Tagged.
Inspired tagged me and I actually had a moment to breathe this morning so I decided to play along. I never imagined it would be that hard to answer in three words only.
01. Where is your cell phone? In my car.
02. Boyfriend/girlfriend? Nine years.
03. Hair? Way too thick.
04. Your mother? Dances with dog.
05. Your father? Wrote a book.
06. Your favorite item(s)? My wedding ring.
07. Your dream last night? Don’t remember.
08. Your favorite drink? Diet Coke.
09. Your dream guy/girl? Married her.
10. The room you are in? Teeny tiny office.
11. Your fear? Getting in trouble.
12. What do you want to be in 10 years? Successful, thinner, happy.
13. Who did you hang out with last night? Friends.
14. What are you not? Wanting to work.
15. Are you in love? Very much so.
16. One of your wish list items? Country cottage.
17. What time is it? Three After Nine.
18. The last thing you did? Called my boss.
19. What are you wearing? Work clothes. Ugh.
20. Your favorite book? Too many. Wildfire?
21. The last thing you ate? Gouda orzo.
22. Your life? Work to play.
23. Your mood? Ever changing.
24. Your friends? Funny, caring, supportive.
25. What are you thinking about right now? Going home.
26. Your car? Cups, Cans, Paper.
27. What are you doing at this moment? On hold.
28. Your summer? Cows, farmer tan.
29. Your relationship status? Told you. Married.
30. What is on your TV screen? Ask the dog.
31. When is the last time you laughed? Last night.
32. Last time you cried? Saturday morning.
33. School? Miss Spring Break.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Baltimore Bound
I don’t know if I ever told you this but there was one arrangement at my grandfather’s funeral that touched me most. The chapel in Colorado Springs was small and impersonal. Only a few friends and family attended. A snow storm blew through the night before; the entire world wore a bright white blanket. There, next to the open coffin, was an upside down horseshoe covered in Black Eyed Susan’s.
Later as Carrie and I waited to leave for the airport my grandfather’s friend told me why he chose that particular arrangement. Years and years ago he went to the Preakness Stakes with my grandfather and grandmother. They had a table in the stands where they sat drinking, anticipating the race. My grandfather, a liquor distributor at the time, saw some friends of his and went over to talk to them. He came back to the table, turned to his friend and said “Those are some friends of mine and you are going to watch the race with them. At the finish line”. This friend never forgot that day. That moment in a lifetime of moments stuck out. When my grandfather died, the Black Eyed Susan arrangement was a natural tribute to the man he knew.
Before my grandfather’s coffin was closed, a Kentucky quarter and a fifth of bourbon was placed in his pocket. Call it lagniappe to get him through to his final resting place. A fitting gift indeed for the man who watched as Secretariat crossed the finish line to win the Triple Crown. A man who was always up for the races no matter what time of day or night.
May 18th I will be flying to Baltimore with my stepmother who is taking me to the Preakness Stakes. Live and in person. I will see the track, listen to the beat of hooves, and bask in the history that is my grandfather’s. This will be a shining moment. The only thing that will dull it is not having my one and only by my side but she has been understanding that this is the chance of a lifetime. An opportunity to be with my grandfather again.
I don’t know if I ever told you this but there was one arrangement at my grandfather’s funeral that touched me most. The chapel in Colorado Springs was small and impersonal. Only a few friends and family attended. A snow storm blew through the night before; the entire world wore a bright white blanket. There, next to the open coffin, was an upside down horseshoe covered in Black Eyed Susan’s.
Later as Carrie and I waited to leave for the airport my grandfather’s friend told me why he chose that particular arrangement. Years and years ago he went to the Preakness Stakes with my grandfather and grandmother. They had a table in the stands where they sat drinking, anticipating the race. My grandfather, a liquor distributor at the time, saw some friends of his and went over to talk to them. He came back to the table, turned to his friend and said “Those are some friends of mine and you are going to watch the race with them. At the finish line”. This friend never forgot that day. That moment in a lifetime of moments stuck out. When my grandfather died, the Black Eyed Susan arrangement was a natural tribute to the man he knew.
Before my grandfather’s coffin was closed, a Kentucky quarter and a fifth of bourbon was placed in his pocket. Call it lagniappe to get him through to his final resting place. A fitting gift indeed for the man who watched as Secretariat crossed the finish line to win the Triple Crown. A man who was always up for the races no matter what time of day or night.
May 18th I will be flying to Baltimore with my stepmother who is taking me to the Preakness Stakes. Live and in person. I will see the track, listen to the beat of hooves, and bask in the history that is my grandfather’s. This will be a shining moment. The only thing that will dull it is not having my one and only by my side but she has been understanding that this is the chance of a lifetime. An opportunity to be with my grandfather again.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Cold Sweats Turkey Hell
So Carrie gets nose surgery and can’t smoke. Great time for us to quit right? I’m not sure if the past four days could be described as a great time. Little did I know when I smoked my last cigarette Friday morning at 8:30 a.m. that I was standing at the Gates of Hell. This being my own Divine Comedy (or Tragedy depending what non-smoking personality you are talking to) I have outlined below the results of quitting smoking cold turkey:
Circle One~ Driving alone seems to bring about the worst cravings. When I smoked I would light a cigarette the instant after turning the key in the ignition whether I was driving a block or a hundred miles. Friday, I sat at stop signs and traffic lights wanting to jump out of my window and grab the cigarette casually hanging between the driver’s fingers next to me.
Circle Two~ Cold sweats all night long Friday and well into Saturday. I could not stay awake and slept for almost 18 hours. It was not a restful sleep but a lot like the foggy headed, dizzy sleep you have after a few too many doses of NyQuil. Standing outside myself and surveying my condition I looked a lot like a lifetime special on a junkie.
Circle Three~ Food Glorious Food!!!! My mouth which was used to the motions of sucking on a cig every hour or so has nothing to do. It misses its little friend and has gone in search of any food substitute that might sate the cravings. To avoid having to kick the next habit and keep myself from being the next reality t.v. star, I try to snack on baby carrots and fat free sorbet but Sunday proves too much and eat apple pie ala mode. Biggest Loser IX here I come!
Circle Four~ Nervous energy. This is your body’s idea of punishment / blackmail. You won’t need to rearrange the closet (AGAIN) if you just go downstairs and smoke. The linen closet never bothered you before, so just go downstairs and smoke and quit rearranging the hand towels.
Circle Five~ Life is like a box of……. cigarettes? Everywhere I turn there is a box. Empty. Full. Half smoked. It took some serious will power to take the boxes I had in my purse and put them away. Those were like security blankets ready to soothe me should I fall off the smoke free wagon. Did I throw them away? Hell no! I may still fail at this and cigarettes are just too expensive to keep replacing.
I would love to continue, because believe me this whole life change is consuming me. I am obsessed, but for now I need to walk around the office and burn off some nervous energy before I run downstairs to smoke. One hundred and three hours and counting……
So Carrie gets nose surgery and can’t smoke. Great time for us to quit right? I’m not sure if the past four days could be described as a great time. Little did I know when I smoked my last cigarette Friday morning at 8:30 a.m. that I was standing at the Gates of Hell. This being my own Divine Comedy (or Tragedy depending what non-smoking personality you are talking to) I have outlined below the results of quitting smoking cold turkey:
Circle One~ Driving alone seems to bring about the worst cravings. When I smoked I would light a cigarette the instant after turning the key in the ignition whether I was driving a block or a hundred miles. Friday, I sat at stop signs and traffic lights wanting to jump out of my window and grab the cigarette casually hanging between the driver’s fingers next to me.
Circle Two~ Cold sweats all night long Friday and well into Saturday. I could not stay awake and slept for almost 18 hours. It was not a restful sleep but a lot like the foggy headed, dizzy sleep you have after a few too many doses of NyQuil. Standing outside myself and surveying my condition I looked a lot like a lifetime special on a junkie.
Circle Three~ Food Glorious Food!!!! My mouth which was used to the motions of sucking on a cig every hour or so has nothing to do. It misses its little friend and has gone in search of any food substitute that might sate the cravings. To avoid having to kick the next habit and keep myself from being the next reality t.v. star, I try to snack on baby carrots and fat free sorbet but Sunday proves too much and eat apple pie ala mode. Biggest Loser IX here I come!
Circle Four~ Nervous energy. This is your body’s idea of punishment / blackmail. You won’t need to rearrange the closet (AGAIN) if you just go downstairs and smoke. The linen closet never bothered you before, so just go downstairs and smoke and quit rearranging the hand towels.
Circle Five~ Life is like a box of……. cigarettes? Everywhere I turn there is a box. Empty. Full. Half smoked. It took some serious will power to take the boxes I had in my purse and put them away. Those were like security blankets ready to soothe me should I fall off the smoke free wagon. Did I throw them away? Hell no! I may still fail at this and cigarettes are just too expensive to keep replacing.
I would love to continue, because believe me this whole life change is consuming me. I am obsessed, but for now I need to walk around the office and burn off some nervous energy before I run downstairs to smoke. One hundred and three hours and counting……
Monday, February 05, 2007
Who Nose What Tomorrow Will Bring
Carrie underwent her surgery on Friday. All went well according to the doctor. Of course how it went is a pretty relative question? For instance, if you ask Carrie how it went she is liable to tell you that it’s possible the surgery went well as she slept through it all but that the recovery really sucks. She might ask you why those members of the medical establishment who said this would not be painful lied to her. She would probably also go on to say that when they mention they will be leaving “Teflon strips” in your nose you somehow picture a small, flat strip along either side of the septum and never once would it cross your mind that anyone would use the word “strip” to define a thick “Teflon” rubber tube with the circumference of a Big Gulp straw shoved up, sewed on, and effectively holding open your nostrils. No, “strips” make them sound small.
All of the information they give you pre-op stresses the importance of staying ahead of the pain. After her discharge from the hospital, we dropped off Carrie’s prescriptions then I got her all settled at home before returning to the pharmacy to pick them up. Detour to the grocery store for grill cheese fixins, the ultimate sick food and I was back at the house fast ready to whip up a sandwich and administer the first dose. Ah, but the pain Gods had conspired against us so when I got out the prescriptions I noticed the pharmacy had given me someone else’s stuff. A cursory inspection of the primary uses and side effects led me to the conclusion that yes, I would have to go back to the pharmacy because this stuff would in no way begin to ease Carrie's pain and that someone in our neighborhood has a very nasty rash.
The rest of the afternoon went smoothly. Carrie mostly nodded in and out of a pain induced sleep. The post-op directions I was forced to sign as her caregiver for the next 24 hours AND the pre-op instructions on what to expect said that saline nasal spray should begin “the day after surgery” but Dr. Carrie did not think this could be right so began spraying a full 24 hours early. Nothing bad happened but I write this because it goes to demonstrate again how different we are when it comes to following the advice of an authority figure. Carrie is her own authority figure where as if I were to start spraying harmless saline up my nose early I would need to be rushed to the emergency room before nightfall as a result of a massive anxiety attack that I broke “the rules”.
Sometime around 4:30 a.m. Saturday, Carrie asked if I would help her get set up downstairs on the couch because the pain was just simply too much for her to bear and the two doses of painkillers she took in the night weren’t working. I gathered her pillows, her tissues, her water with the bendy straw hanging over the top and her bottle of pills. Walking down the stairs I noticed the label said Levaquin not Hydrocodone. Hmmm? Side effects of Levaquin (as published by our friendly neighborhood give-your-prescription-to-someone-else-and-let-them-know-your-deepest-secrets pharmacist) are joint pain and severe headaches. The two very symptoms that had kept Carrie awake all night and had me up at 4:30 a.m. helping her move positions. So much for staying ahead of the pain.
It’s Monday now and although she isn’t feeling much better, her nose is starting to look better. Wednesday they will remove the “strips” and hopefully she will be able to breath a lot easier. Tomorrow I’ll try to share some words of wisdom from the seven circles of trying-to-stop-smoking-cold-turkey hell I have visited this past weekend.
Carrie underwent her surgery on Friday. All went well according to the doctor. Of course how it went is a pretty relative question? For instance, if you ask Carrie how it went she is liable to tell you that it’s possible the surgery went well as she slept through it all but that the recovery really sucks. She might ask you why those members of the medical establishment who said this would not be painful lied to her. She would probably also go on to say that when they mention they will be leaving “Teflon strips” in your nose you somehow picture a small, flat strip along either side of the septum and never once would it cross your mind that anyone would use the word “strip” to define a thick “Teflon” rubber tube with the circumference of a Big Gulp straw shoved up, sewed on, and effectively holding open your nostrils. No, “strips” make them sound small.
All of the information they give you pre-op stresses the importance of staying ahead of the pain. After her discharge from the hospital, we dropped off Carrie’s prescriptions then I got her all settled at home before returning to the pharmacy to pick them up. Detour to the grocery store for grill cheese fixins, the ultimate sick food and I was back at the house fast ready to whip up a sandwich and administer the first dose. Ah, but the pain Gods had conspired against us so when I got out the prescriptions I noticed the pharmacy had given me someone else’s stuff. A cursory inspection of the primary uses and side effects led me to the conclusion that yes, I would have to go back to the pharmacy because this stuff would in no way begin to ease Carrie's pain and that someone in our neighborhood has a very nasty rash.
The rest of the afternoon went smoothly. Carrie mostly nodded in and out of a pain induced sleep. The post-op directions I was forced to sign as her caregiver for the next 24 hours AND the pre-op instructions on what to expect said that saline nasal spray should begin “the day after surgery” but Dr. Carrie did not think this could be right so began spraying a full 24 hours early. Nothing bad happened but I write this because it goes to demonstrate again how different we are when it comes to following the advice of an authority figure. Carrie is her own authority figure where as if I were to start spraying harmless saline up my nose early I would need to be rushed to the emergency room before nightfall as a result of a massive anxiety attack that I broke “the rules”.
Sometime around 4:30 a.m. Saturday, Carrie asked if I would help her get set up downstairs on the couch because the pain was just simply too much for her to bear and the two doses of painkillers she took in the night weren’t working. I gathered her pillows, her tissues, her water with the bendy straw hanging over the top and her bottle of pills. Walking down the stairs I noticed the label said Levaquin not Hydrocodone. Hmmm? Side effects of Levaquin (as published by our friendly neighborhood give-your-prescription-to-someone-else-and-let-them-know-your-deepest-secrets pharmacist) are joint pain and severe headaches. The two very symptoms that had kept Carrie awake all night and had me up at 4:30 a.m. helping her move positions. So much for staying ahead of the pain.
It’s Monday now and although she isn’t feeling much better, her nose is starting to look better. Wednesday they will remove the “strips” and hopefully she will be able to breath a lot easier. Tomorrow I’ll try to share some words of wisdom from the seven circles of trying-to-stop-smoking-cold-turkey hell I have visited this past weekend.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Telecrack
At my annual conference last year, I stayed in my hotel bed late one morning trying desperately to recover from the new town, new bars jaunt of the previous night. Replacing my Lifetime mindless television ritual on days like this one was a “24” marathon on TBS. I watched episode after episode until I eventually crawled to the bathroom to clean up before our afternoon session. Six episodes into it I realized this show is great!
I came home with a new love for Jack Bauer and his Jack Ryanesque abilities. I NEEDED to see the whole season. I NEEDED to know what happened before and after those six hangover soaked episodes so my father gave me the season one box set. Home from work one day with all the motivation of a sloth I popped in disk one. Eight hours later when Carrie got home I was on disk four with no end in sight. How could I stop now in the middle of the season? What would happen to Senator Palmer? What would happen to Jack’s family in particular his stupid daughter Kim who has an incredible knack for making the worst decision in any situation?
It didn’t take long before Carrie became just as hooked. Our normal lights out, in bed at 9:30, her snoring beside me as I increase the volume on the television routine turned into a stay up until 10:30 so we can squeeze in one more episode of our “24” marathon. We started watching it religiously and when that season was over we immediately started talking about our next fix. Should we watch season six which was just beginning on Fox? Should we go in order? Would it matter? For the love of God what happens next!
Yesterday we went and bought season two and three with the intention of watching them while Carrie recuperates from her surgery this weekend. Any gamblers want to make a bet on how long those precious boxes were in our house before we popped that baby in the DVD? We were like crack addicts that had just been handed a twenty dollar bill. Four disks later it was lights out at 11:00 (a new record on a school night). If you haven’t watched “24” but need a new vice let us know. I’m pretty sure by the end of the weekend we’ll be ready for season four and five. Like a pusher on the school yard, I say “Try it. You’ll like it. Trust me”.
At my annual conference last year, I stayed in my hotel bed late one morning trying desperately to recover from the new town, new bars jaunt of the previous night. Replacing my Lifetime mindless television ritual on days like this one was a “24” marathon on TBS. I watched episode after episode until I eventually crawled to the bathroom to clean up before our afternoon session. Six episodes into it I realized this show is great!
I came home with a new love for Jack Bauer and his Jack Ryanesque abilities. I NEEDED to see the whole season. I NEEDED to know what happened before and after those six hangover soaked episodes so my father gave me the season one box set. Home from work one day with all the motivation of a sloth I popped in disk one. Eight hours later when Carrie got home I was on disk four with no end in sight. How could I stop now in the middle of the season? What would happen to Senator Palmer? What would happen to Jack’s family in particular his stupid daughter Kim who has an incredible knack for making the worst decision in any situation?
It didn’t take long before Carrie became just as hooked. Our normal lights out, in bed at 9:30, her snoring beside me as I increase the volume on the television routine turned into a stay up until 10:30 so we can squeeze in one more episode of our “24” marathon. We started watching it religiously and when that season was over we immediately started talking about our next fix. Should we watch season six which was just beginning on Fox? Should we go in order? Would it matter? For the love of God what happens next!
Yesterday we went and bought season two and three with the intention of watching them while Carrie recuperates from her surgery this weekend. Any gamblers want to make a bet on how long those precious boxes were in our house before we popped that baby in the DVD? We were like crack addicts that had just been handed a twenty dollar bill. Four disks later it was lights out at 11:00 (a new record on a school night). If you haven’t watched “24” but need a new vice let us know. I’m pretty sure by the end of the weekend we’ll be ready for season four and five. Like a pusher on the school yard, I say “Try it. You’ll like it. Trust me”.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
This Will Go Down on Your Permanent Record
From my e-mail a few minutes ago (which was copied to both of my bosses, the office manager, and our managing principal):
Jacqui,
Today I noticed you had a candle burning in your office. Please note that this is in violation of the XXXX XXXX Building Rules and Regulations and such devices must be removed immediately. These rules and regulations are set and regulated by the Houston Fire Marshall, Life Safety Bureau.
Non-Compliance of this rule may results in a citation and/or fine.
Please let me know if you have any questions and thank you for making our suite a safer place.
Seriously! I was tattled on and in a very public manner. Oh, don’t think I didn’t consider firing an e-mail back. Something along the lines of:
Sorry about the candle. No questions except did you mean to write “Non-Compliance of this rule may result in a citation and/or fine"? Don’t worry I won’t be e-mailing your grade school English teacher or your bosses because I’m not a tattle tale.
From my e-mail a few minutes ago (which was copied to both of my bosses, the office manager, and our managing principal):
Jacqui,
Today I noticed you had a candle burning in your office. Please note that this is in violation of the XXXX XXXX Building Rules and Regulations and such devices must be removed immediately. These rules and regulations are set and regulated by the Houston Fire Marshall, Life Safety Bureau.
Non-Compliance of this rule may results in a citation and/or fine.
Please let me know if you have any questions and thank you for making our suite a safer place.
Seriously! I was tattled on and in a very public manner. Oh, don’t think I didn’t consider firing an e-mail back. Something along the lines of:
Sorry about the candle. No questions except did you mean to write “Non-Compliance of this rule may result in a citation and/or fine"? Don’t worry I won’t be e-mailing your grade school English teacher or your bosses because I’m not a tattle tale.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Snow Day
It is cold here today. So cold I want to sleep, hibernate like a bear, until spring brings better weather. My sister’s school was cancelled this morning but that didn’t stop my father from going into her room and waking her up at 8:30. You see she worries about everything including her highly coveted perfect attendance record at school. When my father woke her this morning she went into sheer panic that she was late for school. Oh the horror!
I was just the opposite of my sister. I didn’t worry about missing school. I worried if it was too soon since my last absence to use the stomach ache, period, food poisoning, or headache excuse. You have to keep track otherwise you are labeled a liar (which you are but just don’t want to labeled as such) by both parents and teachers. I cannot think of one single solitary time we had a snow day when I was her age. Or ice storm day. Whatever they’re calling it on the news.
When I went off to college I had lots of snow days. Not necessarily school sanctioned. These were more self imposed snow days. I know my limits. If there was a class I really liked I would brave the weather to attend. I had this system worked out where I would skip from building to building, entering one side then exiting the other, until I arrived at the one housing my class. I was a sight to behold in fifty layers. Long johns, jeans, wool socks, boots, long john top, long sleeve t-shirt, sweater, coat, gloves, scarf, hat. Not an inch of skin showing means not an inch of frostbite.
Speaking of frost bite, I have never understood people who will purposefully put themselves in this kind of weather and worse. To add insult to injury they chose to add physical exertion to the mix by climbing a mountain where oxygen is in such rare supply and the air is so thin a rescue helicopter can’t even land. Why? I know you will say it is to test their limits, expand their horizons, or the great sense of accomplishment they feel but I will never understand. I am perfectly happy to test my limits by seeing if my feet sting if I go outside barefoot for just a minute in this weather to get the paper. As for my horizons, if there is a new restaurant in town with a big, toasty fire I am willing to expand my repertoire. Oh, and I came to work today despite the temperature so I already feel a great sense of accomplishment. Aim low my friends and you will never disappoint.
It is cold here today. So cold I want to sleep, hibernate like a bear, until spring brings better weather. My sister’s school was cancelled this morning but that didn’t stop my father from going into her room and waking her up at 8:30. You see she worries about everything including her highly coveted perfect attendance record at school. When my father woke her this morning she went into sheer panic that she was late for school. Oh the horror!
I was just the opposite of my sister. I didn’t worry about missing school. I worried if it was too soon since my last absence to use the stomach ache, period, food poisoning, or headache excuse. You have to keep track otherwise you are labeled a liar (which you are but just don’t want to labeled as such) by both parents and teachers. I cannot think of one single solitary time we had a snow day when I was her age. Or ice storm day. Whatever they’re calling it on the news.
When I went off to college I had lots of snow days. Not necessarily school sanctioned. These were more self imposed snow days. I know my limits. If there was a class I really liked I would brave the weather to attend. I had this system worked out where I would skip from building to building, entering one side then exiting the other, until I arrived at the one housing my class. I was a sight to behold in fifty layers. Long johns, jeans, wool socks, boots, long john top, long sleeve t-shirt, sweater, coat, gloves, scarf, hat. Not an inch of skin showing means not an inch of frostbite.
Speaking of frost bite, I have never understood people who will purposefully put themselves in this kind of weather and worse. To add insult to injury they chose to add physical exertion to the mix by climbing a mountain where oxygen is in such rare supply and the air is so thin a rescue helicopter can’t even land. Why? I know you will say it is to test their limits, expand their horizons, or the great sense of accomplishment they feel but I will never understand. I am perfectly happy to test my limits by seeing if my feet sting if I go outside barefoot for just a minute in this weather to get the paper. As for my horizons, if there is a new restaurant in town with a big, toasty fire I am willing to expand my repertoire. Oh, and I came to work today despite the temperature so I already feel a great sense of accomplishment. Aim low my friends and you will never disappoint.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
A Light at the End of a Very Loud Tunnel
February 2nd Carrie is having the nose surgery I have long been begging her to have which we’re hoping will reduce her snoring. Okay, maybe I’m the only one hoping it will reduce her snoring. She is hoping it will reduce my bitching about her snoring. I believe the saying is “one less thing to bitch about”. Just so we’re all clear that I am not capable of stopping my bitching all together. There’s not a surgery in the world for that unless you consider euthanasia a surgery.
Although I’m thrilled about the possibility of quiet nights, I have started down my OCD path of aimless worry. What if something goes wrong? What if this doctor is a quack or worse he has an addiction that impairs his ability to perform surgery? What if the power goes out during surgery and no one has checked the backup generators in years? What if she gets an infection afterwards? What will I do when she refuses to call 911 and go to the hospital? These are the milder scenarios I’ve been spinning about but you get the idea.
In addition to the torture inside my head, I think Carrie is trying desperately to think of some of her own. She keeps saying she is doing this for me and that I had better plan to take good care of her post op. I keep trying to lessen the blow by saying telling her not to think of this as doing it for me but about how much better she will breathe afterwards. I have two things going for me at this point. One, there are no bells in our house that she could ring to summon me and two, we did not install intercoms so it is quite possible that someone upstairs could not hear the screams of someone laying on the couch with a drip pad beneath their nose.
February 2nd Carrie is having the nose surgery I have long been begging her to have which we’re hoping will reduce her snoring. Okay, maybe I’m the only one hoping it will reduce her snoring. She is hoping it will reduce my bitching about her snoring. I believe the saying is “one less thing to bitch about”. Just so we’re all clear that I am not capable of stopping my bitching all together. There’s not a surgery in the world for that unless you consider euthanasia a surgery.
Although I’m thrilled about the possibility of quiet nights, I have started down my OCD path of aimless worry. What if something goes wrong? What if this doctor is a quack or worse he has an addiction that impairs his ability to perform surgery? What if the power goes out during surgery and no one has checked the backup generators in years? What if she gets an infection afterwards? What will I do when she refuses to call 911 and go to the hospital? These are the milder scenarios I’ve been spinning about but you get the idea.
In addition to the torture inside my head, I think Carrie is trying desperately to think of some of her own. She keeps saying she is doing this for me and that I had better plan to take good care of her post op. I keep trying to lessen the blow by saying telling her not to think of this as doing it for me but about how much better she will breathe afterwards. I have two things going for me at this point. One, there are no bells in our house that she could ring to summon me and two, we did not install intercoms so it is quite possible that someone upstairs could not hear the screams of someone laying on the couch with a drip pad beneath their nose.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Tis the Season
Ah, another holiday season. As I looked out the window of our office building yesterday it filled my heart with anger to see all those shoppers clogging up my commute home. Must they leave the mall at 5:00 when the rest of us schmucks who have worked all day just want to get home to some Christmas cheer?! Preferably cheer that comes from a bottle with a cork on top.
Speaking of shopping…. who are you people that drag your kids shopping with you? Have you never heard of a babysitter? Great idea bringing them along to clog up the aisles and of course we all love to hear you tell them no less than 1,000,000 times not to touch anything. Lady, if you’re going to bitch at them the entire time why not tie their hands to their thighs with duct tape? It would make the whole experience much more pleasant for the rest of us, not to mention cut down on the copious amount of germs they are undoubtedly spreading from their snot nose friends at school.
When did gift wrapping become advertising? These days stores want to charge you $12.00 to stick paper with their name all over it on your package. Give me the good old days of department store gift wrap departments. You know the ones with their generic boxes wrapped in hideous red and green paper on the wall. “I’d like this wrapped in #14 please” Truthfully, the only stores to get away with this shameless self promotion are Hermes, Tiffany’s and Cartier. Those are classics. Everyone knows the orange, blue or red box but these new guys need to keep their name off my boxes.
Also what is with stores that “run out” of boxes? You knew it was the holiday season. You sell merchandise that needs a box, yet you ordered enough for the first 50 customers? Short people on the giveaways, short them on service (which you do anyway by hiring kids who should have their high school diplomas ripped from their hands), short them on the hottest new toy (what would the season be without a few totally panicky parents) but don’t short them on boxes. Boxes are an essential part of gifts. Without them you have a wrinkly blob under the tree leading everyone to believe you wrap like a one handed chimp.
One way gifts. I am the first to jump at any fun stuff coming my way but I find it incredibly irritating when I get a gift from someone with which I have no relationship. This does not lead to good will. This leads to guilt and embarrassment and I have enough of that in my life. I do however accept these gifts because after all they went to the trouble. I’ll work it out in therapy later. The flip side of the one way gift coin is the “you are new to the family and I haven’t a clue what you like” side. Fun! I have trouble buying for people I know inside and out let alone someone I just met.
If you haven’t picked up on it yet I am gearing myself up to finish our Christmas shopping this afternoon. I thought if I ranted now I wouldn’t have any left when I hit the stores. Time (and the level of champagne left in the bottle in my fridge when I go to bed) will tell.
Ah, another holiday season. As I looked out the window of our office building yesterday it filled my heart with anger to see all those shoppers clogging up my commute home. Must they leave the mall at 5:00 when the rest of us schmucks who have worked all day just want to get home to some Christmas cheer?! Preferably cheer that comes from a bottle with a cork on top.
Speaking of shopping…. who are you people that drag your kids shopping with you? Have you never heard of a babysitter? Great idea bringing them along to clog up the aisles and of course we all love to hear you tell them no less than 1,000,000 times not to touch anything. Lady, if you’re going to bitch at them the entire time why not tie their hands to their thighs with duct tape? It would make the whole experience much more pleasant for the rest of us, not to mention cut down on the copious amount of germs they are undoubtedly spreading from their snot nose friends at school.
When did gift wrapping become advertising? These days stores want to charge you $12.00 to stick paper with their name all over it on your package. Give me the good old days of department store gift wrap departments. You know the ones with their generic boxes wrapped in hideous red and green paper on the wall. “I’d like this wrapped in #14 please” Truthfully, the only stores to get away with this shameless self promotion are Hermes, Tiffany’s and Cartier. Those are classics. Everyone knows the orange, blue or red box but these new guys need to keep their name off my boxes.
Also what is with stores that “run out” of boxes? You knew it was the holiday season. You sell merchandise that needs a box, yet you ordered enough for the first 50 customers? Short people on the giveaways, short them on service (which you do anyway by hiring kids who should have their high school diplomas ripped from their hands), short them on the hottest new toy (what would the season be without a few totally panicky parents) but don’t short them on boxes. Boxes are an essential part of gifts. Without them you have a wrinkly blob under the tree leading everyone to believe you wrap like a one handed chimp.
One way gifts. I am the first to jump at any fun stuff coming my way but I find it incredibly irritating when I get a gift from someone with which I have no relationship. This does not lead to good will. This leads to guilt and embarrassment and I have enough of that in my life. I do however accept these gifts because after all they went to the trouble. I’ll work it out in therapy later. The flip side of the one way gift coin is the “you are new to the family and I haven’t a clue what you like” side. Fun! I have trouble buying for people I know inside and out let alone someone I just met.
If you haven’t picked up on it yet I am gearing myself up to finish our Christmas shopping this afternoon. I thought if I ranted now I wouldn’t have any left when I hit the stores. Time (and the level of champagne left in the bottle in my fridge when I go to bed) will tell.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Another year older, another year closer to middle age.
Today is my birthday. My thirty sixth birthday to be exact. I am officially closer to 40 than 30 and although I sat and cried as 30 approached, I feel oddly at peace today. Carrie let me sleep in this morning and Isaac crawled in next to me to keep me warm until it was time to get up. Every time I stirred, I heard the soft thump thump of his tail on the comforter. Carrie’s dad woke me up to tell me happy birthday then my mother called as I was pouring my first cup of coffee to sing me Happy Birthday. I made the grave mistake of interrupting her midway through, prompting her to start all over again. Not wanting to endure hours of cheerful singing before I finished my first cup of coffee, I let her roll with it the second time. My co-worker brought me white cake with raspberry icing which is the best breakfast I could have hoped for on my birthday. She also brought me egg nog waffle mix and butter maple syrup. Yum! No, you cannot have her.
So far thirty six is proving to be quite nice. Sure I have had moments when inwardly I think, shit, soon I’ll start with hot flashes, night sweats, hormonal hell, ass sagging, wrinkle accumulation and everything else that comes with age but I’m thinking that is a longer ways off than I once believed. How foolish I was to begrudge aging. With age comes the realization that the older you get the more control you have over your life. Ah, the old control issue. But seriously, I can spend all day on a Sunday in my pajamas doing nothing but watching a Real World marathon and no one can tell me to get dressed. I can watch the entire Grammy Awards and count on one hand (maybe even half of that) how many bands I’ve actually heard of let alone name one of their songs. I officially listen to the oldie station now and can sing along to any Rick Astley tune they play. “Never gonna give you up, never gonna make you cry…” Take that Nickelback! Sure, I still look at current fashion trends and think I wish I were young enough to wear that, but I had my time. Remember boxer shorts over leggings and rubber bracelets? Thank you Madonna. Glad to see you grew out of it also.
The best thing I have received this birthday was a card from Carrie. Yes, she gave me a wonderful, beautiful gift also but this card. This card, this card. Every once in awhile someone gives you a card that is worded so perfectly it brings tears to your eyes. The moment I read her card, standing in our kitchen in my nightgown with barely enough caffeine in my system to function, I realized that I have found someone to grow old with. That makes the aging pill a little less difficult to swallow.
Today is my birthday. My thirty sixth birthday to be exact. I am officially closer to 40 than 30 and although I sat and cried as 30 approached, I feel oddly at peace today. Carrie let me sleep in this morning and Isaac crawled in next to me to keep me warm until it was time to get up. Every time I stirred, I heard the soft thump thump of his tail on the comforter. Carrie’s dad woke me up to tell me happy birthday then my mother called as I was pouring my first cup of coffee to sing me Happy Birthday. I made the grave mistake of interrupting her midway through, prompting her to start all over again. Not wanting to endure hours of cheerful singing before I finished my first cup of coffee, I let her roll with it the second time. My co-worker brought me white cake with raspberry icing which is the best breakfast I could have hoped for on my birthday. She also brought me egg nog waffle mix and butter maple syrup. Yum! No, you cannot have her.
So far thirty six is proving to be quite nice. Sure I have had moments when inwardly I think, shit, soon I’ll start with hot flashes, night sweats, hormonal hell, ass sagging, wrinkle accumulation and everything else that comes with age but I’m thinking that is a longer ways off than I once believed. How foolish I was to begrudge aging. With age comes the realization that the older you get the more control you have over your life. Ah, the old control issue. But seriously, I can spend all day on a Sunday in my pajamas doing nothing but watching a Real World marathon and no one can tell me to get dressed. I can watch the entire Grammy Awards and count on one hand (maybe even half of that) how many bands I’ve actually heard of let alone name one of their songs. I officially listen to the oldie station now and can sing along to any Rick Astley tune they play. “Never gonna give you up, never gonna make you cry…” Take that Nickelback! Sure, I still look at current fashion trends and think I wish I were young enough to wear that, but I had my time. Remember boxer shorts over leggings and rubber bracelets? Thank you Madonna. Glad to see you grew out of it also.
The best thing I have received this birthday was a card from Carrie. Yes, she gave me a wonderful, beautiful gift also but this card. This card, this card. Every once in awhile someone gives you a card that is worded so perfectly it brings tears to your eyes. The moment I read her card, standing in our kitchen in my nightgown with barely enough caffeine in my system to function, I realized that I have found someone to grow old with. That makes the aging pill a little less difficult to swallow.
Monday, December 11, 2006
It’s Not What You Think Moment
It started out with my co-worker innocently fishing for a birthday/Christmas gift to get me. A couple of probing questions that I answered without much thought, then later as I am standing outside his office at the copier he asks me; “Have you ever tried Opium?”
I wasn’t entirely sure why he was asking except that he recently had surgery so I immediately piped up with; “Yes. It was prescribed to me once. Belladonna. Good stuff.”
He looked at me. He looked at me harder then said; “I was talking about the perfume.”
Oh, that Opium. The one they sell without a prescription. I thought you said “opiate”.
It started out with my co-worker innocently fishing for a birthday/Christmas gift to get me. A couple of probing questions that I answered without much thought, then later as I am standing outside his office at the copier he asks me; “Have you ever tried Opium?”
I wasn’t entirely sure why he was asking except that he recently had surgery so I immediately piped up with; “Yes. It was prescribed to me once. Belladonna. Good stuff.”
He looked at me. He looked at me harder then said; “I was talking about the perfume.”
Oh, that Opium. The one they sell without a prescription. I thought you said “opiate”.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Winston
I think we knew something was wrong when he didn’t come home Sunday night but Carrie and I never imagined the worst. We kept telling each other that, although out of character, in his younger days Winston sometimes went out catting around for a day or so then showed up on the front porch singing for his supper.
Last night while I walked our street, flashlight in one hand, shaking a can of Pounce in the other, our neighbors informed me that another neighbor down the street found our kitty, Winston dead in a driveway on Sunday morning. He was on the losing end of a fight with a wild animal. Sobbing I knocked on the man’s door who found him to ask if he still had Winston. He took him to the SPCA, not knowing it was our cat without a collar to identify him. We tried in the past to get Winston to wear a collar. Early attempts resulted in his getting it halfway off with his bottom jaw stuck until someone got home and helped. Then we tried break away collars which he learned very quickly are easy to break away.
My heart is heavy today. I am sad. I am angry. I want to go home and curl up in a ball and take a nap but I know I will only miss his insistent meowing to wake up and feed him yet again. I will miss the thump of his paws hitting the cabinet each morning when he jumped up to eat. I will miss the dramatic way he would rear up with paws flat on the glass door asking to come in. I would give anything to have him sit next to me on the couch kneading my legs and purring despite the fact that in the past this behavior often sent me over the edge.
I am sure this is all too dramatic for a cat but I really don’t care right now. I am sure I will be better tomorrow and better still the next day but again I don’t care right now. Right now I want to mourn my cat. I want to miss him. I want to cry. If he’s up there in Heaven and I know he is I want him to know he was loved and missed.
I think we knew something was wrong when he didn’t come home Sunday night but Carrie and I never imagined the worst. We kept telling each other that, although out of character, in his younger days Winston sometimes went out catting around for a day or so then showed up on the front porch singing for his supper.
Last night while I walked our street, flashlight in one hand, shaking a can of Pounce in the other, our neighbors informed me that another neighbor down the street found our kitty, Winston dead in a driveway on Sunday morning. He was on the losing end of a fight with a wild animal. Sobbing I knocked on the man’s door who found him to ask if he still had Winston. He took him to the SPCA, not knowing it was our cat without a collar to identify him. We tried in the past to get Winston to wear a collar. Early attempts resulted in his getting it halfway off with his bottom jaw stuck until someone got home and helped. Then we tried break away collars which he learned very quickly are easy to break away.
My heart is heavy today. I am sad. I am angry. I want to go home and curl up in a ball and take a nap but I know I will only miss his insistent meowing to wake up and feed him yet again. I will miss the thump of his paws hitting the cabinet each morning when he jumped up to eat. I will miss the dramatic way he would rear up with paws flat on the glass door asking to come in. I would give anything to have him sit next to me on the couch kneading my legs and purring despite the fact that in the past this behavior often sent me over the edge.
I am sure this is all too dramatic for a cat but I really don’t care right now. I am sure I will be better tomorrow and better still the next day but again I don’t care right now. Right now I want to mourn my cat. I want to miss him. I want to cry. If he’s up there in Heaven and I know he is I want him to know he was loved and missed.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Pandora’s Pill Box
Went to my GP today to see if he could give me something to help me sleep and take the edge off my anxiety. I really didn’t think this was such a big deal in this day and age of a medication for everything and everyone on medication. I hadn’t been to this particular doctor for years choosing instead to hit the local clinic around the corner for common colds and the like. He was my GP through Junior High and High School as well as my grandfather’s doctor after he moved to Houston. In fact, this is the man who had my grandfather briefly committed to a psych ward. How would you like to put that on your family medical history?
He tells me he doesn’t want to prescribe anything until I have seen the psychologist upstairs because he doesn’t want to give me something that in six months we realize wasn’t correct. Okay, but all I really want is something to help me sleep. We’re not talking Lithium or Haldol here just a mild sleep aid. His nurse called the man upstairs and sets me up to go back at 1:30 to see him. The whole thing was starting to have a dream like quality at this point.
I go back at 1:30 sit down with the shrink and let him know I am having trouble sleeping. I haven’t always. In fact, I used to sleep like the dead. He wants more. Do I have mood swings? Yes, but again this not a new thing. Do I drink? Yes, socially and we are very social animals. Family history of depression? Yes, several members, almost too many to count, are currently taking one antidepressant or another. Appetite? Yes, too much of one as a matter of fact, which is one reason I do have to be depressed. Do I think I’m overweight? No, I think I weigh as much now as I did when I finished my first semester of college and quite frankly it sucks. On and on the questions went. Where did we live? Why did my parents divorce? What are their moods like?
At the end of the forty minute speed session he tells me he can’t make a diagnosis without more information. He thinks I may not be a black and white case of bipolar disorder but clearly my universal reference points are skewed. Why is it I have friends who have been prescribed Lexapro, Zoloft, Paxil, Ambien and everything else under the sun when they’ve gone to their doctor with similar problems but I feel like I’m being led by the nose towards a padded room? I just want to sleep but now I’ll have to lie awake wondering if I do in fact have a gray case of bipolar disorder although I know damn well I don’t.
Went to my GP today to see if he could give me something to help me sleep and take the edge off my anxiety. I really didn’t think this was such a big deal in this day and age of a medication for everything and everyone on medication. I hadn’t been to this particular doctor for years choosing instead to hit the local clinic around the corner for common colds and the like. He was my GP through Junior High and High School as well as my grandfather’s doctor after he moved to Houston. In fact, this is the man who had my grandfather briefly committed to a psych ward. How would you like to put that on your family medical history?
He tells me he doesn’t want to prescribe anything until I have seen the psychologist upstairs because he doesn’t want to give me something that in six months we realize wasn’t correct. Okay, but all I really want is something to help me sleep. We’re not talking Lithium or Haldol here just a mild sleep aid. His nurse called the man upstairs and sets me up to go back at 1:30 to see him. The whole thing was starting to have a dream like quality at this point.
I go back at 1:30 sit down with the shrink and let him know I am having trouble sleeping. I haven’t always. In fact, I used to sleep like the dead. He wants more. Do I have mood swings? Yes, but again this not a new thing. Do I drink? Yes, socially and we are very social animals. Family history of depression? Yes, several members, almost too many to count, are currently taking one antidepressant or another. Appetite? Yes, too much of one as a matter of fact, which is one reason I do have to be depressed. Do I think I’m overweight? No, I think I weigh as much now as I did when I finished my first semester of college and quite frankly it sucks. On and on the questions went. Where did we live? Why did my parents divorce? What are their moods like?
At the end of the forty minute speed session he tells me he can’t make a diagnosis without more information. He thinks I may not be a black and white case of bipolar disorder but clearly my universal reference points are skewed. Why is it I have friends who have been prescribed Lexapro, Zoloft, Paxil, Ambien and everything else under the sun when they’ve gone to their doctor with similar problems but I feel like I’m being led by the nose towards a padded room? I just want to sleep but now I’ll have to lie awake wondering if I do in fact have a gray case of bipolar disorder although I know damn well I don’t.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Maybe I think too much but somthings wrong.......
I’ve been putting off this post for a few days. In fact, I’ve gone over and over it a million times in my head. What do I want to say? What am I feeling? My emotions are all over the map. A friend called Friday night at 12:30 a.m. She was at a bar with her husband and had run into another friend that we haven’t spoken to since March and the last correspondence received was back in July. Friend A was calling to tell us Friend B is now engaged.
The call only lasted about 5 minutes but I’ll be damned if I didn’t lay there in bed for another hour, staring into the dark, thinking how hurt my feelings were that I learned this from a third party. I thought of things we have done together in the past; vacations, sitting by the pool with a stash of cheesy entertainment rags, going out, staying in, births, deaths, holidays and camping trips. I was overwhelmed with sadness that we no longer qualify as friends you would call with news of an engagement.
Quickly I moved on to the why emotions, then the anger and now it’s just this resolve that I/we have been dismissed. Erased. I know this is all part of life, growing together, growing apart but does it have to hurt so bad when it happens? Maybe I am making a bigger deal of it than I should. Can you really be that close to someone you haven’t seen since last December, spoken to since March and e-mailed since July? If you asked me right now I would say no, but give me another few minutes to get back on my emotional roller coaster then ask me.
I’ve been putting off this post for a few days. In fact, I’ve gone over and over it a million times in my head. What do I want to say? What am I feeling? My emotions are all over the map. A friend called Friday night at 12:30 a.m. She was at a bar with her husband and had run into another friend that we haven’t spoken to since March and the last correspondence received was back in July. Friend A was calling to tell us Friend B is now engaged.
The call only lasted about 5 minutes but I’ll be damned if I didn’t lay there in bed for another hour, staring into the dark, thinking how hurt my feelings were that I learned this from a third party. I thought of things we have done together in the past; vacations, sitting by the pool with a stash of cheesy entertainment rags, going out, staying in, births, deaths, holidays and camping trips. I was overwhelmed with sadness that we no longer qualify as friends you would call with news of an engagement.
Quickly I moved on to the why emotions, then the anger and now it’s just this resolve that I/we have been dismissed. Erased. I know this is all part of life, growing together, growing apart but does it have to hurt so bad when it happens? Maybe I am making a bigger deal of it than I should. Can you really be that close to someone you haven’t seen since last December, spoken to since March and e-mailed since July? If you asked me right now I would say no, but give me another few minutes to get back on my emotional roller coaster then ask me.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Let Me Call You Sweetheart
Yesterday was the anniversary of my grandfather’s death. I did not remember, terrible as I am with dates but my mother reminded me this morning. It was three years ago, on a Friday and my mother called me at the office to tell me to come by the hospital on the way home. I didn’t even know he was in the hospital. I was still getting over the sudden death of my father’s father who died on the 8th. I also didn’t take it too seriously when my mother said this may be the end. Maybe I didn’t want to believe it or maybe I just couldn’t fathom another loss so soon.
Carrie came with me to the hospital. He was in the hospice ward. If you’ve never been in one, hope you never will. They tried to dress it up like a park. A porch swing with fake vines crawling up lattice behind it sat in the hallway. It was a nice gesture but plastic greenery on hospital walls makes the whole experience somehow sadder than the sterile white of a regular ward.
I was not prepared. I don’t think anyone could be prepared for what we saw. My grandfather unconscious with one leg cocked at the knee, every breath rattling like bubbles in a fish tank. I lasted approximately half a minute before running to the porch swing, reduced to great heaping sobs. My mother said she was staying the night. I told her I couldn’t. I don’t have the constitution to watch a loved one die. So I went out and got as drunk as I could. I woke up the next morning to the sound of my mother leaving me a message on our answering machine that he died.
I don’t think about those minutes at the hospital when I think of him. I think of how he always slept under an electric blanket. When I would stay with him I would crawl in under the blanket with him and we would watch The Odd Couple together, laughing our hearts out. He was obsessed with a bargain, clipping coupons weeks ahead of my visits so we could walk to Peoples Drugstore to buy twenty four packs of toilet paper on sale. It was one per customer so I would stand in line by myself with my money and coupon then wait for him to make his purchase after me. When we returned to his apartment we would have to wrestle the new purchases into the hall closet filled to the brim with past bargains.
He loved horse racing. Anyone who knows me and reads this knows that his love for the races is alive and well in my mother and me. The day that Secretariat won the Triple Crown my grandfather and my uncle were there at the finish line. At my grandfather’s funeral I couldn’t help but smile at the horseshoe shaped arrangement covered in Blackeyed Susans. He and Margo, my grandmother, had taken one of there friends to The Preakness Stakes. They were sitting at a table when my grandfather saw some friends of his from the liquor distributing business. He went and chatted with them for a moment then came back to the table and told his friend he had arranged for him to watch the race from the finish line.
My grandfather loved life. He loved cocktail hour, pretty women, dirty jokes and music. One of my favorite photos of us is me sitting in his lap, both of our mouths opened in song. We were performing for anyone in the room. It is a song we sang countless number of times to countless people at countless gatherings. The tune is from “Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you…” but we are singing about a Chevy. “Let me call you Chevy, I’m in debt for you…” I have no idea where this version came from. I don’t know if he made it up or heard it somewhere, but he taught me every word and I loved sitting on his lap and belting out the words, my screechy eight year old voice competing with his.
Wherever he is now he is sipping a tumbler of Scotch, telling dirty jokes to anyone who will listen and singing. One day I will stand at his side and we will do it together but for now I will make due with seeing his face in my own features when I look in the mirror.
Yesterday was the anniversary of my grandfather’s death. I did not remember, terrible as I am with dates but my mother reminded me this morning. It was three years ago, on a Friday and my mother called me at the office to tell me to come by the hospital on the way home. I didn’t even know he was in the hospital. I was still getting over the sudden death of my father’s father who died on the 8th. I also didn’t take it too seriously when my mother said this may be the end. Maybe I didn’t want to believe it or maybe I just couldn’t fathom another loss so soon.
Carrie came with me to the hospital. He was in the hospice ward. If you’ve never been in one, hope you never will. They tried to dress it up like a park. A porch swing with fake vines crawling up lattice behind it sat in the hallway. It was a nice gesture but plastic greenery on hospital walls makes the whole experience somehow sadder than the sterile white of a regular ward.
I was not prepared. I don’t think anyone could be prepared for what we saw. My grandfather unconscious with one leg cocked at the knee, every breath rattling like bubbles in a fish tank. I lasted approximately half a minute before running to the porch swing, reduced to great heaping sobs. My mother said she was staying the night. I told her I couldn’t. I don’t have the constitution to watch a loved one die. So I went out and got as drunk as I could. I woke up the next morning to the sound of my mother leaving me a message on our answering machine that he died.
I don’t think about those minutes at the hospital when I think of him. I think of how he always slept under an electric blanket. When I would stay with him I would crawl in under the blanket with him and we would watch The Odd Couple together, laughing our hearts out. He was obsessed with a bargain, clipping coupons weeks ahead of my visits so we could walk to Peoples Drugstore to buy twenty four packs of toilet paper on sale. It was one per customer so I would stand in line by myself with my money and coupon then wait for him to make his purchase after me. When we returned to his apartment we would have to wrestle the new purchases into the hall closet filled to the brim with past bargains.
He loved horse racing. Anyone who knows me and reads this knows that his love for the races is alive and well in my mother and me. The day that Secretariat won the Triple Crown my grandfather and my uncle were there at the finish line. At my grandfather’s funeral I couldn’t help but smile at the horseshoe shaped arrangement covered in Blackeyed Susans. He and Margo, my grandmother, had taken one of there friends to The Preakness Stakes. They were sitting at a table when my grandfather saw some friends of his from the liquor distributing business. He went and chatted with them for a moment then came back to the table and told his friend he had arranged for him to watch the race from the finish line.
My grandfather loved life. He loved cocktail hour, pretty women, dirty jokes and music. One of my favorite photos of us is me sitting in his lap, both of our mouths opened in song. We were performing for anyone in the room. It is a song we sang countless number of times to countless people at countless gatherings. The tune is from “Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you…” but we are singing about a Chevy. “Let me call you Chevy, I’m in debt for you…” I have no idea where this version came from. I don’t know if he made it up or heard it somewhere, but he taught me every word and I loved sitting on his lap and belting out the words, my screechy eight year old voice competing with his.
Wherever he is now he is sipping a tumbler of Scotch, telling dirty jokes to anyone who will listen and singing. One day I will stand at his side and we will do it together but for now I will make due with seeing his face in my own features when I look in the mirror.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Harder Than a Rubik’s Cube to Figure Out
When I brought the mail in yesterday I was so excited to see cards and a letter mixed in with the junk mail. I opened the cards first as they were addressed to Carrie and me and that way I could read them then pass them on. The letter was, curiously, addressed only to me. More curious was the name and return address was no one I recognized. I opened it thinking it was a piece of mass mail that was printed to look like a hand written letter.
No. Not exactly. It was a letter from a girl I went to high school with apologizing for mean things she said to me SEVENTEEN years ago. She wrote that recent events led her to think about what she did and she wanted to apologize in case she hurt me. I was more than a little shook up. For starters how was I supposed to remember her amongst the 500 or so other students who taunted me in high school? I was the class reading-while-walking-open-about-my-homosexuality outcast. Maybe if she’d poured pig’s blood on me at the prom I would remember her but saying a few ugly comments isn’t going to stick out.
I couldn’t let it go. Who was this person? I got on classmates.com. No photo but her name listed under my high school did confirm that she indeed go to my high school. I googled her. I image googled her. I looked through archives of the local paper by her maiden and married name. No luck. Finally, I called her. She seemed a little shocked that I was calling. I guess other victims of her apologies have received the letter and moved on with their lives in silence feeling warm and fuzzy inside.
I wanted to know what she said back then but she never let on and I was too chicken to ask. What happened isn’t really what’s bothering me. It’s the fact that I can’t even conjure up the slightest guess as to who she is or what she looks like. Or how she got my address for that matter. That’s a lie. I am dieing to know what happened but am also too afraid to ask for fear that memories of my four hellish years of high school will come rushing back. I lived through them once. I don’t think I could do it twice. Still, I’m going to have to find my yearbooks and look her up because the suspense is killing me.
When I brought the mail in yesterday I was so excited to see cards and a letter mixed in with the junk mail. I opened the cards first as they were addressed to Carrie and me and that way I could read them then pass them on. The letter was, curiously, addressed only to me. More curious was the name and return address was no one I recognized. I opened it thinking it was a piece of mass mail that was printed to look like a hand written letter.
No. Not exactly. It was a letter from a girl I went to high school with apologizing for mean things she said to me SEVENTEEN years ago. She wrote that recent events led her to think about what she did and she wanted to apologize in case she hurt me. I was more than a little shook up. For starters how was I supposed to remember her amongst the 500 or so other students who taunted me in high school? I was the class reading-while-walking-open-about-my-homosexuality outcast. Maybe if she’d poured pig’s blood on me at the prom I would remember her but saying a few ugly comments isn’t going to stick out.
I couldn’t let it go. Who was this person? I got on classmates.com. No photo but her name listed under my high school did confirm that she indeed go to my high school. I googled her. I image googled her. I looked through archives of the local paper by her maiden and married name. No luck. Finally, I called her. She seemed a little shocked that I was calling. I guess other victims of her apologies have received the letter and moved on with their lives in silence feeling warm and fuzzy inside.
I wanted to know what she said back then but she never let on and I was too chicken to ask. What happened isn’t really what’s bothering me. It’s the fact that I can’t even conjure up the slightest guess as to who she is or what she looks like. Or how she got my address for that matter. That’s a lie. I am dieing to know what happened but am also too afraid to ask for fear that memories of my four hellish years of high school will come rushing back. I lived through them once. I don’t think I could do it twice. Still, I’m going to have to find my yearbooks and look her up because the suspense is killing me.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
When Nothing is Black and White Anymore
First came the knowledge that I need to wear magnifying glasses at work and while reading. Then to add insult to injury I am washing my hands at the sink this morning and what do I see? A gray strand of hair staring back at me. Anyone who knows me will ask, how did you see it through the highlights? To this I say, it’s been since July since my last touch up and gray hair stands out against dark roots. Ugh!
I dug out a tuft of hair and separated the offending strand. Pluck! There in my hand was my first gray hair. I held it up to light, turning it this way and that, making sure it was indeed what I thought it was before I rushed out of the bathroom to tell my coworker. She hated to point out with the recent recommendation of glasses and now a gray hair it is time I face my aging. Ugh!
I came back in my office to call my mother. I’m not sure why since she is still laughing and calling me four eyes. She seems to take great pleasure in my age anxiety. This little tidbit of news started her laughing all over again as I sat there on the phone holding up the hair to anything black in my office, willing it to be blond not gray. Mother reminded me that when I was four years old or so she would sit on the floor in front of the couch while we watched television and I would scour her head plucking any gray hair I found. Well now it’s her turn.
The symbol of my rite of passage now rests in an envelope in my desk. I thought about labeling it in the event anyone goes looking for an envelope to send correspondence to an unsuspecting client but I couldn’t think of label that wasn’t too weird. “Jacqui’s First Gray- Do Not Open”. “Personal and Not So Confidential-Do Not Touch”. I’ll need to throw it away before days end but I’m just not ready. First I’m going to call my hairdresser and make an appointment to get these roots done. Any longer and who knows how many of the suckers I’ll find.
First came the knowledge that I need to wear magnifying glasses at work and while reading. Then to add insult to injury I am washing my hands at the sink this morning and what do I see? A gray strand of hair staring back at me. Anyone who knows me will ask, how did you see it through the highlights? To this I say, it’s been since July since my last touch up and gray hair stands out against dark roots. Ugh!
I dug out a tuft of hair and separated the offending strand. Pluck! There in my hand was my first gray hair. I held it up to light, turning it this way and that, making sure it was indeed what I thought it was before I rushed out of the bathroom to tell my coworker. She hated to point out with the recent recommendation of glasses and now a gray hair it is time I face my aging. Ugh!
I came back in my office to call my mother. I’m not sure why since she is still laughing and calling me four eyes. She seems to take great pleasure in my age anxiety. This little tidbit of news started her laughing all over again as I sat there on the phone holding up the hair to anything black in my office, willing it to be blond not gray. Mother reminded me that when I was four years old or so she would sit on the floor in front of the couch while we watched television and I would scour her head plucking any gray hair I found. Well now it’s her turn.
The symbol of my rite of passage now rests in an envelope in my desk. I thought about labeling it in the event anyone goes looking for an envelope to send correspondence to an unsuspecting client but I couldn’t think of label that wasn’t too weird. “Jacqui’s First Gray- Do Not Open”. “Personal and Not So Confidential-Do Not Touch”. I’ll need to throw it away before days end but I’m just not ready. First I’m going to call my hairdresser and make an appointment to get these roots done. Any longer and who knows how many of the suckers I’ll find.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Dilateus Permanitis
Yesterday I went to the eye doctor for the first time EVER. It was a bit like Disney World in that they are constantly moving you from one room to another so you never quite feel like you’re being made to wait. I almost cried when they put the numbing drops in my eye (BEFORE THEY TOUCHED IT!) but I didn’t which I had to remind Carrie of lest she feel the need to further cement everyone’s view of me as a wimp.
I was dreading this appointment because no matter what routine exam I’m going to have I invent 100 different freak accidents that could occur. So when the doctor was walking us to the counter and I asked if anyone’s eyes have ever stuck this way, it was no wonder she looked at me a bit cross eyed.
“Like how?”
“You know. Dilated. They never went back to being undilated.”
“No. Not to my knowledge.”
What you don’t see in the above exchange is the completely mortified look on Carrie’s face that I asked the question or the look of sympathy the doctor gave her when she revealed that I was indeed serious.
Yesterday I went to the eye doctor for the first time EVER. It was a bit like Disney World in that they are constantly moving you from one room to another so you never quite feel like you’re being made to wait. I almost cried when they put the numbing drops in my eye (BEFORE THEY TOUCHED IT!) but I didn’t which I had to remind Carrie of lest she feel the need to further cement everyone’s view of me as a wimp.
I was dreading this appointment because no matter what routine exam I’m going to have I invent 100 different freak accidents that could occur. So when the doctor was walking us to the counter and I asked if anyone’s eyes have ever stuck this way, it was no wonder she looked at me a bit cross eyed.
“Like how?”
“You know. Dilated. They never went back to being undilated.”
“No. Not to my knowledge.”
What you don’t see in the above exchange is the completely mortified look on Carrie’s face that I asked the question or the look of sympathy the doctor gave her when she revealed that I was indeed serious.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Tootsie Roll Pups
I walked in today to find the equivalent of a Labrador Kegger. First were the guilty faces staring back at me. Then, barely visible over the brown and blond fur, an EMPTY brownie pan. Blood pressure: Elevated. One step into the sun room revealed what was left of THE UNTOUCHED BY HUMAN HANDS pound cake that last I saw it was resting nicely on the kitchen counter this morning. Blood pressure: High. To add insult to injury when I rounded the corner there on the bathroom floor, as if they were looking for a tissue to wipe their choclately, sugary snouts, were the contents of the bathroom trash can. Blood pressure: Somewhere over the rainbow.
As a side note, the photos you are about to see in NO way absolve my dog from guilt. He's just too stupid to look at me with a guilty face!
I walked in today to find the equivalent of a Labrador Kegger. First were the guilty faces staring back at me. Then, barely visible over the brown and blond fur, an EMPTY brownie pan. Blood pressure: Elevated. One step into the sun room revealed what was left of THE UNTOUCHED BY HUMAN HANDS pound cake that last I saw it was resting nicely on the kitchen counter this morning. Blood pressure: High. To add insult to injury when I rounded the corner there on the bathroom floor, as if they were looking for a tissue to wipe their choclately, sugary snouts, were the contents of the bathroom trash can. Blood pressure: Somewhere over the rainbow.
As a side note, the photos you are about to see in NO way absolve my dog from guilt. He's just too stupid to look at me with a guilty face!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
