My father taught me a lot about the appreciation of beauty. He always was, and still is an unusually sentimental soul with a huge heart for all of God's creation.
One of my fondest childhood memories is of going "hunting" in the woods with him on Sunday afternoons. Our adventures couldn't really be considered "hunting" in the sense that we actually ever shot a gun at any living thing. In reality, those days were spent quietly creeping through the forest, listening and watching for wildlife, stopping to investigate downed trees and looking at little wildflowers that had pushed their way up through the rich black Ohio soil.
Eventually, we would find a stump or boulder where we'd sit to catch our breath. There, I'd listen intently as Dad told me stories about the Shawnee Indians who use to roam the very area where we sat. On several occasions, we went back to the spot where the house my father was born in once stood. Nothing was left of it but the cornerstones by then but that didn't stop me from opening an imaginary door and stepping inside to envision what it must have looked during my father's earliest years.
On our way home, we would stop halfway across Higby bridge with it's one lane that spanned the mighty Scioto River. We would get out of the car and stand gazing down at the muddy water surging it's way southward to the Ohio River.
Standing with both hands in his pockets Dad would inevitably proclaim. "Beck! I've been all over this world but I've never seen anyplace prettier than this."
I use to laugh every time he said it. Though spoken with great conviction, my father hadn't really been all over the world. He did, however, spend some time in Alaska during WWII. I couldn't help but wonder how the hills of southern Ohio could possibly compare to the great sights and wonders of the Alaskan landscape.
So be it. My father said it and I believed it. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, after all.
Since those childhood days over forty years ago I too have been "all over the world" and in the process, have seen some magnificent sights. The Black Forest area of Germany at Christmas time is beyond description! The Rocky Mountains are breathtaking in the fall! My all time favorite place to visit anytime of the year, has to be the Caribbean with it's transparent blue water and white sandy beaches. Yellowstone National Park, the Pacific coast, the rain forest of Mexico ... I could go on and on.
But none of those places elicit the emotion I feel every time I journey back home. My heart literally skips a beat, and excitement begins to grow the instant I spot the Cincinnati skyline. By the time the rolling hills of southern Ohio appear on the distant horizon I am downright giddy.
The feeling is indescribable.
Objectively speaking, I must admit it's unlikely that Southern Ohio will ever be listed as one of the "natural wonders" of the world. To an outsider, the "mighty Scioto" probably looks like just another tired old muddy river. There are likewise hundreds of other areas in this world with nearly identical rolling hills, endless cornfields, and forests filled with oak, pine, elm and maple trees.
But objectivity in regard to my home place is an impossibility for that is where I keep my fondest memories. It's there that the skinny little girl with knobby knees and stringy hair still roams through the woods with her father, searching for critters that live in burrows and stopping to pick blackberries along the railroad tracks, then always ... always, pausing for one last look over the bridge railings at the river flowing through it's banks below.
The chances I'll ever live there again are slim to none, but there's also a part of me that has never left.
It took many years for me to realize and admit, it but my Dad was right. Surely there really isn't anyplace else quite so beautiful on earth.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
So Proud!!!
I am so proud of my son.
After school this afternoon, fourteen year old Adam hopped into the car beaming from one ear to the other. It turns out his computer teacher (and the school system's county office) had paid him the "ultimate" compliment today.
He was told he has to STOP hacking into their computer system.
Yep.
Oh! But it's "ok". They've actually been monitoring him for a while and "allowing" him to continue because they were "using" him to help uncover weak spots in their system. Now that they think they've gotten everything secured, they've asked him to refrain from any further similar endeavors.
Why! According to the boy, it's almost like he's been working for them all along.
He went on to explain that he's in no "trouble" whatsoever because he only hacked in to prove that he could. He didn't do any damage. I mean, he could have changed his grades and other really cool stuff like that, but he didn't.
(What a good boy I've raised!)
Then he asked me if I WANTED him to go back in and change his grades. I jokingly told him that would depend of course, on what kind of grades he was getting withOUT hacking in and changing them.
No, No, No! I clarified that under NO circumstances did I want him to go in and change his grades. Furthermore, I wouldn't think that a kid smart enough to hack into the county system should be getting grades low enough to merit needing such a change.
I will surely remember this as one of my finer "motherhood" moments. On my list, it ranks somewhat above the time my oldest daughter, Angel came home and proudly announced that her first grade teacher, Mrs. Burris had moved her desk all the way up to the front of the room. What an honor!
Sort of along the same theme, only Adam's experience was potentially way more serious.
What can I say? My son is a genius!
I'll bet all the mothers whose sons did NOT hack into the county school system's office computers are darn jealous of me right now.
Yep. I'm pretty sure of it.
After school this afternoon, fourteen year old Adam hopped into the car beaming from one ear to the other. It turns out his computer teacher (and the school system's county office) had paid him the "ultimate" compliment today.
He was told he has to STOP hacking into their computer system.
Yep.
Oh! But it's "ok". They've actually been monitoring him for a while and "allowing" him to continue because they were "using" him to help uncover weak spots in their system. Now that they think they've gotten everything secured, they've asked him to refrain from any further similar endeavors.
Why! According to the boy, it's almost like he's been working for them all along.
He went on to explain that he's in no "trouble" whatsoever because he only hacked in to prove that he could. He didn't do any damage. I mean, he could have changed his grades and other really cool stuff like that, but he didn't.
(What a good boy I've raised!)
Then he asked me if I WANTED him to go back in and change his grades. I jokingly told him that would depend of course, on what kind of grades he was getting withOUT hacking in and changing them.
No, No, No! I clarified that under NO circumstances did I want him to go in and change his grades. Furthermore, I wouldn't think that a kid smart enough to hack into the county system should be getting grades low enough to merit needing such a change.
I will surely remember this as one of my finer "motherhood" moments. On my list, it ranks somewhat above the time my oldest daughter, Angel came home and proudly announced that her first grade teacher, Mrs. Burris had moved her desk all the way up to the front of the room. What an honor!
Sort of along the same theme, only Adam's experience was potentially way more serious.
What can I say? My son is a genius!
I'll bet all the mothers whose sons did NOT hack into the county school system's office computers are darn jealous of me right now.
Yep. I'm pretty sure of it.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Brain Thuds
Around 11:30 Monday morning I was sitting at Walt's desk printing out some information for the nurse who works at my son's school, when I got a strange sensation in my head. Although it wasn't painful, it felt very much like I'd been hit hard between my skull and the upper right quadrant of my brain. I could have sworn my entire cerebrum moved forward suddenly, slamming against the inside of it's protective bony cage with a THUD! The room subsequently went black, convincing me that I was surely passing out.
...or maybe even dying!
I thought of grabbing a post it note from the desktop as my limp body sank to the floor, in hopes that I might scrawl a quick "good-bye" letter to my family, informing them of the events immediately preceding my untimely death.
Obviously, it was a false alarm. I didn't die, or even pass out for that matter, but being a little shaken by the experience, I decided to call my husband and tell him what had happened.
Walt was less than impressed. We discussed the fact that I had also awakened during the middle of the previous night to find the bedroom swirling around me. At that time, I elbowed my sleeping husband and asked "Is it just me or is the entire room listing violently to the right?" He rallied enough to indicate that his side of the room was holding steady in it's proper position, then patted me reassuringly on the leg and went back to sleep.
I'm sure there is a reasonable explanation for all this, the most likely being that my hemoglobin has dropped again. I have episodes of dizziness when that happens, as well as fatigue which I've also been experiencing in recent days.
I've learned to live with the dizziness and fatigue, and probably wouldn't have given it another thought had it not been for the whole brain thud experience on Monday. I'm pretty sure it was nothing, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't slightly concerned.
You know me. I watch lots of medical shows and find "Dr. G, Medical Examiner" particularly intriguing. Unfortunately, every day she examines the bodies of people who have succumbed to things a lot less weird than mere "brain thuds". During each episode I watch her work diligently as she searches for clues in her subject's bodies in attempt to uncover their various causes of death. Without any background information, poor Dr. G. has to start from the beginning with a "Y" incision to the chest and meticulously study every organ individually.
Anyway, it's a painstaking procedure leading up to the last body part that Dr. G checks for abnormalities, which is the brain of the deceased.
I figured if I were to die of a "brain thud", Walt could at least call Dr. G and tell her how I had been feeling just before I collapsed. That would save her a great deal of time and trouble in determining the reason for my demise. She could skip the whole "Y" incision deal and go straight to the skull.
(I can't help myself. Apparently I'll be a "thoughtful" person to the very end.)
Walt laughed at me and said he thought I was being affected by stress. Stress, after all, does strange things to a person especially when internalized which is exactly what I tend to do with it. His lack of concern did not provide much consolation. I could only imagine how remorseful he might feel if he were to come home and find me sprawled in the floor of his office with an unfinished "good-bye" note crumpled tightly in my fist.
Given the circumstances, perhaps the note should simply read "I told you so."
Or maybe not. Apparently "brain thuds" are not all that serious after all, and probably not even a true medical condition, seeing as how I am still among the living. My husband was probably right. I'm just stressed, and perhaps a little anemic.
No need to call Dr. G just yet. Brain thuds or no brain thuds, I plan to be around for several more years of "Dr. G, Medical Examiner" reruns.
But the first time I hear her say anything to the effect of "The official cause of death for this individual appears to have been a rare condition we refer to as "brain thud"." you can bet I'll be picking up the phone!
...or maybe even dying!
I thought of grabbing a post it note from the desktop as my limp body sank to the floor, in hopes that I might scrawl a quick "good-bye" letter to my family, informing them of the events immediately preceding my untimely death.
Obviously, it was a false alarm. I didn't die, or even pass out for that matter, but being a little shaken by the experience, I decided to call my husband and tell him what had happened.
Walt was less than impressed. We discussed the fact that I had also awakened during the middle of the previous night to find the bedroom swirling around me. At that time, I elbowed my sleeping husband and asked "Is it just me or is the entire room listing violently to the right?" He rallied enough to indicate that his side of the room was holding steady in it's proper position, then patted me reassuringly on the leg and went back to sleep.
I'm sure there is a reasonable explanation for all this, the most likely being that my hemoglobin has dropped again. I have episodes of dizziness when that happens, as well as fatigue which I've also been experiencing in recent days.
I've learned to live with the dizziness and fatigue, and probably wouldn't have given it another thought had it not been for the whole brain thud experience on Monday. I'm pretty sure it was nothing, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't slightly concerned.
You know me. I watch lots of medical shows and find "Dr. G, Medical Examiner" particularly intriguing. Unfortunately, every day she examines the bodies of people who have succumbed to things a lot less weird than mere "brain thuds". During each episode I watch her work diligently as she searches for clues in her subject's bodies in attempt to uncover their various causes of death. Without any background information, poor Dr. G. has to start from the beginning with a "Y" incision to the chest and meticulously study every organ individually.
Anyway, it's a painstaking procedure leading up to the last body part that Dr. G checks for abnormalities, which is the brain of the deceased.
I figured if I were to die of a "brain thud", Walt could at least call Dr. G and tell her how I had been feeling just before I collapsed. That would save her a great deal of time and trouble in determining the reason for my demise. She could skip the whole "Y" incision deal and go straight to the skull.
(I can't help myself. Apparently I'll be a "thoughtful" person to the very end.)
Walt laughed at me and said he thought I was being affected by stress. Stress, after all, does strange things to a person especially when internalized which is exactly what I tend to do with it. His lack of concern did not provide much consolation. I could only imagine how remorseful he might feel if he were to come home and find me sprawled in the floor of his office with an unfinished "good-bye" note crumpled tightly in my fist.
Given the circumstances, perhaps the note should simply read "I told you so."
Or maybe not. Apparently "brain thuds" are not all that serious after all, and probably not even a true medical condition, seeing as how I am still among the living. My husband was probably right. I'm just stressed, and perhaps a little anemic.
No need to call Dr. G just yet. Brain thuds or no brain thuds, I plan to be around for several more years of "Dr. G, Medical Examiner" reruns.
But the first time I hear her say anything to the effect of "The official cause of death for this individual appears to have been a rare condition we refer to as "brain thud"." you can bet I'll be picking up the phone!
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Paper? Plastic ? An oxygen tank to go with that, ma'am?
One of two things just happened.
Either:
a) I'm beginning to look like a grandma, or
b) The checkout guy at the grocery today was actually flirting with me a little.
Giving myself the benefit of the doubt, I'm going to choose "b".
This afternoon, I was waiting patiently for the young man behind the counter to total up my groceries when a conversation took place between him and the cashier in the next line over. There was an elderly gentleman in that line, and they were joking with him that surely he wasn't old enough to get the senior citizen discount yet.
The kid waiting on me shouted across the way at the other cashier, "Nah! He looks to me like he's got at least another five years to go!"
This was followed by lots of chuckles and friendly banter as the elderly man was handed his 5% off the total cost of the items he'd purchased.
"Ah! Wednesday is senior citizen discount day!" I thought to myself, " That explains why the parking lot was so crowded."
Then, as my groceries were being bagged and all my store discounts were being deducted, the clerk smiled and placed my receipt in my hand. Nodding, he added "This will be our little secret."
I had no idea what he was talking about, but I smiled back anyway and walked out to my car.
Putting the comment behind me, I pushed the heavy cart with it's one wobbly wheel across the parking lot. As I unloaded the bags into the trunk, it occurred to me that I might have picked up the wrong kind of donuts. Some of them were on sale and some weren't. Naturally I'd intended to buy the ones that were. I climbed into the front seat and pulled the receipt out of my purse to check.
Yes, I'd gotten the right donuts.
I'd also gotten the senior discount.
*gulp*
Obviously, that was the "little secret" to which the clerk had referred.
"Hmph!" I was feeling extremely tired today, but didn't think I looked that bad. I contemplated going back into the store and demanding to see the manager.
This has only happened to me once before. On that occasion I was insulted because the cashier had the audacity to ask me out loud if I qualified for a senior discount. That was at least three years ago, and the girl was only about nineteen years old. I figured she thought I was probably old enough to be her mother, therefore it might be possible that I was a VERY young looking senior.
I decided not to spring across the counter and choke her to within an inch of death. Instead, I simply informed her that I was not old enough, thank you! Even so, my feelings were significantly wounded. I made a point to avoid the grocery on senior citizen discount day from that point on.
This time was different. The kid didn't even hesitate. He didn't ask! He just rang 5% off my total bill and sent me on my way.
Sitting there in the car, I mulled the situation over in my head. I pulled the visor down and studied my face in the mirror.
Nah! There's no way the woman looking back at me was a day over 40! The young man who rang up my groceries was just being nice.
He liked me, that was all. It was the only reasonable explanation. After convincing myself of that fact, I started the car and headed back home.
In order to ensure the safety of my ego, I also made a mental note to myself to go to the grocery on any day BUT Wednesday from now until I've passed my 55th birthday. Although I am sure the incident was only a big misunderstanding, it's just not a risk I'm willing to take.
Either:
a) I'm beginning to look like a grandma, or
b) The checkout guy at the grocery today was actually flirting with me a little.
Giving myself the benefit of the doubt, I'm going to choose "b".
This afternoon, I was waiting patiently for the young man behind the counter to total up my groceries when a conversation took place between him and the cashier in the next line over. There was an elderly gentleman in that line, and they were joking with him that surely he wasn't old enough to get the senior citizen discount yet.
The kid waiting on me shouted across the way at the other cashier, "Nah! He looks to me like he's got at least another five years to go!"
This was followed by lots of chuckles and friendly banter as the elderly man was handed his 5% off the total cost of the items he'd purchased.
"Ah! Wednesday is senior citizen discount day!" I thought to myself, " That explains why the parking lot was so crowded."
Then, as my groceries were being bagged and all my store discounts were being deducted, the clerk smiled and placed my receipt in my hand. Nodding, he added "This will be our little secret."
I had no idea what he was talking about, but I smiled back anyway and walked out to my car.
Putting the comment behind me, I pushed the heavy cart with it's one wobbly wheel across the parking lot. As I unloaded the bags into the trunk, it occurred to me that I might have picked up the wrong kind of donuts. Some of them were on sale and some weren't. Naturally I'd intended to buy the ones that were. I climbed into the front seat and pulled the receipt out of my purse to check.
Yes, I'd gotten the right donuts.
I'd also gotten the senior discount.
*gulp*
Obviously, that was the "little secret" to which the clerk had referred.
"Hmph!" I was feeling extremely tired today, but didn't think I looked that bad. I contemplated going back into the store and demanding to see the manager.
This has only happened to me once before. On that occasion I was insulted because the cashier had the audacity to ask me out loud if I qualified for a senior discount. That was at least three years ago, and the girl was only about nineteen years old. I figured she thought I was probably old enough to be her mother, therefore it might be possible that I was a VERY young looking senior.
I decided not to spring across the counter and choke her to within an inch of death. Instead, I simply informed her that I was not old enough, thank you! Even so, my feelings were significantly wounded. I made a point to avoid the grocery on senior citizen discount day from that point on.
This time was different. The kid didn't even hesitate. He didn't ask! He just rang 5% off my total bill and sent me on my way.
Sitting there in the car, I mulled the situation over in my head. I pulled the visor down and studied my face in the mirror.
Nah! There's no way the woman looking back at me was a day over 40! The young man who rang up my groceries was just being nice.
He liked me, that was all. It was the only reasonable explanation. After convincing myself of that fact, I started the car and headed back home.
In order to ensure the safety of my ego, I also made a mental note to myself to go to the grocery on any day BUT Wednesday from now until I've passed my 55th birthday. Although I am sure the incident was only a big misunderstanding, it's just not a risk I'm willing to take.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Live Toads and Monday Mornings
The week got off to a rather bumpy start. Adam woke up with one of his ocular migraines so I sent him back to bed, where he remains even as I type. I was planning to let him sleep it off, then take him to school for a late check-in, but seeing as how it is 1:30 in the afternoon, I realize that's not going to happen.
Nursing a headache of my own, I eased into the day by going back to bed for a couple hours myself. As usually happens when I am "oversleeping", I soon started having weird dreams. Not long after I drifted off, my rather angry husband appeared by my bedside. It turned out I'd forgotten to pick him up at the airport. I could have sworn he wasn't due in until tomorrow. Before I could explain and apologize, he disappeared and was replaced by the school principal who was equally unhappy that I'd allowed Adam to stay home. Understanding, even in my state of slumber that my brain telling me I was sleeping too much, I roused myself and pushed into my normal Monday routine.
Monday is my designated day for housecleaning and preparation for the coming week. I like to get the work out of the way just in case something potentially enjoyable happens Tuesday through Friday, which of course would require that I be free of pesky obligations such as dusting furniture and cleaning toilets.
This concept goes along with the philosophy: "Eat a live toad for breakfast and you can rest assured that nothing worse is going to happen to you for the rest of the day."
I know, I know, it's gross but I read that somewhere years ago and have never forgotten it. I've lived most of my life following that mindset. Get the stuff you dread doing out of the way first so you don't have it hanging over your head all day (or in this case all week)
The truth is, I know if I don't do it first, I will find some excuse not to do it at all.
Now, it's early afternoon and my house is nice and fresh. Besides the piddly little daily tasks like making the bed and running the "Swiffer" broom over the wood floors to suck up the dog hair, I am DONE!
Maybe I'm just too easy to please, but it's pretty amazing how good it feels to have Monday morning out of the way. Now it's on to bigger, better, more exciting things. Bring on the week! I'm ready.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Class Of '78!
I skipped my high school reunion last weekend. I admit that I thought about attending ... for about ten seconds after I opened the invitation, that is. The temptation passed quickly, thank God.
I don't really understand why people go to those things, especially in the case of my graduating class which was a whole 88 students strong. We all came from a town so small that everyone knew everyone else (and most probably still do). A large percentage of us never moved far away after graduation. It would seem unlikely that a reunion would be necessary at all.
The truth is, I chose not to attend because I just don't have many warm fuzzy feelings associated with my high school days.
That's putting it mildly. I hated it there! My memories of it consist mainly of being made fun of. I still hear the laughter that often followed me as I walked the hallways. All I wanted to do was make it from one class to another without falling victim to some sort of verbal assault. As a result, I didn't form many bonds with my fellow classmates.
I can only think of a handful of members of the class of '78 that I'd give two cents to see again. Since it wouldn't take a lot of research to locate those few, I find no reason to travel 500 miles to an organized event which would also include the rest of the class ... the other 80 or so that I can absolutely imagine spending the rest of my life having never laid eyes on again.
The few fleeting seconds during which I allowed myself to entertain the possibility of going to the reunion can only be chalked up to impure motivations. A (very) small part of me wanted to appear at the event dressed to the nines with a recording of "How Do You Like Me Now?" blaring in the background as I entered the room.
No. It wouldn't be worth it. I am a better person than that.
Which is why I chose to stay away. I put the invitation in a file for later reference and didn't think about it again until the morning of the reunion. I mentioned to my husband that my former classmates would all be gathering later that evening, and he sweetly offered to find a way to get me there if I'd changed my mind about going. I thanked him and declined.
Now, back to the reason the invitation went into a file and not the trash can. I've decided it might be fun to look up that select handful of classmates I would care to see again, and attempt to get reacquainted. One of my former friends who was a class officer, left a handwritten note on the bottom corner of my invitation saying, "Hope to see you there!" I believe she was sincere. It would be nice to talk to her again.
As far as the others go, I consider it their loss. I was then, and still am a pleasant, attractive and downright interesting person.
Too bad they'll never know!
I don't really understand why people go to those things, especially in the case of my graduating class which was a whole 88 students strong. We all came from a town so small that everyone knew everyone else (and most probably still do). A large percentage of us never moved far away after graduation. It would seem unlikely that a reunion would be necessary at all.
The truth is, I chose not to attend because I just don't have many warm fuzzy feelings associated with my high school days.
That's putting it mildly. I hated it there! My memories of it consist mainly of being made fun of. I still hear the laughter that often followed me as I walked the hallways. All I wanted to do was make it from one class to another without falling victim to some sort of verbal assault. As a result, I didn't form many bonds with my fellow classmates.
I can only think of a handful of members of the class of '78 that I'd give two cents to see again. Since it wouldn't take a lot of research to locate those few, I find no reason to travel 500 miles to an organized event which would also include the rest of the class ... the other 80 or so that I can absolutely imagine spending the rest of my life having never laid eyes on again.
The few fleeting seconds during which I allowed myself to entertain the possibility of going to the reunion can only be chalked up to impure motivations. A (very) small part of me wanted to appear at the event dressed to the nines with a recording of "How Do You Like Me Now?" blaring in the background as I entered the room.
No. It wouldn't be worth it. I am a better person than that.
Which is why I chose to stay away. I put the invitation in a file for later reference and didn't think about it again until the morning of the reunion. I mentioned to my husband that my former classmates would all be gathering later that evening, and he sweetly offered to find a way to get me there if I'd changed my mind about going. I thanked him and declined.
Now, back to the reason the invitation went into a file and not the trash can. I've decided it might be fun to look up that select handful of classmates I would care to see again, and attempt to get reacquainted. One of my former friends who was a class officer, left a handwritten note on the bottom corner of my invitation saying, "Hope to see you there!" I believe she was sincere. It would be nice to talk to her again.
As far as the others go, I consider it their loss. I was then, and still am a pleasant, attractive and downright interesting person.
Too bad they'll never know!
Pinto Beans, Forensic Science, T-shirts and Ponytails
I'm not saying I enjoy having my wonderful husband out of the country, but those who know me understand that I tend to make the best of almost every situation. Walt's absence is no exception to the rule. I have come up with a few ways to help keep my mind off the fact that I am here and he is not.
To begin, I've changed our usual menu selections here at home. This week, I will dine mostly on re fried pinto bean sandwiches, a little known delicacy I grew up enjoying back in southern Ohio.
My fourteen year old son, Adam, on the other hand has chosen chili as his primary source of nutrition. First thing yesterday morning, I put a pot of pinto beans on the stove for me and started pulling the ingredients together for Adam's chili. By dinner time yesterday evening, we were set!
Secondly, I plan to take full advantage of the fact that I can watch whatever I want, whenever I want on television. No more silly western re-runs until after Walt returns! Every night I will fall asleep with Discovery Health, Tru TV, or TLC blaring in the background. I may even tune into "Lifetime" if the mood strikes.
Thirdly, I will dress mainly in t-shirts and shorts .. heck maybe even the SAME t-shirt and shorts for a couple days at a time. For that matter, I might decide to sleep in my t-shirt and save myself the trouble of changing every morning.
Shoes are optional and will likely be worn only when going out in public. Oh! And ponytails will be all the rage in hairstyles until Sunday when I plan to clean up and go to my usual Sunday morning worship service. (Although I'm sure I'd be allowed into the sanctuary in my t-shirt, shorts and pony tail, I will draw the line there. I do have a reputation to maintain, after all)
Rest assured, as soon as I get home from church, the shoes will come off and the shorts and t-shirt will go back on.
This is the life!
OK, that may be a rather strong statement. My official stance is that it can't really be "the life" unless there is a beach and Caribbean blue water involved, but you get the picture! This is "the life" for the time being.
The only part of my plan I had any hesitation over were the t.v. shows I watch at bedtime. It crossed my mind that I might not want to doze off in the middle of an ongoing crime scene investigation on "Forensic Files". It could be that it would bother me with Walt being gone and all.
But "Forensic Files" is one of my favorite shows so I took the gamble, and am happy to report that I've slept like a baby despite the fact I've seen gruesome murders and such immediately before drifting off to lull-a-bye land.
Last night I actually watched a re-run of "Wife Swap", followed by an episode of "How to Look Good Naked", while sitting propped up on pillows in my bed, washing down a piping hot bean sandwich with an ice cold Diet Pepsi!
Oh yessss! It would be hard to improve on that scenario.
I'm sure that by the time the week is winding to a close, I'll be starting to feel differently. I will grow tired of bean sandwiches and Forensic File re-runs and start counting the hours until Walt gets home and our lives get back to "normal" again.
But until then, I will admit, this ain't bad ... not bad at all!
To begin, I've changed our usual menu selections here at home. This week, I will dine mostly on re fried pinto bean sandwiches, a little known delicacy I grew up enjoying back in southern Ohio.
My fourteen year old son, Adam, on the other hand has chosen chili as his primary source of nutrition. First thing yesterday morning, I put a pot of pinto beans on the stove for me and started pulling the ingredients together for Adam's chili. By dinner time yesterday evening, we were set!
Secondly, I plan to take full advantage of the fact that I can watch whatever I want, whenever I want on television. No more silly western re-runs until after Walt returns! Every night I will fall asleep with Discovery Health, Tru TV, or TLC blaring in the background. I may even tune into "Lifetime" if the mood strikes.
Thirdly, I will dress mainly in t-shirts and shorts .. heck maybe even the SAME t-shirt and shorts for a couple days at a time. For that matter, I might decide to sleep in my t-shirt and save myself the trouble of changing every morning.
Shoes are optional and will likely be worn only when going out in public. Oh! And ponytails will be all the rage in hairstyles until Sunday when I plan to clean up and go to my usual Sunday morning worship service. (Although I'm sure I'd be allowed into the sanctuary in my t-shirt, shorts and pony tail, I will draw the line there. I do have a reputation to maintain, after all)
Rest assured, as soon as I get home from church, the shoes will come off and the shorts and t-shirt will go back on.
This is the life!
OK, that may be a rather strong statement. My official stance is that it can't really be "the life" unless there is a beach and Caribbean blue water involved, but you get the picture! This is "the life" for the time being.
The only part of my plan I had any hesitation over were the t.v. shows I watch at bedtime. It crossed my mind that I might not want to doze off in the middle of an ongoing crime scene investigation on "Forensic Files". It could be that it would bother me with Walt being gone and all.
But "Forensic Files" is one of my favorite shows so I took the gamble, and am happy to report that I've slept like a baby despite the fact I've seen gruesome murders and such immediately before drifting off to lull-a-bye land.
Last night I actually watched a re-run of "Wife Swap", followed by an episode of "How to Look Good Naked", while sitting propped up on pillows in my bed, washing down a piping hot bean sandwich with an ice cold Diet Pepsi!
Oh yessss! It would be hard to improve on that scenario.
I'm sure that by the time the week is winding to a close, I'll be starting to feel differently. I will grow tired of bean sandwiches and Forensic File re-runs and start counting the hours until Walt gets home and our lives get back to "normal" again.
But until then, I will admit, this ain't bad ... not bad at all!
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Bringin' Ugly Back
I'm not much of a shopper. Normally when I go into a clothing store, it's with a specific purpose in mind. Today, I happened to have one of those "purposes" as I am in dire need of some new shirts for fall. Because I am such a focused shopper, I figured it would take me about ten minutes max to find what I was looking for.
Wow! Was I ever wrong. Upon stepping inside the door of the first store, I noticed a definite trend in all the fall clothing.
It's all UGLY!
I didn't like anything I saw.
I didn't like the prints.
I didn't like the material.
I didn't like the colors.
I didn't like the way they were made.
The clothing displayed on the merchants shelves reminded me of a bad acid trip. No, I've never actually experienced an acid trip, bad or otherwise, but I can't really think of any other way to describe the selection of shirts hanging in front of me.
By the time I got to the third and last store, I was singing just slightly under my breath (to the tune of "Bringing Sexy Back") ...
"They're bringin' ugly back ... gives me a heart attack ... oh Lord! it's taste they lack ... they're bringin' ugly back..."
It made me wish I'd bought a few more tops last fall when I could actually find some I wasn't embarrassed to wear.
Needless to say, I came home without one single new piece of clothing. In "style" or not, I refuse to wear anything as hideous as the shirts I looked at today. You see, a couple years ago I made a promise to myself not to buy any clothing items I didn't "love". Overall, I have been satisfied with my decision, but it has also posed some problems with my wardrobe. Although what I have hanging in there is pleasing to my eye, I must admit I don't have nearly as many options to choose from as I've had in years gone by.
Never the less, I am sticking to my vow. I have reached the age where I can dress the way I want to dress. I refuse to lower my standards for the mere sake of being "trendy".
So, be forewarned! Until the fashion industry adjusts itself to suit my tastes, you will find me wearing the same old outfits repeatedly. Sorry folks, I just can't do "ugly".
Wow! Was I ever wrong. Upon stepping inside the door of the first store, I noticed a definite trend in all the fall clothing.
It's all UGLY!
I didn't like anything I saw.
I didn't like the prints.
I didn't like the material.
I didn't like the colors.
I didn't like the way they were made.
The clothing displayed on the merchants shelves reminded me of a bad acid trip. No, I've never actually experienced an acid trip, bad or otherwise, but I can't really think of any other way to describe the selection of shirts hanging in front of me.
By the time I got to the third and last store, I was singing just slightly under my breath (to the tune of "Bringing Sexy Back") ...
"They're bringin' ugly back ... gives me a heart attack ... oh Lord! it's taste they lack ... they're bringin' ugly back..."
It made me wish I'd bought a few more tops last fall when I could actually find some I wasn't embarrassed to wear.
Needless to say, I came home without one single new piece of clothing. In "style" or not, I refuse to wear anything as hideous as the shirts I looked at today. You see, a couple years ago I made a promise to myself not to buy any clothing items I didn't "love". Overall, I have been satisfied with my decision, but it has also posed some problems with my wardrobe. Although what I have hanging in there is pleasing to my eye, I must admit I don't have nearly as many options to choose from as I've had in years gone by.
Never the less, I am sticking to my vow. I have reached the age where I can dress the way I want to dress. I refuse to lower my standards for the mere sake of being "trendy".
So, be forewarned! Until the fashion industry adjusts itself to suit my tastes, you will find me wearing the same old outfits repeatedly. Sorry folks, I just can't do "ugly".
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Another Milestone Crossed On My Way To Fifty
I made an important decision this week. It's one I've been toying with over the last year or so but I've always decided against following through with it at the last minute.
So, Tuesday morning as I was preparing to go to my colonoscopy appointment I decided to do it.
I took my belly button ring out for good.
The pre-procedure instructions said to remove all jewelry including those in body piercings. When the piercing was originally done, I was told to keep the post in at all times because the area would heal over very quickly if it was removed. I've adhered strictly to those orders ever since, never leaving the little piece of metal that held my piercing open out for more than a few minutes at a time.
Among my reasons for delaying my decision was the fact that getting the piercing was no picnic to begin with. After the procedure was completed, it was even more of a pain as it took over six months to heal completely. More than once I came close to giving up on it.
But I am not a quitter! I persevered. The day finally came when my piercing was completely healed and I was able to change belly button rings whenever I wanted to.
For a while that is exactly what I did ... and then I realized no one even knew I had the piercing to begin with. I wore scrubs to work every day and they more than concealed my tummy area. To make matters worse, the waistbands of the scrubs hit right at my belly button and irritated the heck out of it. I decided to go back to wearing only the post unless I was at the beach where someone might actually see my body jewelry.
Much to my dismay, my husband never seemed that interested in my belly ring. He was the main reason I got one in the first place, so that was definitely a bum deal in my opinion. I don't think he "hated it" or anything, but neither did he have quite the favorable reaction I had expected.
Many have been the occasions when I questioned what really good reason I had for keeping it in. Let's get real here. Who in their right mind actually wants to see the belly of a forty eight year old grandmother of five anyway? In my heart, I've known for a while that the time has come to do the world (and myself) a favor and take the thing out. The morning of my colonoscopy/endoscopy seemed to be as good an excuse as any.
I took one last look at it in the mirror, and for a moment reminisced about the night I'd worked up the nerve to have it put in. Imagining myself as a ninety year old woman with shaking hands and bad eyesight, attempting to change belly rings before lounging around the retirement home pool did not make for a very pleasant mental image.
The time had definitely come.
Gingerly, I removed the post that had been a part of me for so many years and laid it on the bathroom counter. With a sigh, I got dressed and left it lying there.
You know what's funny? My husband still hasn't noticed it's gone. All that pain and suffering I've endured for HIM over the years and he can't so much as say, "Honey? Where's your belly button ring?"
Just more confirmation that I made the right decision.
I am now belly-button ring-less.
And that's probably a good thing.
So, Tuesday morning as I was preparing to go to my colonoscopy appointment I decided to do it.
I took my belly button ring out for good.
The pre-procedure instructions said to remove all jewelry including those in body piercings. When the piercing was originally done, I was told to keep the post in at all times because the area would heal over very quickly if it was removed. I've adhered strictly to those orders ever since, never leaving the little piece of metal that held my piercing open out for more than a few minutes at a time.
Among my reasons for delaying my decision was the fact that getting the piercing was no picnic to begin with. After the procedure was completed, it was even more of a pain as it took over six months to heal completely. More than once I came close to giving up on it.
But I am not a quitter! I persevered. The day finally came when my piercing was completely healed and I was able to change belly button rings whenever I wanted to.
For a while that is exactly what I did ... and then I realized no one even knew I had the piercing to begin with. I wore scrubs to work every day and they more than concealed my tummy area. To make matters worse, the waistbands of the scrubs hit right at my belly button and irritated the heck out of it. I decided to go back to wearing only the post unless I was at the beach where someone might actually see my body jewelry.
Much to my dismay, my husband never seemed that interested in my belly ring. He was the main reason I got one in the first place, so that was definitely a bum deal in my opinion. I don't think he "hated it" or anything, but neither did he have quite the favorable reaction I had expected.
Many have been the occasions when I questioned what really good reason I had for keeping it in. Let's get real here. Who in their right mind actually wants to see the belly of a forty eight year old grandmother of five anyway? In my heart, I've known for a while that the time has come to do the world (and myself) a favor and take the thing out. The morning of my colonoscopy/endoscopy seemed to be as good an excuse as any.
I took one last look at it in the mirror, and for a moment reminisced about the night I'd worked up the nerve to have it put in. Imagining myself as a ninety year old woman with shaking hands and bad eyesight, attempting to change belly rings before lounging around the retirement home pool did not make for a very pleasant mental image.
The time had definitely come.
Gingerly, I removed the post that had been a part of me for so many years and laid it on the bathroom counter. With a sigh, I got dressed and left it lying there.
You know what's funny? My husband still hasn't noticed it's gone. All that pain and suffering I've endured for HIM over the years and he can't so much as say, "Honey? Where's your belly button ring?"
Just more confirmation that I made the right decision.
I am now belly-button ring-less.
And that's probably a good thing.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Good Bye!
(This is one I actually wrote about a month ago and posted to my MySpace site. I thought I'd drag it over here since I'm not feeling all that creative today. ;0) )
We are going white water rafting this weekend.
"Are you excited?" You might be asking.
"Excited" isn't exactly the word I would use to describe my feelings.
Frankly, I am TERRIFIED!
I'm no wimp. I like a little adventure in my life. I love being way up high ...on mountain tops, in airplanes, or parasailing for example.
I love horseback riding and I would go zip-lining 70 feet above the rain forest floor again in a heartbeat if given the chance. What a blast that was!!
Ironically enough, I particularly enjoy being out on the ocean (as long as it is on a yacht or bigger vessel)
That's where I draw the line. Notice, I mentioned I actually enjoy heights. That's likely due to the fact that the higher up I am ... I am also that much farther above any potentially deep or disturbing water.
Like white water, for example.
I do know how to swim. As a matter of fact, I once swam in an underground lake in a cave in Mexico, (an experience a lot of people found pretty frightening) and thought it was wonderful. At any rate, an "average" nice, calm body of water poses no threat to me.
It's being in water, but not being in control that scares me. I'd go so far as to admit I am borderline phobic about it. Furthermore, in no way do I feel compelled to practice any desensitization techniques for my "borderline phobia" at the present time.
I've got no one to blame but myself for this mess. I made a deal with the devil ... errr ... my husband. I told him I'd go white water rafting in exchange for a Siamese cat I wanted really badly. Knowing how absolutely terrified I am of the whole rafting concept, he told me if I wanted the cat that much, I could have it and I DIDN'T have to go white water rafting in order to get it.
What a sweetie I married!
I breathed a giant sigh of relief and thanked him profusely.
I should have gotten our little agreement in writing because only a couple weeks later, (and before said Siamese cat had even arrived) that sweet husband of mine went back on his word and called in my promise to white water raft with him. I reminded him that he told me I didn't have to do it, to which he responded he had simply changed his mind.
(Isn't changing one's mind the WOMAN'S perogative??)
So be it. I am a woman of my word. We are going whitewater rafting in Tennessee this Saturday.
I'm trying to keep a positive attitude about it, but it's a little difficult for me. The thought of getting thrown out of the raft and pounded repeatedly on the rocks by raging water as I die a slow painful death by drowning, keeps invading my "happy place".
Walt swears I am going to enjoy it. That may be true, given the fact that merely surviving the trip down the river will qualify it as an "enjoyable" experience for me.
You think I'm kidding???
I'm not.
So, just in case ... I want to say it's been nice knowing you all. I believe I've already informed my children of my last wishes, so y'all know what to do. There is one thing I want to add, however ...
In the event that Walt survives and I do not (I have every intention of taking him down with me if I go) I would ask that in lieu of flowers, each and every one of my friends and family members send him a Siamese cat in my honor.
Thank you, and hope to see you on the other side!!!
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Colonoscopies and Other Fun Ways to Spend a Rainy Tuesday!
Yesterday was an interesting day. I had my very first colonoscopy! As an added bonus, the doctor ordered an endoscopy as well.
Lucky me!
Let me clarify just a bit. I am not officially old enough to have a routine colonoscopy. A person isn't usually afforded such an honor until the age of fifty and as you know by now, I am NOT fifty!
No, as is usually the case, I am the exception to the rule. At my last checkup the doctor suddenly became concerned over the fact that I am anemic. I don't know exactly why he was so concerned at that point, seeing as how I've been anemic most of my life and for the most part have managed quite well. Neither do I have any symptoms to suggest the anemia is caused by anything related to the regions of my anatomy associated with those particular tests.
So, I argued a bit as Dr. D smiled and wrote out the orders to have tubes with tiny cameras inserted not only down my throat but up ... well ... you know what I'm talking about. Frankly, he seemed to be enjoying his little power trip a little too much to suit my tastes.
Everyone I've ever talked to who has had this procedure done, has told me the same thing. "The preparation the day before is the worst part of it."
Everyone I've ever talked to who hasn't had the procedure yet has also had a distinct reaction. Without exception, they've gotten looks of terror on their faces as they tried not to lose consciousness at the very thought of it.
While I definitely wouldn't describe any of part of the experience as a picnic in the park, I am happy to say I've now joined the former group in opinion . The procedure itself was a piece of cake compared to the prep work I had to endure the day before.
Thank goodness I read the instructions right after I woke up Monday morning. To my absolute horror, I discovered I was allowed only a "light" breakfast that day, and nothing but clear liquids from then until after the tests were completed on Tuesday. Adding insult to injury was the fact that I had to mix a laxative concoction and drink it at four in the afternoon, then chase it with yet more clear liquid.
By mid afternoon I was sick to death of "clear liquids". The laxative concoction itself was enough to make me want to throw up. I thought to myself that surely there must be a better way.
Figuring it couldn't hurt, I called the doctor's office and asked. Much to my dismay, I was informed that there was indeed no other way to do it. I had to accept my fate and drink the stuff as prescribed.
By six o'clock Monday evening, my belly was screaming in anguish. My husband could hear the rumblings all the way from the other side of the room. "What is that noise?" he asked, then laughed when I told him it was only my innards protesting the invasion of the nasty liquids I had swallowed. I prayed I would be able to sleep through the commotion that night and thanked God my tests were scheduled for the morning hours!
Tuesday morning finally arrived. At 6:45 I had to drink yet another laxative concoction, then drive an hour to the doctor's office. By that time I was actually looking forward to the tests!
Reminding myself that the "worst" was over, I concentrated on making it to my destination without any pit-stops or accidents along the way.
A distinct sigh of relief erupted from my lungs as we pulled into the parking lot. I sprang from the car and bolted for the nearest bathroom while my husband parked the car. The waiting room was filled with people old enough to be my parents (if not my grandparents) That was a small consolation. I felt like a toddler in a room full of college students.
The receptionist took my information and sent me to the billing office to write out a check for $450.00. I had to wonder why they needed my co-pay up front like that. Was there indeed a chance I wouldn't pull through? I immediately dismissed such a possibility.
After that I was told to go to the lab for a blood count. My results revealed that I was not anemic at that particular time. What a cruel joke! The nurse informed me that my iron levels were probably better than anyone else's in the office. Ha! I contemplated demanding that she call Dr. D to confirm my need for the colonoscopy/endoscopy but decided against it. I'd been through the prep work, by golly, I WAS having the tests done before I left that place!
After about 45 additional minutes of various embarrassing medical prodding and poking I was finally wheeled to the holding room. Being next in line for the procedure, I was asked if I'd like some music to listen to. I accepted, and asked if they had any Rod Stewart.
"No" Instead, I was handed an antiquated CD player and a headset. The CD was some kind of Indian flute music designed to make me relax.
It didn't work.
I sat up and wrapped my arms around my knees, listening to the conversations coming from the other side of my curtain. Every patient coming out of the procedure room was asking the same question. "Is it over with already?"
I vowed not to ask such a silly thing. Of course it was over! They'd been asleep and now they were awake, right? How odd that they'd have to ask!
At around 11:30 (my appointment was scheduled for 9:45) I looked at the clock for the last time and wondered what my husband was doing out in the waiting room. The last thing I'd said to him was "Order a pizza for me while you're waiting, ok?"
I wondered if maybe I should have told him I loved him instead.
Once it was my turn, things moved extremely fast. Two nurses pulled my gurney into the procedure room. One of them rolled me over on my side and put a clean cloth under my head. The doctor's smiling face appeared beside my bed. He introduced himself and explained what was about to happen. Then, he asked if I had any questions.
Yes, I had questions! Questions like "What in the world possesses a person to go into a field where they spend the day running tiny little cameras into people's body cavities?" But before I could ask, he put a blue mouthpiece between my lips which I assumed was designed to hold my mouth open for tube he was about to run down my throat.
Apparently he wasn't really interested in any questions I had at all. The blue mouthpiece made it impossible for me to form any sounds aside from a few grunts.
That is the last thing I remember. In what seemed like no time at all, a different nurse was telling me to sit up and dangle my legs over the side of the bed. Before I could stop them, the words "Is it over already?" came from my mouth. Arrgghhhh! I was no better than the rest of the patients who'd gone before me.
For probably the twelfth time that day, the nurse said, "Yes, it sure is!"
Then she added, "That was a great sleep, wasn't it!?"
Still feeling pretty dazed, I asked her if the Dr. had talked to me before he did the procedure.
The pretty nurse's face finally came into focus and I could see that she was laughing.
"Yes, he did!" She promised.
As the fog subsided, I remembered seeing the doc and talking to him briefly. Good! Maybe I'd gotten my money's worth after all.
I noticed it was only 12:30. It had been less than an hour since I'd last looked at the clock!
The pretty, smiling nurse assisted me as I walked to the bathroom and changed back into my clothes. Then, she put me in a wheelchair and pushed me into a room where my husband sat waiting.
I asked him where my pizza was and he laughed. The nurse sat down and asked if I seriously wanted pizza. I assured her I was only joking ... which I definitely was. Oddly enough I really wasn't feeling all that hungry by then.
"Good, because you really need to keep your meals light for the rest of the day." She informed me.
The doctor came in to give me my results but first told me that I was a "very good sleeper". Apparently I'd dropped off in the middle of his "pep-talk" before the procedure. He seemed to have found some entertainment value in that fact. I told him I was glad to oblige.
My tests turned out normal for the most part. I do have something called "Barrett's Esophagus" and that's not necessarily a good thing. It will call for more frequent endoscopy's as the years go by. At least endoscopy's don't require the nasty laxative concoction to be taken beforehand.
His final instructions for my General Practitioner were to "investigate other causes for anemia".
At least I can tell Dr. D "I told you so!"
Before I left the office I was given some lovely parting gifts which included the canvas bag I'd used to hold my personal belongings while I was having my tests and four pictures from various areas of my esophagus, large and small intestines.
All that for $450.00 plus whatever my insurance pays. I couldn't help but think I could have had a pretty decent Caribbean cruise, or at least a real "designer" bag for that amount of money.
Oh well! The good news is that for now the dreaded colonoscopy is a thing of the past. I won't need another one for five years or so. It would have been longer than that, but I had to open my mouth and mention that one of my thirty or so first cousins died from colon cancer. That will teach me.
In the meantime I will be hoping and praying they come up with a better way to prep for the test. Maybe by the time I go back in, someone will have found a way to skip that awful part of it and get right to the "great sleep" aspect. There are nights that I would gladly pay a few hundred bucks for that!
Lucky me!
Let me clarify just a bit. I am not officially old enough to have a routine colonoscopy. A person isn't usually afforded such an honor until the age of fifty and as you know by now, I am NOT fifty!
No, as is usually the case, I am the exception to the rule. At my last checkup the doctor suddenly became concerned over the fact that I am anemic. I don't know exactly why he was so concerned at that point, seeing as how I've been anemic most of my life and for the most part have managed quite well. Neither do I have any symptoms to suggest the anemia is caused by anything related to the regions of my anatomy associated with those particular tests.
So, I argued a bit as Dr. D smiled and wrote out the orders to have tubes with tiny cameras inserted not only down my throat but up ... well ... you know what I'm talking about. Frankly, he seemed to be enjoying his little power trip a little too much to suit my tastes.
Everyone I've ever talked to who has had this procedure done, has told me the same thing. "The preparation the day before is the worst part of it."
Everyone I've ever talked to who hasn't had the procedure yet has also had a distinct reaction. Without exception, they've gotten looks of terror on their faces as they tried not to lose consciousness at the very thought of it.
While I definitely wouldn't describe any of part of the experience as a picnic in the park, I am happy to say I've now joined the former group in opinion . The procedure itself was a piece of cake compared to the prep work I had to endure the day before.
Thank goodness I read the instructions right after I woke up Monday morning. To my absolute horror, I discovered I was allowed only a "light" breakfast that day, and nothing but clear liquids from then until after the tests were completed on Tuesday. Adding insult to injury was the fact that I had to mix a laxative concoction and drink it at four in the afternoon, then chase it with yet more clear liquid.
By mid afternoon I was sick to death of "clear liquids". The laxative concoction itself was enough to make me want to throw up. I thought to myself that surely there must be a better way.
Figuring it couldn't hurt, I called the doctor's office and asked. Much to my dismay, I was informed that there was indeed no other way to do it. I had to accept my fate and drink the stuff as prescribed.
By six o'clock Monday evening, my belly was screaming in anguish. My husband could hear the rumblings all the way from the other side of the room. "What is that noise?" he asked, then laughed when I told him it was only my innards protesting the invasion of the nasty liquids I had swallowed. I prayed I would be able to sleep through the commotion that night and thanked God my tests were scheduled for the morning hours!
Tuesday morning finally arrived. At 6:45 I had to drink yet another laxative concoction, then drive an hour to the doctor's office. By that time I was actually looking forward to the tests!
Reminding myself that the "worst" was over, I concentrated on making it to my destination without any pit-stops or accidents along the way.
A distinct sigh of relief erupted from my lungs as we pulled into the parking lot. I sprang from the car and bolted for the nearest bathroom while my husband parked the car. The waiting room was filled with people old enough to be my parents (if not my grandparents) That was a small consolation. I felt like a toddler in a room full of college students.
The receptionist took my information and sent me to the billing office to write out a check for $450.00. I had to wonder why they needed my co-pay up front like that. Was there indeed a chance I wouldn't pull through? I immediately dismissed such a possibility.
After that I was told to go to the lab for a blood count. My results revealed that I was not anemic at that particular time. What a cruel joke! The nurse informed me that my iron levels were probably better than anyone else's in the office. Ha! I contemplated demanding that she call Dr. D to confirm my need for the colonoscopy/endoscopy but decided against it. I'd been through the prep work, by golly, I WAS having the tests done before I left that place!
After about 45 additional minutes of various embarrassing medical prodding and poking I was finally wheeled to the holding room. Being next in line for the procedure, I was asked if I'd like some music to listen to. I accepted, and asked if they had any Rod Stewart.
"No" Instead, I was handed an antiquated CD player and a headset. The CD was some kind of Indian flute music designed to make me relax.
It didn't work.
I sat up and wrapped my arms around my knees, listening to the conversations coming from the other side of my curtain. Every patient coming out of the procedure room was asking the same question. "Is it over with already?"
I vowed not to ask such a silly thing. Of course it was over! They'd been asleep and now they were awake, right? How odd that they'd have to ask!
At around 11:30 (my appointment was scheduled for 9:45) I looked at the clock for the last time and wondered what my husband was doing out in the waiting room. The last thing I'd said to him was "Order a pizza for me while you're waiting, ok?"
I wondered if maybe I should have told him I loved him instead.
Once it was my turn, things moved extremely fast. Two nurses pulled my gurney into the procedure room. One of them rolled me over on my side and put a clean cloth under my head. The doctor's smiling face appeared beside my bed. He introduced himself and explained what was about to happen. Then, he asked if I had any questions.
Yes, I had questions! Questions like "What in the world possesses a person to go into a field where they spend the day running tiny little cameras into people's body cavities?" But before I could ask, he put a blue mouthpiece between my lips which I assumed was designed to hold my mouth open for tube he was about to run down my throat.
Apparently he wasn't really interested in any questions I had at all. The blue mouthpiece made it impossible for me to form any sounds aside from a few grunts.
That is the last thing I remember. In what seemed like no time at all, a different nurse was telling me to sit up and dangle my legs over the side of the bed. Before I could stop them, the words "Is it over already?" came from my mouth. Arrgghhhh! I was no better than the rest of the patients who'd gone before me.
For probably the twelfth time that day, the nurse said, "Yes, it sure is!"
Then she added, "That was a great sleep, wasn't it!?"
Still feeling pretty dazed, I asked her if the Dr. had talked to me before he did the procedure.
The pretty nurse's face finally came into focus and I could see that she was laughing.
"Yes, he did!" She promised.
As the fog subsided, I remembered seeing the doc and talking to him briefly. Good! Maybe I'd gotten my money's worth after all.
I noticed it was only 12:30. It had been less than an hour since I'd last looked at the clock!
The pretty, smiling nurse assisted me as I walked to the bathroom and changed back into my clothes. Then, she put me in a wheelchair and pushed me into a room where my husband sat waiting.
I asked him where my pizza was and he laughed. The nurse sat down and asked if I seriously wanted pizza. I assured her I was only joking ... which I definitely was. Oddly enough I really wasn't feeling all that hungry by then.
"Good, because you really need to keep your meals light for the rest of the day." She informed me.
The doctor came in to give me my results but first told me that I was a "very good sleeper". Apparently I'd dropped off in the middle of his "pep-talk" before the procedure. He seemed to have found some entertainment value in that fact. I told him I was glad to oblige.
My tests turned out normal for the most part. I do have something called "Barrett's Esophagus" and that's not necessarily a good thing. It will call for more frequent endoscopy's as the years go by. At least endoscopy's don't require the nasty laxative concoction to be taken beforehand.
His final instructions for my General Practitioner were to "investigate other causes for anemia".
At least I can tell Dr. D "I told you so!"
Before I left the office I was given some lovely parting gifts which included the canvas bag I'd used to hold my personal belongings while I was having my tests and four pictures from various areas of my esophagus, large and small intestines.
All that for $450.00 plus whatever my insurance pays. I couldn't help but think I could have had a pretty decent Caribbean cruise, or at least a real "designer" bag for that amount of money.
Oh well! The good news is that for now the dreaded colonoscopy is a thing of the past. I won't need another one for five years or so. It would have been longer than that, but I had to open my mouth and mention that one of my thirty or so first cousins died from colon cancer. That will teach me.
In the meantime I will be hoping and praying they come up with a better way to prep for the test. Maybe by the time I go back in, someone will have found a way to skip that awful part of it and get right to the "great sleep" aspect. There are nights that I would gladly pay a few hundred bucks for that!
Friday, August 22, 2008
Ham Salad Monkey
I just got home from my morning errand run and made myself a nice ham salad sandwich for a snack.
Ham salad and I go back a long way. My Mom use to make it a lot when I was a little girl. By the time I was four or five years old, the "ham salad monkey" had firmly attached itself to my back. I would have eaten ham salad sandwiches three times a day if my mother would have let me.
Of course, she didn't.
One morning when I was in first grade, I discovered a fresh bowl of ham salad in the fridge and I decided that's what I wanted for breakfast. Mom said, "No", but I argued my case. She offered to fry some eggs for me instead (how boring!) My relentless protest eventually wore her down. She agreed to fix a ham salad sandwich for me, but only if I promised not to tell anyone.
It was obvious that Mom's interest in the nutritional value of my breakfast was not so much the cause for her denying me the ham salad sandwich, as was her fear that someone might find out she'd fed her six year old child (insert *gasp* here) a lunch item for her morning meal.
That ham salad sandwich tasted almost as good to me as did the sweet victory I felt in winning the breakfast war that day.
Later, I sat at my desk at school as Mrs. Ward gave her usual "good morning" class talk. I was half paying attention to her, and half watching a bird hop around on the sidewalk outside the window when I heard her introduce our topic for the day.
It was "nutrition". Yada, yada ... Three balanced meals a day, lots of dairy products, not so much sugar ... I knew the drill. I'd been born six years earlier, not just the night before, after all. I directed my attention back to the hopping bird.
Then, Mrs. Ward said something that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. She announced that she was going to go around the room and have each of us tell the rest of the class what we'd eaten for breakfast.
I gulped, wondering if my mother could possibly have been angry enough over losing the battle of eggs vs. ham salad, that she'd called the school and tattled on me. I sank down into my seat, quite literally sweating it out as each student reported their breakfast choices to the class.
Bacon and eggs.
Oatmeal.
Cereal and Orange juice.
Milk and toast.
Cream of wheat.
I prayed that someone would come up with " A Three Musketeers candy bar and grape pop" .. anything that might actually make my ham salad sandwich seem like a good idea.
God must have been on my Mother's side that day because before I knew it, it was my turn to tell what my personal breakfast meal had consisted of. I was within mere seconds of being found guilty of poor food choices by a jury of my first grade peers.
All eyes were on me, including Mrs. Ward's. Not only was she looking at me, she had the audacity to be smiling and nodding, giving me the non-verbal order to "Go ahead and make yourself the laughing stock of the whole class ... NOW!"
I was pretty sure I caught a glimpse of the food police waiting to pounce on me just outside the classroom door.
I had to make a decision and I had to make it fast. Smooth as silk, I smiled sweetly back at Mrs. Ward and said, "I had eggs!"
Whew! I wasn't busted after all. Yes, I'd lied and I felt terrible about that, but I was counting on asking forgiveness as soon as the attention of the class (and Mrs. Ward)was on the next victim.
I vowed never to have ham salad for breakfast again as long as I lived.
Of course, as time passed I found the ham salad monkey on my back again and I succumbed to it. To this day, I love to eat ham salad sandwiches for breakfast, but now I don't have to hide that fact from anyone. It's just one of the benefits of being a grown up!
Yes, ham salad was and always will be, a very good friend of mine!
Thursday, August 21, 2008
The Good Old Summer Time
I remember summer.
I speak in past tense because I've noticed that summer is getting shorter as the years go by. In fact, I find that summers today only vaguely resemble those of my childhood.
Summer seemed to last forever back then. As a little girl, I looked forward every year to three full months of being out of school, enjoying long hot sunny days spent riding my bike, swimming with friends, picking tomatoes from the garden with my Dad, and hanging out at the county fair. Those glorious days arrived faithfully at the end of May and lasted until after Labor Day.
I also recall having mixed feelings as mid-August arrived, bringing along with it my birthday. That was back when I actually liked the idea of growing a year older, but in my mind the date was bittersweet as it also symbolized the beginning of the countdown to the start of a new school year. After August thirteenth, we only had a few weeks left. That aspect of my birthday never failed to dampen my spirits a bit. It was then, I'd begin feeling somewhat nostalgic about one more summer that was about to slip through my grasp, and start making efforts to squeeze every bit of enjoyment possible out of what was left of it.
Oh to have that kind of summer back again!
When we moved to Georgia a few years ago, I was excited over the idea of living in a warmer climate than my home state of Ohio had to offer. I imagined how much I'd cherish what would surely be the extended summers here.
Little did I know.
As it turns out, southerners don't embrace summer time in the way I am accustomed.
Maybe it's because they don't experience the same harshness of the winter months. They don't know what it feels like to look forward to mid-March when the official thaw begins every year.
Not once have they been stuck inside their house for days on end, or felt the pain of stepping outside and taking in a lung full of bitterly frozen winter air.
They have no idea how thrilling it can be to wave to the neighbors for the first time each spring as they emerge from their houses after months of seclusion.
No, instead I've discovered that most people here (my husband included) actually dread the summer months.
As if that sort of mindset isn't depressing enough, our school systems seem compelled to go above and beyond the call of duty towards screwing up the summer months. Remember, I said I use to consider mid-August the beginning of the official countdown to the end of the season? Here, the kids are back in school BEFORE my birthday even arrives.
It makes no sense to me at all. It's a hundred degrees outside and what do we do? We put our babies on buses and send them off to school in the sweltering heat!
About the time I am ready to really sink my teeth into the good old summer time, it's over! No more out of town vacations, no more spending weekdays on the lake, no more staying up late and sleeping in.
It ends as quickly as it began. Summer is gone! No more! Zilch! Disappeared in the blink of an eye.
Shoot! The stores here stop selling summer merchandise shortly after the first of July. In fact, instead of using my birthday as the all important marker of the "beginning of the end", I now start my countdown over Independence Day weekend.
In my ever so humble opinion, there's something very wrong with that!
I say, BRING SUMMER BACK! Instead of pushing our kids out the door the first week of August, let's fix another pitcher of sweet tea and head for the front porch swing. Let's stand in the yard and talk to the neighbors over the back fence until dark, without worrying about getting the kids to bed "on time". Instead, let's give them mason jars and tell them to go catch lightning bugs or hand them flashlights and send them out to play "flashlight tag".
Autumn will be arrive soon enough. The leaves will turn brown and fall, leaving the trees naked and gray. It will be dark by six o'clock every night and we will be turning on the furnace and staring at our calenders, not believing there are only "x" number of shopping days until Christmas.
Until then, C'mon people! Let's get out there enjoy the beautiful freedom of the summer days while we can!
I speak in past tense because I've noticed that summer is getting shorter as the years go by. In fact, I find that summers today only vaguely resemble those of my childhood.
Summer seemed to last forever back then. As a little girl, I looked forward every year to three full months of being out of school, enjoying long hot sunny days spent riding my bike, swimming with friends, picking tomatoes from the garden with my Dad, and hanging out at the county fair. Those glorious days arrived faithfully at the end of May and lasted until after Labor Day.
I also recall having mixed feelings as mid-August arrived, bringing along with it my birthday. That was back when I actually liked the idea of growing a year older, but in my mind the date was bittersweet as it also symbolized the beginning of the countdown to the start of a new school year. After August thirteenth, we only had a few weeks left. That aspect of my birthday never failed to dampen my spirits a bit. It was then, I'd begin feeling somewhat nostalgic about one more summer that was about to slip through my grasp, and start making efforts to squeeze every bit of enjoyment possible out of what was left of it.
Oh to have that kind of summer back again!
When we moved to Georgia a few years ago, I was excited over the idea of living in a warmer climate than my home state of Ohio had to offer. I imagined how much I'd cherish what would surely be the extended summers here.
Little did I know.
As it turns out, southerners don't embrace summer time in the way I am accustomed.
Maybe it's because they don't experience the same harshness of the winter months. They don't know what it feels like to look forward to mid-March when the official thaw begins every year.
Not once have they been stuck inside their house for days on end, or felt the pain of stepping outside and taking in a lung full of bitterly frozen winter air.
They have no idea how thrilling it can be to wave to the neighbors for the first time each spring as they emerge from their houses after months of seclusion.
No, instead I've discovered that most people here (my husband included) actually dread the summer months.
As if that sort of mindset isn't depressing enough, our school systems seem compelled to go above and beyond the call of duty towards screwing up the summer months. Remember, I said I use to consider mid-August the beginning of the official countdown to the end of the season? Here, the kids are back in school BEFORE my birthday even arrives.
It makes no sense to me at all. It's a hundred degrees outside and what do we do? We put our babies on buses and send them off to school in the sweltering heat!
About the time I am ready to really sink my teeth into the good old summer time, it's over! No more out of town vacations, no more spending weekdays on the lake, no more staying up late and sleeping in.
It ends as quickly as it began. Summer is gone! No more! Zilch! Disappeared in the blink of an eye.
Shoot! The stores here stop selling summer merchandise shortly after the first of July. In fact, instead of using my birthday as the all important marker of the "beginning of the end", I now start my countdown over Independence Day weekend.
In my ever so humble opinion, there's something very wrong with that!
I say, BRING SUMMER BACK! Instead of pushing our kids out the door the first week of August, let's fix another pitcher of sweet tea and head for the front porch swing. Let's stand in the yard and talk to the neighbors over the back fence until dark, without worrying about getting the kids to bed "on time". Instead, let's give them mason jars and tell them to go catch lightning bugs or hand them flashlights and send them out to play "flashlight tag".
Autumn will be arrive soon enough. The leaves will turn brown and fall, leaving the trees naked and gray. It will be dark by six o'clock every night and we will be turning on the furnace and staring at our calenders, not believing there are only "x" number of shopping days until Christmas.
Until then, C'mon people! Let's get out there enjoy the beautiful freedom of the summer days while we can!
Monday, August 18, 2008
Growing Old ... Gracefully?
Last night I was watching one of those shows which feature before and after stories of plastic surgery patients. I was glued to the set as I witnessed three people go through physical transformations via the wonderful world of medical science.
All of the surgeries were completely elective and frankly, I didn't think any of the people who had their bodies altered really needed it.
That's just my opinion though. The truth is, by the end of the show, I was beginning to wonder if I might benefit from a few nips and tucks myself. Shoot! For several thousand dollars and a few hours of my time (not counting recovery, of course) I could look ten years younger. It's that simple.
It wasn't so long ago that I would not have considered such a silly idea. I look young. I act young. I AM young! That's been my story and I've stuck to it.
Even though I am a grandmother five times over, I've been able to live happily comfortable in my little world of denial. I love the looks of surprise I get when people find out I have five grandchildren. I especially enjoy watching people nearly faint when I tell them my oldest daughter is 30 years old.
Yep. It's a beautiful thing.
So, naturally, it bothers me that lately, those surprised reactions are becoming fewer and farther between. It's true, the woman looking back at me in the mirror is starting to show some age and I realize I will soon be forced to make that all important decision.
Will I grow old gracefully, or will I fight it every step of the way?
On one hand, I am leaning towards fighting it. On the other, I'm don't think I am quite ready to pull my head out of the sand and admit that not only is the skin on my face slowly working it's way down to my chin line, but my upper arms are betraying me as well. Just this past weekend I was appalled to notice that it has taken on a life of it's own and now insists on waving at will whenever I raise my hands. And my neck? We won't even go there. Suffice to say I started buying clothing that buttons up under my chin a year or so ago.
In a perfect world, I suppose none of us would ever show our age. Unfortunately, the world is not perfect and neither is this body of mine.
I'd love to think I could maintain a youthful appearance right up to the time I leave this earth (sometime after my 100th birthday) but I'm not quite to the point where I am willing to pay a years wages to accomplish that dream.
So for now, I will keep doing what I've been doing for the last 48 years. I will eat well (with the possible exception of the occasional hot fudge cake) exercise regularly (as in climbing the stairs to get to my computer every morning) and I will keep my head buried in the proverbial sand.
Who's to say, after all, that the "Fountain of Youth" won't someday be discovered right here where I rest, in the beautiful state of denial!
All of the surgeries were completely elective and frankly, I didn't think any of the people who had their bodies altered really needed it.
That's just my opinion though. The truth is, by the end of the show, I was beginning to wonder if I might benefit from a few nips and tucks myself. Shoot! For several thousand dollars and a few hours of my time (not counting recovery, of course) I could look ten years younger. It's that simple.
It wasn't so long ago that I would not have considered such a silly idea. I look young. I act young. I AM young! That's been my story and I've stuck to it.
Even though I am a grandmother five times over, I've been able to live happily comfortable in my little world of denial. I love the looks of surprise I get when people find out I have five grandchildren. I especially enjoy watching people nearly faint when I tell them my oldest daughter is 30 years old.
Yep. It's a beautiful thing.
So, naturally, it bothers me that lately, those surprised reactions are becoming fewer and farther between. It's true, the woman looking back at me in the mirror is starting to show some age and I realize I will soon be forced to make that all important decision.
Will I grow old gracefully, or will I fight it every step of the way?
On one hand, I am leaning towards fighting it. On the other, I'm don't think I am quite ready to pull my head out of the sand and admit that not only is the skin on my face slowly working it's way down to my chin line, but my upper arms are betraying me as well. Just this past weekend I was appalled to notice that it has taken on a life of it's own and now insists on waving at will whenever I raise my hands. And my neck? We won't even go there. Suffice to say I started buying clothing that buttons up under my chin a year or so ago.
In a perfect world, I suppose none of us would ever show our age. Unfortunately, the world is not perfect and neither is this body of mine.
I'd love to think I could maintain a youthful appearance right up to the time I leave this earth (sometime after my 100th birthday) but I'm not quite to the point where I am willing to pay a years wages to accomplish that dream.
So for now, I will keep doing what I've been doing for the last 48 years. I will eat well (with the possible exception of the occasional hot fudge cake) exercise regularly (as in climbing the stairs to get to my computer every morning) and I will keep my head buried in the proverbial sand.
Who's to say, after all, that the "Fountain of Youth" won't someday be discovered right here where I rest, in the beautiful state of denial!
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Batman and the Baby Boomer
From the tender age of five years old, I have been hopelessly in love with Batman.
"In love with" may be a strong way of explaining it. After all how does a five year old fall "in love"? Perhaps I could better describe it as being mesmerized by the Caped Crusader.
Call it what you may, Batman captivated my heart way back in 1966 and has held me hostage ever since.
My husband, my son and I went to see "The Dark Knight" yesterday evening. It definitely did not disappoint! As soon as the cameras panned back to show the silhouette of Batman standing in the shadows overlooking a crime scene in progress, my heart leaped inside my chest.
It was a almost embarrassing, actually, as in a sudden burst of enthusiasm I managed to elbow my husband a little too hard in the side. Realizing I was likely going to need more space as the evening wore on, he laughed at me and shifted a bit to his right in the seat.
As the plot unfolded, justice eventually prevailed, the audience clapped and hooted, credits began to roll and the three of us headed to the car excitedly discussing our favorite parts of the movie.
It's interesting how Batman has changed over the years. He and Robin have come a long way since the days when "Ka-Pow" and "Bam" flashed over the t.v. screen and Batman commanded, "Back to the bat cave, Robin!!"
Robin, aka "Boy Wonder" has disappeared altogether. (That's probably a good thing) Batman, on the other hand, continues to evolve as does the ever more interesting Bat-mobile.
The original Batman, Adam West, is now an aging actor who although he appears in an occasional cameo role, has all but dropped out of sight.
Christian Bale, the most recent Batman fits the role well but I've got to say it's hard to wrap my mind around the idea that Batman has gone from being old enough to be my Dad ... to young enough to be my son since I first started watching him.
His original audience has reached middle age and beyond, but Batman just keeps getting younger and better with each movie release.
In my mind, I like to keep the Batman of my childhood separated from the modern day version. The original Batman may not have been as flashy or electronically enhanced, but he was my hero. Sure he was a little "lame" by today's standards, but that doesn't keep him from holding a sacred place in my personal universe.
This morning, my fourteen year old son came out of his room and announced that he'd spent a good deal of time researching Batman on the internet after we got home last night. In the process, he ran across some old clips of the original t.v. series and was cracking up at how "awful" they were. He couldn't believe that anyone ever really fell for that stuff.
On and on he rattled about those "hideous" gray tights and how Robin looked like a sissy. What were the producers thinking anyway?
I smiled and reminded him that Batman was originally intended for children. The show was considered "cutting edge" way back then and even though it's nothing compared to what has become popular today, the concept of Batman has certainly endured the test of time.
Never as a five year old girl sitting in front of my favorite t.v. show, did I imagine that more than 40 years later I'd be sitting between my husband and son watching my hero on the big screen.
Neither does my son, Adam, realize that he was named after none other than the original Batman himself.
That's a little secret I'll just keep to myself for now.
Yes, Batman will forever hold a very special place in this baby boomer's heart.
"In love with" may be a strong way of explaining it. After all how does a five year old fall "in love"? Perhaps I could better describe it as being mesmerized by the Caped Crusader.
Call it what you may, Batman captivated my heart way back in 1966 and has held me hostage ever since.
My husband, my son and I went to see "The Dark Knight" yesterday evening. It definitely did not disappoint! As soon as the cameras panned back to show the silhouette of Batman standing in the shadows overlooking a crime scene in progress, my heart leaped inside my chest.
It was a almost embarrassing, actually, as in a sudden burst of enthusiasm I managed to elbow my husband a little too hard in the side. Realizing I was likely going to need more space as the evening wore on, he laughed at me and shifted a bit to his right in the seat.
As the plot unfolded, justice eventually prevailed, the audience clapped and hooted, credits began to roll and the three of us headed to the car excitedly discussing our favorite parts of the movie.
It's interesting how Batman has changed over the years. He and Robin have come a long way since the days when "Ka-Pow" and "Bam" flashed over the t.v. screen and Batman commanded, "Back to the bat cave, Robin!!"
Robin, aka "Boy Wonder" has disappeared altogether. (That's probably a good thing) Batman, on the other hand, continues to evolve as does the ever more interesting Bat-mobile.
The original Batman, Adam West, is now an aging actor who although he appears in an occasional cameo role, has all but dropped out of sight.
Christian Bale, the most recent Batman fits the role well but I've got to say it's hard to wrap my mind around the idea that Batman has gone from being old enough to be my Dad ... to young enough to be my son since I first started watching him.
His original audience has reached middle age and beyond, but Batman just keeps getting younger and better with each movie release.
In my mind, I like to keep the Batman of my childhood separated from the modern day version. The original Batman may not have been as flashy or electronically enhanced, but he was my hero. Sure he was a little "lame" by today's standards, but that doesn't keep him from holding a sacred place in my personal universe.
This morning, my fourteen year old son came out of his room and announced that he'd spent a good deal of time researching Batman on the internet after we got home last night. In the process, he ran across some old clips of the original t.v. series and was cracking up at how "awful" they were. He couldn't believe that anyone ever really fell for that stuff.
On and on he rattled about those "hideous" gray tights and how Robin looked like a sissy. What were the producers thinking anyway?
I smiled and reminded him that Batman was originally intended for children. The show was considered "cutting edge" way back then and even though it's nothing compared to what has become popular today, the concept of Batman has certainly endured the test of time.
Never as a five year old girl sitting in front of my favorite t.v. show, did I imagine that more than 40 years later I'd be sitting between my husband and son watching my hero on the big screen.
Neither does my son, Adam, realize that he was named after none other than the original Batman himself.
That's a little secret I'll just keep to myself for now.
Yes, Batman will forever hold a very special place in this baby boomer's heart.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Feed Me!!
This time last week we were boarding a ship for a weekend cruise where for three days, we were surrounded by food. Even before our ship pulled away from the port, a veritable 24/7 feeding frenzy ensued which lasted until we walked off on Monday morning.
My problem with that? I wasn't hungry.
I tried to eat. I felt compelled to join the masses at the buffet every morning and afternoon. There, I would pile food on my plate like it was going out of style, only to sit down and decide I didn't want it after all.
Each evening we would dress up and make our way to the dining room where we were able to order any delicacy our hearts desired, even if it wasn't on the menu! The food was delicious, but try again as I may, I just didn't want it. About three bites into each dish, my appetite would abandon me, leaving me sitting there feeling badly about wasting all that glorious food.
It was weird.
You wanna know what's more weird than that?
Now that I am home and my choices are much more limited, I suddenly find myself starving. Seriously! If I'd felt like this last week, someone would have had to wheel me off the ship in a cargo box. There wouldn't have been any food left in a three mile radius after I got finished with it.
Yes, even this morning, I would KILL for a big buffet to plunder through.
I'm not normally a big eater. My philosophy has always been "Eat to live", not "Live to eat!" Food typically holds a rather low spot on my list of priorities. It isn't unusual for me to get so involved with whatever I am doing, that I forget to eat.
Yes. I said I "forget" to eat.
So why this sudden change? I haven't the foggiest clue. Hopefully it will pass as quickly as it hit and I'll be back to my normal un-hungry self soon.
For now, I'll just go fix myself a bowl of left over chili and bide my time as I wait.
My problem with that? I wasn't hungry.
I tried to eat. I felt compelled to join the masses at the buffet every morning and afternoon. There, I would pile food on my plate like it was going out of style, only to sit down and decide I didn't want it after all.
Each evening we would dress up and make our way to the dining room where we were able to order any delicacy our hearts desired, even if it wasn't on the menu! The food was delicious, but try again as I may, I just didn't want it. About three bites into each dish, my appetite would abandon me, leaving me sitting there feeling badly about wasting all that glorious food.
It was weird.
You wanna know what's more weird than that?
Now that I am home and my choices are much more limited, I suddenly find myself starving. Seriously! If I'd felt like this last week, someone would have had to wheel me off the ship in a cargo box. There wouldn't have been any food left in a three mile radius after I got finished with it.
Yes, even this morning, I would KILL for a big buffet to plunder through.
I'm not normally a big eater. My philosophy has always been "Eat to live", not "Live to eat!" Food typically holds a rather low spot on my list of priorities. It isn't unusual for me to get so involved with whatever I am doing, that I forget to eat.
Yes. I said I "forget" to eat.
So why this sudden change? I haven't the foggiest clue. Hopefully it will pass as quickly as it hit and I'll be back to my normal un-hungry self soon.
For now, I'll just go fix myself a bowl of left over chili and bide my time as I wait.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Pushing Fifty
Pushing Fifty
My birthday is coming up. It's six days away, to be exact, and I will be turning forty-eight.
Forty-eight is not a big deal. Whatever forty-eight is supposed to feel like, I don't think I feel it. I certainly don't consider myself "middle aged". (The mere act of typing those words just made me shudder.)
No, I am definitely not "old".
At least I didn't think so until I talked to my daughter on the phone last night. Angel was commenting on a picture of me that which was taken on formal night of our cruise last week. I'm quite sure she meant her statement as a compliment, but perhaps she could have chosen her words a little better.
She said, "Mom! You look gorgeous in that picture of you in the black party dress. I told Johnny that you sure don't look like a woman who's pushing FIFTY!"
I gulped and immediately informed her that "I AM NOT PUSHING FIFTY!"
That, of course, brought laughter from the other end of the phone line. (OK, so if I'm indeed "pushing fifty", whatever happened to respecting one's elders???)
That's when the conversation (and my ego) took a distinct downward turn.
Angel went on to explain that my being forty-eight somehow officially allows me to wear the banner of "pushing fifty".
Like it's some kind of honor or something.
I'll have none of that nonsense!
I'm sorry. I'm not quite ready to hang that noose around my neck just yet. I refuse to entertain any thought of "pushing fifty" until at least two years from this date, August 7, 2010! Six days before my fiftieth birthday. In the meantime I will remain as I am ... young, strong, and (almost) invincible.
I am WOMAN! Hear me roar! (Or in this case, hear me complain about my daughter thinking of me as "pushing fifty")
So today, it's back to looking forward to my birthday which is a mere six days away.
I will be forty-eight. Don't you forget it!
My birthday is coming up. It's six days away, to be exact, and I will be turning forty-eight.
Forty-eight is not a big deal. Whatever forty-eight is supposed to feel like, I don't think I feel it. I certainly don't consider myself "middle aged". (The mere act of typing those words just made me shudder.)
No, I am definitely not "old".
At least I didn't think so until I talked to my daughter on the phone last night. Angel was commenting on a picture of me that which was taken on formal night of our cruise last week. I'm quite sure she meant her statement as a compliment, but perhaps she could have chosen her words a little better.
She said, "Mom! You look gorgeous in that picture of you in the black party dress. I told Johnny that you sure don't look like a woman who's pushing FIFTY!"
I gulped and immediately informed her that "I AM NOT PUSHING FIFTY!"
That, of course, brought laughter from the other end of the phone line. (OK, so if I'm indeed "pushing fifty", whatever happened to respecting one's elders???)
That's when the conversation (and my ego) took a distinct downward turn.
Angel went on to explain that my being forty-eight somehow officially allows me to wear the banner of "pushing fifty".
Like it's some kind of honor or something.
I'll have none of that nonsense!
I'm sorry. I'm not quite ready to hang that noose around my neck just yet. I refuse to entertain any thought of "pushing fifty" until at least two years from this date, August 7, 2010! Six days before my fiftieth birthday. In the meantime I will remain as I am ... young, strong, and (almost) invincible.
I am WOMAN! Hear me roar! (Or in this case, hear me complain about my daughter thinking of me as "pushing fifty")
So today, it's back to looking forward to my birthday which is a mere six days away.
I will be forty-eight. Don't you forget it!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)