...the flu before Christmas

Twas the weeks before Christmas and all the house knew,
The plans were on hold, because Mom had the flu.

It was a new concept—getting sick before the holiday stress begins, thereby eliminating all the work. It’s a great way to simplify Christmas, but I can’t recommend it.

I started the turkey and a sore throat together on Thanksgiving morning, and they dried out and crusted over together. By pie time, my eyes were flambé and my head, fricassee.

A day later, while the family consumed the leftovers, I moved up my post-holiday strep test, but there would be no simple antibiotic antidote. The doctor recited the viral litany; "Rest, drink plenty of liquids and come back." ...and pay more next week, when you’re worse?

Hope was soon dashed when each day dawned the same.
The Mom writhed and wretched, as the days waxed and waned.

There are very few opportunities for male heroics in our house because I can break the jar getting the lid off as well as any man, but this moment was defining. Alexander the Great has nothing on a guy faced with a flu siege, who will fortify and guard the children, wade into sibling battle skirmishes, forage for supplies, and not sacrifice at least one pet in the process.

On top of all that, my husband not only held the holiday bombardment at bay, but attacked it. Of course, his success set me up for his he-man debate later on, but at that moment I did not care.

The room was in quarantine, sequestered in bed,
while visions of absurdities danced in her head.

Days and nights melded as I woke only to hallucinations, imagining the distant hum of the washer and dryer, the illusion of tiptoeing footsteps, and the ridiculous idea of peaceful homework. I was roused several times by the vague scent of food, (and responded in typical flu-like fashion), but nothing completed my delusions like a vision of the Grinch decorating the Christmas tree.

I had staggered down the stairs on the sixth day and stood sobbing into my socks at the sight. My tears were no true barometer—I had wept earlier after finding my slippers by the bed rather than under it, but I could no longer contain my despair. I knew that seeing my husband voluntarily participating in a Christmas festivity meant that I was now certifiable. I had dropped over the edge of the wide abyss and would have to be committed.

Bring on cough drops and cold pills, make mustard in plaster
In a desperate attempt, to resolve this disaster.

I have a new, greater respect for illness and I’ve redefined the word patient. Midweek, I shivered over the candles on the five-year-old’s birthday cake and was reminded: Do not tempt the flu fates or they will curse you back into supplication! Back to bed with a new mélange of medication.

Bring me anything and I will take it. Diphenhydro-fexacloral-phenapropanala-mine, mine, mine! I don’t care that it’s been banned by the F.D.A. for five years. It worked last time I was sick. It’s not even the same symptoms, but I’ll take it anyway!

After exhausting my own personal pharmacy, I started the over-the-counter stuff. I sampled everything remotely related to flu, or colds, fever or aching.[1] I even stretched congestion to constipation, but this bug resisted it all.

When the M.D.’s advice bombed, I started--with advice of the A.D.T’s:[2] Honey with lemon, snorting horseradish and saline, fresh garlic and onions, even shark cartilage! I was desperate.

Finally in utter despair, I returned to the physician. For a mere hundreds of dollars, I was granted my idea of the Life-Blood Elixer—an antibiotic and a killer cough medicine. Hallelujah! I could now get better.

I’ve become allergic.

It felt as if the flu bug exited my body at midnight and crawled all over it, scratching welts until dawn. My brain raced and I wrote and illustrated ten books. So brilliant were my thoughts that I had to write them down… in tongues.

Finally off all of the medications, I’m left alone, broken and defeated.

When next I wake, the storm has passed and in its wake, lies the wreck on the beach. One side of the hair is four inches shorter than the other[3] and my face is a portend of myself at sixty.

The glitz of each card, the braggados of each letter
Should bring inklings of guilt, but it doesn’t upset her.

Only when you have made the prescribed sacrifice to the voodoo gods, will the curse be lifted. Chastened and humbled, I emerge from the sick room to disinfect the abode. I revisit my perception of the perfect holiday and prepare for the pared-down version. Nobody cares, no one notices, and I do it gratefully, stress-free.

And she heard the kids yell as they flew into sight,
Christmas break just begun, "Glad that's all put to right. 

Reality Bite: Where there is no mess, there is no clean up! I'll beat the January blasé bug too.

[1] Stuffy and runny, fixed with one product—ah, the marvels of medicine!
[2] Any DANG THING!
[3] For your information, that nineteenth century remedy doesn’t work.

...eye solution

…eye solution

To Me,

Now I’ve gone and done it! It is nearly February, and I’m wondering if anyone else’s resolutions are trashed yet? I broke down and got eye surgery. I know, against my better judgment and everything I espouse about conforming to the world and the preconceptions of plastic surgery. Castigation, begin! Love T.

I’ve followed the trend of most female comedians and had my best source material  surgically removed. No more jokes about blindly slipping off the ski slope and dropping the glasses in the prom powder room.  Worse yet, the source of mirth for my children is gone. They can no longer wink behind my back, or laugh silently in front of my face. I’m freed from wearing the butt of their jokes, free from their cruel taunts and I’m no longer stuck in bed while the morning passes and finally the children seek me in the bedroom where I’m hoarse from yelling, “Help! I’ve dropped my glasses and I can’t get up!”

I’ve done it! I had my blindness fixed. No more thick glasses, no more blundering and sadly, no more excuses about misreading the ingredients on a recipe card. I can see!

It’s all they say it is and more! Instead of feeling as if I want to rip my eyes out in the evenings, it’s 100% of the time. Light of any kind is an irritant and the eye-drops taste bitter. (Trust me, the eyeball’s connected to the tastebud, and the tastebud’s connected to the…)

I’ve had no other side-effects, no pain, no burning, no extra tears, and if it weren’t for my trusty drug reaction, I would have nothing to write about.

I don’t remember much of that first day due to drugs. It happens every time. I warned the doctor that it would be better for everyone if I didn’t have the “relaxant.” I do “tense” so much better. The nurse reassured that five milligram tablets weren’t really anything to worry about. At least that’s what I think she said, by that time I was snoring softly into my chest. She asked the husband to tilt the chair back, hoping to stop the mouth gape and drool.

I vaguely remember meandering my way, with a double escort, to the operating table where I laid down with relief, but when they said skooch up to the top, I started giggling. I was pudding by that time and if they had told me to slosh on up, I might have attempted it. They tape your eyes open and the little machine sucks the eyeball up, which was a good thing because I couldn’t have managed that on my own. My memories end with me staring blankly at the blinking red light.

I slept like a baby from the office to the house and I don’t recall how I made it from the car. After about four hours of lying peacefully in a “lovely repose with hands crossed over the chest” (and obviously looking more at ease than the husband thought I deserved), I was forcibly awakened.

If I didn’t have to face people again, all would be well. It’s that drunk-at-the-company-party/morning-after that is mortifying. The next day, doctor and nurse were both very circumspect and only casually noted that I had been quite relaxed. The nurse remarked that it’s nice that I’m petite… Me?[44]  For the record, I'm not short, I'm just awkwardly shaped.

I remember now why I don’t do drugs during childbirth. It’s because of my big mouth. I have no discretion under the influence. The husband said that just as I was leaving, I announced to all-and-sundry that the reason the husband didn’t have this kind of reaction to medication was “due to his extensive history with drugs.”

Reality Bite: Please shoot me! Or just shoot me up again, so I don’t remember.

[44] I’m also heavier than I look. That’s what the ski patrol said when he piggy-backed me to the bottom. Oops, another story for another time.

…an eyeful

…an eyeful

Hey, I’m tentatively revising my wholehearted recommendation for eye surgery. I’m thinking that there are more downsides that are only just now becoming apparent.

It’s obvious that I have lost the sympathetic ear. “No, Mom, you can find your own keys. I know you can see to search now,” and “Dad says it’s safe for you to drive us.” I can no longer use the broken glasses/missing contact lens excuse for my haphazard mowing, sweeping, mopping and paper chaos.

To me

Life is filthy and some things are best left unseen, i.e., television and the whole of every election campaign. I’m thinking it’s a shame my hearing is still good. T.

I was legally blind and loving it! Even corrected, I could never really see as far as the floor and though my eye-doctor didn’t promise perfect vision, unfortunately mine is now good enough to notice dirt in the corners, the film on the mirrors, the dust on the pictures and the crust on the windows. I’ve decided that visually challenged was not necessarily a bad way to go through life.

Flying about blind as a bat had other heretofore unrealized benefits beyond never knowing that my shower was filthy. The afterbath is a whole new unfiltered experience now that I’m not tripping about with scratched glasses, peering through an altered perspective. 

 I've lived in my own little fogbank and there is so much more that is attractive that way.

Reality Bite: There is an upside. When I put in the milky antibiotic and life returns to a haze, everything can again be beautiful.

---

…a new life

Dear Diary,

It's the first day of school in the new city and we've walked to catch the bus on the corner. I put the children on and then I ask the driver how the kids will know where to get off. He said, "Not to worry," he would warn them.

That afternoon I'm busily snapping a photo  documenting the triumphal arrival of the homebound adventurers when the bus stops and the door opens.  The driver sits there and looks at me.

It was a video moment. Too bad I only had the still camera. He finally sighed and said, “They aren’t on here. Call the school.”

“Well, let’s see, I don’t have the school’s number, we moved here yesterday.”

“Don’t worry, the kids will call you.”

"How?" It is the era before cell phones and they don’t know the number. I barely remember the number as it was only connected that day!

“They’ll bring them home.”

Really? “Who is they?" and "How will they know where home is?”   We didn’t make time for a crash course in orienteering last night after we drove into town.

“I’m sure there is nothing to worry about.” 

Would that be because they have memorized their city, state and zip?

Dear Diary 1998 and Anyone Else Who Cares,

I found a calendar! It's August 17, and my breakdown was scheduled for the 14th. So, I'm taking it today.  Me, T. 

Flight of the Bumbled

I love flying, all kinds, except the kind that involves planes. I hate airplanes... not the plane itself, but the side effects of TSA on flight. I don't think that I fly often enough to become a TSA identified persons target for writing this, but even with that heightened risk, I can no longer hold myself back.

So, I'm taking flight into my own hands and I'm writing about it. Hopefully the writing therapy will work it's magic and cure all, as it has many crucial moments before.

To fly across this country, I am subjected to a myriad of restrictions which seem to tighten each time I fly. First yellow alert, then orange, and these levels limit what I can pack, what I can wear, and now it seems that we have escalated to high alert, RED and it's all about what I can and cannot say.

The last time we flew, it came down to this: My latest look.
Oh and with the new restriction I find I must add an extra five minutes--that extra five minutes is to grant the husband a head start through security.  

Something about guilt through association...

Flight of the Bumbles II

The treatment for plane phobia is the standard clinical recommendation--immersion, so I'm headed out to fly--cause I'm totally irrationally paranoid of airport security.

I'm at the airport hearing a faux voice over the loud speaker... "We are at an extra high security level," and despite it's monotone calm, my guts begin to unravel.

In my extra high state of insecurity, I perch at the edge of my seat and listen for the next announcement. My nerves are at a matching extra high level, and my reaction is knife sharp. I clutch at my husband, "Did you hear that? Did you? Extra high!"

He mumbles something from under the newspaper that he customarily settles over his face as soon as we alight in any of the nation's waiting areas.

"We are currently at orange."

"Orange?" "Orange," my nervous twinge releases in a snap!  The tightly drawn string releases with a reflexive outrage that is noticeable to other passengers, except to the husband who is still under his paper.

 I'm off on a tirade.

"Orange?" I repeat the comment giving it the correct derisive emphasis, "Orange?" "It's apparent that TSA has never raised children! Do they not understand the fine art of threats?" 

And the diatribe begins.

My verbal soliloquy to the newspaper covered lump continues, "Do they not know that you have to hold back. When you issuing threats, you must reserve something for the worst!  The human psyche becomes inured to the constancy of empty threats."  Hold something back for  "RED" for heaven's sake! 

"What are they going to say when it's red? Explain that? Does the lack of government vision extend even to the airlines?" I continue with rhetorical queries, but that verbal technique works with all government--whether Congress or TSA is involved.

"Has noone thought ahead? What are they going to say next?" I muse aloud. By this time, other potential flyers are overhearing, but I have my earbuds in, so they assume that I am accidentally speaking too loudly over my sound reducing earphones. They would be wrong.

"What comes after extra high level? What can they say next? We are currently experiencing "PEE YOUR PANTS" security levels?" and finally I ease into my ending.

"Please. Anyone with children knows that you must reserve your hyperbole. Hold something back for heaven sakes! That's why my best threats start at one and count to ten. Heaven help the child that doesn't move by five or six. Even a teen knows that to get to eight is life threatening--because by then, Mom has to get up and enforce--and you'd better duck if you make Momma move."

And I settle back into my waiting seat, noticing out of the corner of my eye each head that nods, and eyes that glint. I have made even more converts to the frustration that accompanies flight.

Another important risk in fear therapy is rational thought. It would be healthy to admit that our flight security levels are never--not ever-- going lower than orange. Just admit to myself that flying "extra high security, orange level, ' is forever.

'Cause even though Bin Laden has been assassinated, we're stuck with TSA because no government worker is ever laid off.

And there I go off. Off on another writing rant.

Hey, it's therapy!

Flight of the Bumbled III

I have a total phobia of flying. And part of my therapy is to do it--immersion. It's not working thus far, but, here I go again. Another flight.

An important part of therapy is self-mind manipulation and role playing, so with this flight, I'm trying what the terrorists do, I play "Try to outwit TSA." Thank goodness, it's not that difficult because TSA is always playing catchup. Whatever new crime terrorists have tried, that is the punishment that the rest of us suffer for-- the freak out d'jour.

Today I'm a stripper. I remove my coat, shoes, my belt, my jewelry, hat, hairclip, purse, and just when I feel totally denuded, I'm stopped. The guy watching just through the X-Ray portal points at me and exercises that flicking gesture with the commanding forefinger, "You'll have to take that off."

I look around "What?" I'm truly stumped, not just pretending this time.

I glance down at what I have left on. Last I heard, it was illegal to fly naked. (I'm thinking of the girl that nearly tried it and was kicked off a flight by the airline..."Hey, but I skated through security.")

So, I'm nearly naked, and I guess that the TSA guy is flicking at my wrap. Okay, it's not even a wrap, it's a crocheted poncho--not even a poncho, it's see through accessory that couldn't even possibly in the wildest stretch of my imagination be knitted with fiber nitroglycerine nor piano wires, but his pointer is insistent, "Off."

Never mind the lady going through ahead of me has on a denim overshirt that looks like it is concealing a suicide bomber belt. (My apologies to persons with the perpetual bomber belt look) but, get real.

"This?" I again query. Hoping against hope that he is joking because I really want to continue with my delusion that TSA is smarter than it lets on, and that I am safer than I must be,  but he nods and with his next word, my thin shield of sanity shatters.

"That."

Flight of the Bumbled IV

Another flight--another potential conflict with the TSA agent. Today's therapy is visualization. Sit, calm, breathe deep, imagine a happy auspicious outcome to a delightful flight.

But, it's not going to happen. I'm a celiac and that requires a specialized diet that is 80% more expensive than normal food and it's not reimburseable by the government and I can't even take it off on taxes... but that tirade is for another time.

Anyway,

Anyway, when I fly across country I take the opportunity to purchase foodstuff from specialty stores that have heard of flours that are gluten-free, unlike Oklahoma.

Anyway,

Anyway, I am packing this stuff cross country. And it is going to be a problem because I have two entire suitcases packed with four gallon sized bags of white powder and eight little pouches of more white powder.

The powder is in reality just innocuous flours, potato and tapioca starch, sorghum and amaranth flour, and the pouches are guar gum. They really are what they are labeled, but TSA can't know that.

And that's going to cause a problem--a big problem--I'll probably be jailed, or at least waylayed for an hour, or a half hour, or even a minute while they identify the problem from the x-ray, open the bags to check it all for explosive chemicals... and ask all the probing questions. 

But no, not at all. I glide through security, without a comment, no bag check, no chem test, not even a backward glance, nor a flicking finger.  

Although I did have to stop, return and remove the ring that could potentially be a dangerous lazer.

So this round--to my mental chagrin--I again lose the TSA game.   There is no hope that a modicum of rationality exists and that I will be safe flying across the nation with unchecked bags of white potentially dangerous material.  

My ziplocks of white powder moved through airport security without a hitch. The husband later remarked, "The hard thing is to get it into the country from Colombia. But once it's here, it seems you can move it around with impunity."

And that makes all of us feel so secure.

Flight of the Bumbles (Next To) LAST!

As I settle into my seat in the airplane I heave a sigh of relief. This therapy is working. I can almost make it to the plane now without hyperventilating, passing out or vomiting, or imagining all kinds of new hideous invasive scenarios--strip searches, pat downs, cavity searches.  

This time I made it without being detailed for backtalk!  

Oh no, I feel the tension rising...what would it be like next time? No! I'm calm, breathe, imagine peace, play the TSA game... I can do it.

Then I flick open the inflight magazine that describes the newest security innovation, full body chemical blows and X-rated skin-rays. (I knew it! I'm telling you, the goal is to get all of us flying naked!)

And once again, I'm reassured that our most vulnerable are secured by the ignorant insecure.

The tensions escalate. Suddenly, psycho-logically it dawns. It's an initiation--a college initiation. The tougher the process, the stronger the brainwash, the more the stupid college student feels a part of the even stupider group.

And, it's working. As I smile, relax and look forward to the most dangerous part of the flight, takeoff, I'm calm, cool and collected. I, and every other person feel more secure on flights (a comforting statistic provided by the TSA).

And secure for the most part, because we are so relieved to have made it through the perils of security.

Do fly the friendly skies.

…suburban vermin

We have vermin! Encouraging vermin through careless habits is greatly frowned upon in our neck of the woods—that we may actually shelter them in our abode is near profanation, and I risk censure by the neighborhood association if they find out!

The HOA’s (Hallowed Office of Analogousness[1]) current President and protector of decelerating house values will be appalled, but pretending that the problem doesn’t exist doesn’t work either.

Dear Diary,
I think that we’ve moved into a suburban wildlife habitat, and I don’t mean just teenagers. The other day, as I loaded the car for the errand excursion, I glimpsed a little red fox as it pattered across the front yard, up to our garage door and peeped in. The fox was oblivious to me, he was only after the cat food.

So, I admit it! We’re infested with an insidious gremlin whose most repulsive habits are tearing holes in the garbage and defecating in the cat litter! This animal sheds, leaving shoes dangling askew, shirts thrown over doors, a reflector running vest on the saw table, and socks, gloves and hats everywhere else. He stacks the workbench so high that it’s virtually unworkable. The infestation is obvious in the scattered bikes, slung helmets, and unpacked storage bins. The mutt hides the bike pump and drop-kicks all the outdoor sports gear.

Dear Diary,
As a country-raised kid, I spotted cows in the corn, hit deer in the road, and even spied moose in the meadows that occasionally mowed down motorists, but I’ve never seen a fox. T.

The vermin family moves in as does the influx of garden tools, gloves, shovels, trowels, and bulb planters from the garden shed.  The pestilance trashes the potting corner, digging in the dirt, scattering the bulbs that are in various stages of preservation, slacks his thirst in the watering cans, and sucks the life from dormant plants. 

I'm willing to bet that this is the same evil gremlin that loses the tools, jumbles the drawers, mixes the recycle-ables, drips oil on the concrete and this week has scattered oatmeal on the garage floor? (Don’t ask.)

To me:
If the neighbors had noticed, a meeting of the HOA, would be called and plans would have been made for the immediate extermination of that fox, to protect the domesticated felines and rodent-sized poochies.

They breed… in thirty-weight oil maybe? I just know that when one gremlin moves in, others follow. Soon, it looks like you have housed a whole herd. 


[1]People who wish they owned your lot so they could manage it better.

...infestation grows

This pest is inherently evil taking on the appearance of good, ie., the running clothes draped carefully, limp with sweat and moldering on the bike handlebars to rot forever and in the used car towel ready to be used later to polish the car with its encrusted dirt.

To me:
I was raised within miles of a nationally certified wilderness area and that makes me more appreciative and tolerant of nature…somehow. I sympathize with squirrels that have made the big mistake of enduring as suburbia fills in around them. They are in the process of being trapped and deported; no matter that they were here first. Their eradication is aided by the daily commute as cars whip up an assorted road-kill casserole including a mishmash of squirrels, turtles, armadillo’s, frogs and the occasional possum.

And the polish... there are bottles of various car condiments everywhere. This gremlin snacks on car wax and tire-lube. Like salad dressing, one brand is never enough, and a various assortment accumulates along with caulk and duct tape.

The vermin has a strange proclivity for paint cans jumbled, un-stacked, opened and closed haphazardly, poured, spilled, restacked, and infected with rust.

It isn’t too bad until the nesting started. The garage rats unwind every extension cord and hose and carefully create masses of convoluted entanglements for what… or to aid who? whom?

Stop them at the garage or they spread. The nocturnal meanderings can invade the house at night, through the cat door, wandering through and randomly exchanging new light bulbs for old. That’s the only explanation for blow-outs only moments after installation. (I’ve been known to date the bulbs on the base, so I can see how fast he gets to them.) He stores a plethora of bad bulbs in the garage closets, intermingled with the good bulbs.

To me: I worry about the fox. He's shortlived for this world if he irks the husband. I watch the husband’s mole hunt escalate like the gopher hunt in Caddyshack. Bubble gum, traps, flooding, poison, animal feces, he’s tried it all. The cat is canonized each time she catches one to munch on, back feet first. The rest of us rescue and repatriate what’s left to the river park miles away. Gone Environ-mental…me

As yet, the husband is unconvinced of the presence of the garage gremlin, but I see. And as the world slumbers, the garage gremlin drags things out of the house to the garage—items you’d never expect to find there, toys, books, luggage, and toothpaste?

I’ve never discovered how to get rid of the vermin, I could call an exterminator, but that would involve a search for the phone book, the vermin spray, the sprayer and that would only be inviting the problem to worsen.

And truthfully, I think the exterminator is in on it.

I have learned the secret. To keep the beast at bay, all I have to do is suggest a house party. Somehow that is a signal that the pest needs tamed. While I advocate for help inside, the husband sidles outside and makes a valiant attempt to lasso and leash, train and domesticate.

Reality Bite: He assures me that it’s all in the event that a guest might ask for can of W-D 40 to loosen the lid on a jar of pickles.

…toss it!

To me,
What if every person took every pen that stopped in mid-stroke and sent it back to the manufacturer? Not the pens that have provided adequate service and have nearly run out of ink, but those that have stopped for no apparent reason?

I spend a lot of money on pens, in the quest for the perfect writing instrument, but I always come back to the cheap ones. I know that it’s against my astrological character for me to use a cheap pen, but they are the only ones that work reliably.

I’m convinced that if the manufacturer had to deal with all those nonfunctioning pens, pouring in through the mail, they would stop sticking us with them. Pondering, T

I’m battling a family tradition that rinsed and reused plastic grocery bags and flattened and folded aluminum foil, but I now feel that I have amassed enough plastic grocery bags to secure my place in the record books into the next millennium and so I’m giving myself permission to toss stuff out and not feel a bit bad about it. I’m recklessly wrinkling aluminum foil and flinging it into landfills worldwide. I have a lot of years to catch up on, so don't try to guilt me. I was green before the enviro"mentals" were old enough to know it was really just a mix of blue and yellow.

This cavalier attitude hasn’t transferred successfully to stuff—I still can’t throw away stuff. Now, don’t be confused, this is not just trash, this is the junk that has put in its time, has served me well and moved up a level and attained the coveted “stuff status,” whereupon, it immediately breaks and again becomes junk.

It’s hard for me to toss out once-valued-stuff-reverted-back-to junk. I’m keeping it in case it might be fixable or to use for planters, or whatever and it’s overwhelming my space! I just can’t do it anymore! So, I’ve decided that all the certifiable junk—either the items that didn’t work long enough to attain stuff status—or stuff that has reverted back to junk—to mail it back.

Yup! I’m going to send it back to the manufacturer.

Reality Bite: Think of it as a form of paying forward, and consider the postal infuse to benefit this flagging economy.

…return policy

When you are returning some failed object, don't bother looking for the original carton, or searching for the original receipt. They were recycled the day before the warrantee expired and two days before it broke. Just box it up in any odd box, (might as well use the computer box. It has three weeks to go,) then ship it back to the manufacturer.

Don’t include a note. The company won’t even flinch. They'll know it’s broken because by now they already know what was wrong with the original design. And whatever you do, don’t use your real return address. (Junk has a way of finding its way back).

They will keep it, in storage in a warehouse somewhere, in a pile, waiting for “further customer instructions,” and you will be the winner because you won’t have to look at it for eternity, cursing yourself.[1]

Reality bite: The day after you send it, the original receipt will turn up, and months later, just to provoke you, the instruction manual will surface with detailed instructions on troubleshooting.

Note to self: Send a note to Monte Blanc… remind them of form vs. function… recommend their engineers work on the function aspect.

Never mind! The husband solved that problem with a refill from the dollar store.



[1] For buying it, for keeping it, for the lack of gumption to throw it out, for a weak character, for being born…

…a new life

I'm told that major changes in life, moves, births, deaths, and divorces, are stressors and the greater the number, the greater the impact level and the higher the curve at which I set my reality.

I know there must have been some period of my life that was calm and peaceful and I think I've discovered when it was. It was directly after The Big Move 

Dear Anyone Who Cares, 
The husband asked Saturday if I was homesick and I felt a wave of sadness roll over me as I answered no.  I wish I had a reason to get out of bed, but the house is beginning to resemble the one I left (prior to the move), so there is no reason to get up to unpack any more boxes. I’m comfortable just sitting right here and writing aimlessly to people who care.

Handwritten by me, who has yet to unearth the computer amidst the avalanche. Terina

I think I was unattached and unattended… for about six months, then I went and birthed another batch of excitement.  

.I love blogging because to find enough drivel in my life to write about each day, I have to trek through the piles of my journals. I have so much that I'll never run out! You could cheer or not, depending on your perspective.

To me:
The husband left for Houston today. The kids left for school on the bus at 8:30, back at 4:00. Here I am alone and I've decided it's a breakdown day. I should be looking forward to a nap but I’ve already been to bed. I’m up, it’s noon and I don’t feel any better. But, I shouldn’t. Today isn’t over yet. T.


Sometimes it is better to toke up the intensity. I do better engulfed in busi-ness. I’m happier in constant motion. If I ratchet up the insanity levels, then there are excuses for my forgetting nature, and for my chaos. If I weren’t so busy, I would have no rebuttal.

To me:
It seems I’ve spent my lifetime struggling to eek out more time. Now I have it. Eons of moments stretch before me in this place, as I look out on the stifling hot waste that is my life. This new city is misery personified. It’s too hot to go out, too lonely to visit. I’m too fat to feast, too tired to care, too bored to stand this, too lonely. Despair.

It’s pathetic prose, but I take it where I can. Moribund, T.

I’m constantly being warned that I should hold back and let the world pass me by instead of meeting it head on with a forward dash toward insanity. Okay, I’ve tried it. I don’t like it.

Reality bite: But dont worry.  There is no threat because busy doesn’t necessarily mean productive.

…voodoo that i do

Midway through an illness is a bad time to discover allergies to a medication. An itching episode ensues and I wonder if it’s the illness or the meds. Bugs are an integral part of life, but images of them crawling all over, should be a side effect of stronger medicine than cough syrup.

Dandelions are fondly remembered as one of my first allergies and fuchsia-dyed pistachios brought on rashes of the same color. If there had been a medical allergist available in my youth, I could have paid for his cabin cruiser.

Far from being a sickly child, my parents knew before the specialists, that my reactions were excitement related—too much of anything brought on hives. It’s a great evasion tool for a kid, “I think this broccoli is making my throat itch…”

My small town doctor—the last, best physician in the industry—prescribed avoidance therapy. Pistachios were an easy miss but back before herbicides, dandelions weren’t, so I spent a lot of time with my best buddy Benadryl[1], sitting in the evening chill, breathing deep and humming calm mantras.

I’ve discovered more things that make me itch as I age, but it’s never something to my advantage like dust mites or animals. “Oh shucks, can’t do dusting or pets. Tichoo! Tichoo!”
Due to a physician aversion, (I must be allergic to them) I don’t do conventional scratch tests—instead I do an itch test. When I swell up and prickle unceasingly, the quest for the culprit begins!

To me:
Tonight a combination of parsley and latex[2] made me the gyrating life of the party with my red face and full-body itch. Last week it was mango. What’s up with me! T.

Anaphalaxysis, (that means itching and swelling unto death) is a side effect of some of my allergies, but I’ve only had to resort to the shot once or twice. The hyped up feeling and buzzing, twitching aftereffects make it almost worthwhile.

Reality Bite: Allergies are contagious. The husband just woke with a full-body antibiotic rash. I tried to convince him that it was sympathy pains, akin to the weight gain he suffered while we were pregnant.[3] Both itching, Terribly T


[1] Brand name meaning “just-be-glad-we-renamed-it.”
[2] Don’t you know that’s how they invented Playtex?
[3] Men! What does it mean when they stare at you with that furrowed brow while shaking their heads side to side?

…witch doctor

I’m now allergic to all the good stuff—codeine, and all its derivatives, so I’ll never make a good addict. But, they aren’t on my list of self-meds anyway. I’ve limited myself to what medical doctors call OTC’s. (Over-the-counters. Just picture a desperate me hurdling over the counter after them.)



I’m forced to self-diagnose because doctors are the only vocation that avoid their busiest working hours. The world gets sick after five on Thursday, all day Friday, and every weekend… so doctors go golfing.

They universally object to house calls between the hours of midnight and four, and that’s why I self-diagnose—and because a woman’s primary physician tends to specialize below the belt and my pet illness, strep, isn’t in their area, so rather than keep four or five different specialists on retainer, I practice “physician heal thyself.”[2]

While medical doctors don’t worry too much about people treating themselves to a selection of colorful bottles from a drug store, it’s surprising how nervous they get when they find out that you are dabbling in alternative remedies—particularly when it involves veterinary meds.

To me,
As the niece of two nurses, who are the children of a nurse, who is the daughter of a nurse, the daughter will be well suited to fill my shoes… I hope she does it quickly, before I’m sick in them. Is that too many details? T.

I'm the family’s certified witch doctor and can usually diagnose the entire tribe, but if it’s a tough bug, I probe the children’s pediatrician at their disease-of-the-month visit, and then I perform my own voodoo, mixing, measuring and dispensing the medicinal concoctions.

Then getting the medicine down the throat involves performing another convoluted song and dance of contortionistic[2] mumbo-jumbo until the patient convulses with laughter and the mouth is wide open.

To me,
At preschool pick-up, I mention how sick I’ve been all week and a friend asks, “Did your husband have to take time off? Are you still driving the children? Have you seen a doctor? Are you getting any rest? Does your husband cook? Can you breathe yet?”

To each question, I snort no, and then she nods knowingly, “So, things went on the same as usual?” T.

Sickness can’t get us down! Women aren’t allowed to succumb to sickness. We must stuff another packet of tissues, a barf bag and a wider variety of self-meds in our purses and go about the business of busi-ness.

Reality Bites! Another girlfriend who had cancer, once said, “It doesn’t make any difference, you are expected to just go on …unless you die.”

[1] Sounds like Shakespeare, doesn’t it? We’ll blame him til someone else calls and claims credit.
[2] It’s not a word? How can that not be a word?

...it’s ugly

To me,
An internote[1] that I was spammed begins, “It’s great to be a woman because men’s underwear has no deceptive powers.” …well, I laughed. T.

To penetrate my witless mind, oblique references usually have to do the flamenco atop my head, but this time I think I got it!

This internote refers to the delusions perpetuated by brassieres and infers that men are the reason that women have to run around in falsies, advertising anyway. I don’t know of anything that confuses women as easily as the elementary food source confounds men.

It’s possible that I may have missed the boat entirely on this issue, because I’ve noticed that as women everywhere are leaning forward to shake themselves into their bras, I am only wearing one to identify the direction that I’m headed—to decide whether I’m coming or going. (It makes life so much easier when I can just glance down.)

To all my fam,
I’m thinking of ordering a custom bra from a covert military magazine. In addition to a compass, I’ve opted for adding the GPS feature,[2] the optional listening device, and the elusive front closure.
Anyone else interested? Let me know, ‘cause I could get a volume discount. T.

I do not purposely set out to misrepresent anything, but in order to achieve my objective, (to accurately determine my direction) I am forced to wear a slightly exaggerated size. But, I am not alone; it seems that sixty percent of Americans are also wearing bras that don’t fit.[3] I had no idea so many other female persons are also lost!

As a member of such a high focus group, I feel that I’m qualified to state that sixty percent of all bras are misfits because they have been manufactured to fit a species other than women. I know because I’ve tried them all!

To me,
Did you know many women are forced to put their bra on backward to clasp and then jerk it around front to back? This is because as we age, it becomes impossible to reach around to the middle of the back to the fastener?

Not you yet? Just wait. Why don’t we insist on front fasteners? Or do what I do and continue to wear it backwards. Always thinking! T.

I do use mine primarily as a compass, (wouldn’t it be great if a bra really did beep as I turned due north) and so size and fit are really irrelevant.

And don’t talk to me about implants, I’m already unrecognizable in the mirror. Besides, I’m not about to change my shape as that would guarantee flat as the latest upcoming fashion! (Ya’ll can thank me later.)

This is because I’m prefad[4]. I bring in the trend, preempt it and make it happen! I’m prehip, prediva, and prefabulous.

Reality Bite: Prehysterical too.

[1] Wordsmith! I expect this one will grow as big as the net.
[2] Global positioning satellite
[3] Another fascinating statistic from Oprah!
[4] Ha! And you thought I would forget to explain. Oh, I already discussed this? And it’s detailed again in Book One? Oh.

…what must come down

Unlike the stockmarket, life’s downswings are easy to predict. I forecast the inevitable downturn, just as the innocent and happy ascent begins. If we were true to ourselves, we would acknowledge that bright and happy moments are sick and sad portends of things to come.

It's true. Physicists, economists and eternal pessimists all know the unmitigated truth to life: What goes up, must come down.

To me:
I can tell if it’s going to be a good day by the dawn. If the early morning writing goes badly then there is no way to go but up, and in that case, I’m all for putting in my two torturous hours of typing and then abandoning it. A bad day of writing means the whole rest of the world is beautiful.

That’s my rationale for spending a whole day writing on my good days. I recognize that if I’m on a roll, I should just stay at it and ignore the whole terrible disaster that threatens around me.
Go figure. Terina

…the flake

To: realmom@stake.out
Is there a law in most states, against marrying—like the one against cousins marrying to avoid birth defects—if your mother has been declared hopelessly incompetent and forgetful? Is that possible? I’m really worrying about this one and I need reassurance. Write back... now! Again, desperately seeking… Terina

On-demand therapists are what my friends, family and even total strangers have become. Anyone who ventures within hearing must listen to my newest foul-up. It’s become the job of those around me—even sometimes the unsuspecting bystander—to pick up the pieces, put me back together and set me back on track to continue with life.

To me,
Today’s goof happened when I was at a daughter function and another young lady came up to me and in a whisper, reminded me that I was responsible that day for my daughter’s spotlight in her young women’s group.

“…just a short letter from you and her father telling her how great she is and then another note with cute anecdotes, so we can get to know her better and guess her identity...”
I hear water running. Back in a few, T.

Most instant-psychotherapists, when faced with this dilemma, reassure me by relating stories of their own to halt the self- flagellation and try to make me feel better. It’s a weak, “I’m-as-whacked-as-you-are,” assurance, because no one could ever top me. They attempt to reassure me that today’s blunder is understandable and “should expected from a person so busy and so involved.”

Could it be that I subconsciously seek out fruits and nuts of my same genus to reassure me that I’m not the only split pea in the pod,[1] and to inveigle myself into their lives to see how they cracked they are?[2]

To me:
This young girl had called ahead and warned me two weeks previously and I had immediately placed it in my mental memory, under the main folder, titled Forget!
Twice more in a three-hour period I was reminded and twice more I forgot. I could take two pages to explain how muddled a mélange my mind is, but suffice it to say, I was thinking about other things. Later, T.

I’m trying to identify with unique individuals to appreciate their eccentricities and assure myself that I’m just like them…well, in an individual way, and they are just like me… well in a communal way. But most importantly, I want to reach the point where we get to know each other so well that we like each other.[3]

To me,
So I end up at the youth meeting, in front of twenty young women hiding my blushing face behind a too-small sheet of paper while the spot-lighter explained that she would highlight this girl, but it was impossible because her mother was not forthcoming with the information.
The group unanimously guessed who the girl was. My reputation precedes me. Blushing, T.

I must face it; no individual is as oddball as I am, so I have to learn to appreciate me. When I do, that means others are forced by the dictates of polite society to reciprocate in kind, right? Yeah! We do all fit in.[4]

To realmom@stake.out
Hey, family, so I’m just wondering if sweet innocent girls with flaky mothers are allowed to wed if there is no possible way the mother of the bride can be that organized? I promise I’ll remember all the little details, but probably not the big ones.

My daughter reassures me that on the way to the wedding, she will call me an hour before the ceremony and remind me that the groom will be by to pick me up. And not to worry, she will have my dress. Whew! Terina


Reality bite: No, it’s not fair for my children to be saddled with me, but I remind them, “That’s Life, It’s not fair. You can choose your friends, but not your mother.”[5]

[1] Reality television helps
[2]Validation.
[3] If that’s too deep, or just plain confusing, skip it.
[4] An issue left over from the teen years.
[5]I mangled this one personally.