitate to take the last morsel.
All is not peace and tranquility in this man/feline paradise, however. As sweetly as she may behave, there is generally a motivation behind her actions. She prefers to get his attention by using his computer screen to backlight and accentuate the fluffiness of her tail. Computer time is work time (I, personally, do not fluff my tail in front of him while he is trying to work. He doesn't appreciate it from either of us.) Her sincerity in curling up in his lap to watch the baseball game with him is questionable as well. She knows full well that game time is snack time, too. Cuddling is not what she is seeking, but hopefully some chip crumbs, maybe even with a little dip, and, if there's a jackpot, a nibble of a hot dog, too.

I remember a period of days when these two were not speaking to each other, as a matter of fact. She had interrupted a very important task in the office, and caused an upset of items on the desk, and her dearest to lose important information on the computer, as she, the desk items, and a drink all went crashing to the floor. There was shouting, she stormed from the room in disgust, the door slamming behind her, and she was not allowed back in that night. Shocked, I think, at being locked out of her beloved's company all evening, she did what any woman would do: she pouted. When he emerged, finally, he was still fuming from having to rebuild the work he had begun and stalked past her. Stubbornly refusing to make up, she turned tail and went off to her own bed to sulk. This cold war went on for a few days, until, I believe, the weekend, and game time, when a few dip laden chips and a piece of hot dog brought her back to his lap. She, like any proud woman, waited for him to make the peace offering and then she accepted it gracefully.

He has learned to accept her moods, and predict them fairly well. When they each had a bracket for March Madness last year, and did a little online betting, hers did quite a bit better than his. He was prepared for her to gloat, and she did. Of course, he still got all the money, but he was sure that she was laughing at him anyway, for his having picked the poorer teams. When he showers her with affection and she gets impatient and walks away, he just shrugs and accepts that she has gotten irritated with him and knows that she'll come back, the next time she wants something.

Having this other woman to hear about over the years has been entertaining and educational. I have, without having ever met her, learned to understand her and her relationship with my man (our man?). I know, thanks to her, that he is incredibly patient, loving, kind and gentle, and is no fool. He needs his space when working, likes to watch the game with a friend, and will share his last crumb, literally. His trust has to be earned, and he knows when he is being used. He values companionship when offered sincerely, and knows how to cherish those who come to him with an open heart and not an open hand. I am grateful to the cat that showed perhaps the worst parts of herself, but the best parts about her man.

Valentines, Chocolate, and Bullets

Writing about Valentine's Day is the Russian Roulette of essay writing. Either you spin the chamber and luck out: no bullet. You are having a good year, and romance isn't going to make you want to blow your brains out. Or, of course, there's the alternative. Ka-blam! You just never know from year to year do you? And for you married folks, I apologize. I know that you've taken these vows about death parting ya'll and everything. But being a divorced mother of four, whose hubby left her ON Valentine's Day, well I am just not too sold on the exchanging of rings and vows being much of a safety net.

However, that's not to say that this is a bullet-in-the-chamber year, either. I have taken the yearly spin and fortunately come up empty. I am not, though, going to go all "Love is a many splendored thing," on ya'll, either. What I am wondering about, as I stare down another Valentine's Day's barrel, is: why all the chocolate? Yep. It always comes down to food, basically, doesn't it?

On the bullet years, chocolate makes perfect sense. That is to say, when there's no love to be had, I'm all about the candy. The first year sans hubby, I bought myself the biggest red velvet, heart-shaped box of chocolates I could find, wrote "To The Love of My Life" on the little card that came included with it, and gave it to myself. I ate every last one of those bad boys, and they were awesome. I knew what I liked, so had made sure to get the kinds that were mostly nuts & chews, and only a few of the weird creamy ones that can have odd flavors. I even allowed myself to take bites out of them first to check what they were, put back the ones that weren't my favorites, and saved the bitten ones for emergency purposes. That was a great box of chocolates.

The next year, an "unloaded year," I happened to be casually dating someone (ok, we had been out once or twice). You can probably guess what I did. Yep. I waited. It seems like we turn the V-Day into some kind of litmus test for relationships (I have always wanted to use the word litmus in a sentence, ever since I got a C in high school Chem. Class. I feel so much better now.) Anyway, I did that thing where we girls think, "If he is worth anything, he will call/send flowers/make a date/propose," depending on the length of the relationship, "because it's Valentine's Day." And then if his actions don't meet with expectations, BAM! We are back to bullet in the chamber status pretty quickly and the guy is history. Why? Because he is obviously "Not the one." But if he had failed to call, send flowers, make a date, or * heaven forbid * propose on any other day, it wouldn't have been any big deal, right? Well, you can guess what happened with the guy I was seeing. No call. Back to the bullet.

This all really doesn't answer the truly important question though, does it? Why chocolate? I think I know, though. Because Valentine's Day is mostly about women being miserable. Either we are miserable because we have someone, and he is clueless about what to do on this stupid day, or we don't have someone, and we are miserable because*well, we don't have someone. And either way, eating some chocolate is usually the way that women approach misery. It actually makes a lot of sense. This is why I had a great time the year that I just cut out the middle-man (so to speak) and gave myself the chocolates.

Men would probably be better off if they would just defensively buy chocolates and carry them around like emotional Kevlar throughout February. They could just keep heart shaped boxes of varying sizes: small ones, for daughters and neighbors; medium sized ones for mothers, the boss-if appropriate-, and maybe a new girlfriend that could appear on the scene*assuming the man is single of course, and the one mammoth, red velvet number. This would be reserved for that special moment...when he has totally forgotten Valentine's Day entirely and arrives home to find the wife (or girlfriend*fill in the blank accordingly) in tears, no dinner plans made, and his jammies and pillow have already been moved out to the doghouse (whether or not he was previously a dog owner). He can run out to the car, grab this lifesaving device, and proceed to buy some time while he announces that he is headed to the store to buy steaks and lobster fresh from the butcher, will be cooking AND doing the dishes, and the Love of His Life should be taking her bubble bath and enjoying some of those chocolates while he takes care of everything. Not to toot my own tuba too greatly, but I think everyone would be a lot happier with this plan, and we would be a few steps closer world peace. Ok, maybe not world peace. But there would be some chocolate for the girls and the guys would stay outta the doghouse.