Creatively Amusing

Baking a Souffle

2005-06-23T11:07:00.000-04:00

Women and their bathroom phobias. It's a topic that needs to be exposed to the light of truth so we can at last be free. Free from the shame. Free from the lies. Free to be and do who we are and what we must! Today, with a sense of righteous purpose, I choose to reveal the truth.

Women use the bathroom for more than putting on makeup and checking their hair.

There, I said it and I'm glad. Glad, I tell you!

While men can happily announce to all and sundry that they need to use the bathroom for its intended purpose (going so far as to even use the WORDS), many women don't share that comfort level. Rarely will you see a woman tuck reading material under her armpit in proud defiance as she marches to the nearest rest room to...erm...do something that Ladies never, EVER talk about(insert your favorite euphemism here). No, most of us prefer to have the world think we're going to "check my souffle," "make a phone call," or "let the dogs out" (three of my personal favorites) as we excuse ourselves and furtively slink down the hallway in search of relief. To further illustrate, I submit the following true story from the archives of my life.

The other week at work my stomach was upset and I couldn't put off the inevitable any longer. Just thinking about what I had to do brought about nearly phobic levels of horror that I was going to have to go public with an intensely private situation.

Luckily, we have a bathroom on Mahogany Row that was once the Executive Washroom but had been reappointed a unisex/unistatus bathroom by the powers of ADA compliance. It's been my own personal rebellion to use that bathroom when the need arises. The benefits are that there's only one commode, so I don't chance running into another soul in there, AND it's superbly satisfying on an emotional level to sort of thumb my nose at all the executives who used to have exclusive rights to this particular sanctuary. Power to the people and all that.

My normal (okay, that may be an oxymoron) way of coping is to enter the sanctuary, turn on the fan, turn on the water, sing a song really loud, and quiver and quake with nerves until finished. If my visit required the use of air freshener, I'd crank the water pressure up to flood stage while spraying enough freshener to produce a fog dense enough to easily choke anyone following me in there.

This day, however, fate was unusually cruel. At the time of my most dire need, the Executive Washroom was filled with an Executive. I was bereft. I was distraught. I was getting sicker by the moment. I had no choice but to use the multi-stalled facilities known as the Ladies Room.

Looking up and down the hallway, waiting until the coast was clear, I made my way there. Fate tossed me a reprieve. Both the little parlor room with the sink, mirror and seating area, AND the stalls (and believe me, I crouched down to check!) were empty. Wheew.

I'd lost my cover of running water (located in the parlor area), noisy exhaust fan (damn them to hell for having an exhaust system in good working order!) and privacy, but I still had access to the air freshener. That was of some comfort, at least. So, I did what I'd come to do, all the while spraying air freshener and praying that no one would come in and realize that I wasn't REALLY checking my souffle.

Feeling better, I left the stall and wandered into the bathroom parlor to wash my hands, check my hair and do the myriad other little things that bring a sense of closure to an otherwise traumatic event like being sick at work.

Glancing in the mirror, a horrified gasp escaped as I noticed that my hair (liberally starched with hair spray that morning) was covered with teeny, tiny flecks of white. Accumulated on my bangs were a gazillion unexploded bubbles from the air freshener which had rained down on me while I had been happily spraying half the can in the stall during my ordeal.

I looked like a flocked Christmas tree. All I needed to complete the holiday theme was a red cardinal perched in my hair and some tinsel.

With a frenzy born of sheer panic, I started slapping my forehead repeatedly with the palm of my hand to make the bubbles GO AWAY! And, of course, that's JUST the moment when my boss walked in.

She grabbed my hand, thinking the stress had finally made me snap, and pulled me over to one of the chairs, all the while oozing concern. "Karen, stop. It'll be okay. You'll be fine. What can I do? What's wro..." That's when she noticed the bubbles that I hadn't been able to kill before she walked in. Watching her expression change from sincere concern to sincere bafflement, she asked "Karen? What's wrong with your hair?"

The flood gates of my psyche opened with a WHOOSH loud enough to be heard in the next building. Babbling incoherently, I stammered out my story. "My stomach...sick...Executive Washroom busy...air freshener...white noise...tiny bubbles...make them go away...Christmas tree...Waaaaaaaa."

Her face changed from bafflement to disbelief to lip twitching amusement in a matter of seconds before she exploded with laughter. My humiliation was complete. Wiping the tears, she stood up, took one good swipe at my flocking with her palm, and left the bathroom while I sat there stupefied and mentally calculated how long it would take for the story to make the rounds of the office.

Five minutes. That's how long.

Coworkers started showing up in my office bearing gifts. I received a vial of perfume, a scented candle, some stomach medication, a Japanese folding fan, and one witty soul even brought a cork! And every ONE of them inspected my hair for the possibility of remaining bubbles with the hope that they would have a good excuse to hit me. Oh, yes. A grand time was had by all.

Ladies, here's the deal. We put things (hopefully just food and drink) into our digestive system, and things (again, hopefully just food and drink) must somehow come out again. It's a natural process. We must learn to find peace with the process. We MUST.

Okay, *I* must. And I will. I really will. Or maybe I'll just find a whole new set of clever euphemisms instead, and learn to point the air freshener away from my hair. ;-)

It's a Dog's Life

2005-05-05T07:00:00.000-04:00

Chasing Tail - As I write this, out of the corner of my eye I can see one of our dogs, Beamer, trying to catch his tail. He's making tight, frantic little circles, nearly spinning off his axis, just to get a taste of that which he thinks he simply MUST have. The very elusiveness of his tail is what makes him so adamant about capturing it. Beamer is cute, but a little dim. Okay, he's the doggie equivalent of a box of rocks when it comes to intellect, but we love him. Of COURSE, he's never going to catch his tail. And if by some miracle he DID, he'd only end up hurting himself by enthusiastically chomping down on it. You can't tell him that, though. He's on a quest. And he's stupid. Lovable, but stupid.

Life Lesson - Lots of energy poured into lots of futile activities usually results in nothing but lots of frustration. And if DO attain your goal, chance are good it's going to be painful in one way or another. So relax. Grab some chocolate. Find a good book and a comfortable chair. Take a nap. Believe me, a piece of tail isn't worth so much angst. Thinking it is is just...well...stupid.

The Princess and the Pee - Cede (pronounced "Sadie" - short for "Mercedes") has at least one redeeming quality. She's cute. Look at this dog and you see a small bundle of blonde Terrier energy that is endearing - for all of five minutes. Stick around longer than that, and you'll see other stuff that's not quite so endearing. Like puddles. Cede is a bed wetter. It doesn't matter who the bed belongs to, or even if it IS a bed. A sofa will do. Or a chair. Even your feet. There's no pea on the planet big enough to disturb the sleep of this princess. After one of her "episodes", Cede will awaken, move to another spot, and promptly fall back to sleep. No remorse. No restitution. She is who she is, and she does what she will. As with Beamer, we love Cede. But we've learned that it's up to us to carry a towel or 12 with us and never sit without first checking for wet spots.

Life Lesson - We all have times when we unintentionally mess up. No one likes the wet spots in life, but they happen. You goofed. You know it. They know it. With a swish of your tail and a nod of acknowledgement and apology for wrongs committed, fix what can be fixed with the towel of your good intentions. Then move on to another life moment and don't look back. Don't let useless regret become the pea that keeps you from trying again.

Discriminating Taste - Jag (short for "Jaguar") is our one-year-old yellow lab. He's the Baby of the family. His head is as big and as solid as a cement block, his body resembles a small tank, and his heart is as soft as a marshmallow. He exudes charm and innocence, and people constantly coo over him. He's got them all fooled. Beneath his dopey grin is the heart and soul of a connoisseur. Jag is responsible for eating my best underwear, my digital camera, two leather wallets, every pair of genuine leather shoes I own, and the occasional steak that he pulls off the kitchen counter. He WON'T eat my 23-year-old maternity panties (don't ask why I still have them; that's another blog entry.), my 100% authentic vinyl wallet, the disposable camera that cost me $5, any of my buy-one-get-one-free shoes from Payless, or the broccoli that was being served with the steak. Jag has his standards, and they won't be compromised.

Life Lesson - When you're cute, you can take anything you want and be safe from recrimination. Wait. That may be true, but it's not the IMPORTANT lesson. The IMPORTANT lesson is that in a world filled with delectable choices, occasionally indulging your taste for quality will usually bring a great deal of satisfaction, if not downright happiness. Go to the four star restaurant rather than McDonalds. Read a piece of literature and let the Purple Passion novel wait for another time. Wear the sexy undies instead of waiting for the "right" occasion. Buy the perfume instead of eternally rubbing your wrist over the sample in Vogue magazine. Go visit your friend instead of picking up the phone. Indulge yourself now and then without regret or harm to others and life will be just a little sweeter.

Always Leave Them Wanting More - Kelsey is the matriarch of the family. She's 14 years old, and became a part of our family before we started naming dogs after cars we'd never be rich enough to own. Kelsey is not going to be with us for very much longer. Her joints are worn out and cause her pain. She doesn't see well anymore, and she's deaf. The cycle of life is drawing to a close for this beloved creature of our heart. She's given us untold moments of joy and love over the course of her life, and I'd like to think that we've given her the same. When Kelsey finally leaves us we'll mourn sincerely and deeply.

Life Lesson - Endings are as inevitable as beginnings. Poets, song writers, philosophers - they've all admonished us to live a life that leaves something behind when it's completed. That something may simply be a smile that warms someone's heart at the memory of you. But make no mistake; we all leave SOMETHING. We are not islands of solitary existence, but are parts of a whole. More than we care to admit, I think, we have the ability to choose what we leave behind. Choose now. Choose well.

My Child My Heart

2005-04-27T20:40:00.000-04:00

Brianna, my youngest daughter, is bursting forth with life. Literally. She's almost six months pregnant and shows no signs of changing her mind about the whole thing.

Every day brings about a new and amazing change to her body, it seems. At the alarming rate her bust is increasing, she'll soon be able to offer nourishment to starving infants all over the world. Bri is now in an F cup and it's conceivable that she won't stop until she hits every letter of the alphabet.

And not just her body. Her emotions, driven to the brink of insanity by hormones and reality, are in constant flux. Everything is changing. Life is happening within her and without. It's amazing stuff.

I love this woman-child who is my daughter. And I know her. She is becoming. She is discovering herself. She is assuming a new role and a new responsibility. And she is scared. She looks in the mirror and doesn't recognize herself anymore. She's not quite ready to fully embrace the reality of what is about to happen to her. She needs to find her way, but she's not sure how to do that.

So she clings a little more tightly to me, using whines and complaints to mask the fears. "I can't find a bra that fits. Will you please go shopping with me?" "I have heartburn. Mom, how can I get rid of it?" "Mom, I can't see my toes. Is there anything below my stomach that I should be aware of?" "Mommy, I need some money to support my craving for poptarts smothered in hot sauce?" "Mom, can you..." "Mom, will you..." "Mom, what do you think..."

And then there are the questions she only whispers. "Will I be a good mother?" "Will he stay with me after the baby is born?" "Will I ever feel beautiful again?" "How will we afford day care and diapers and doctor bills?" "Are you ashamed of me?"

And I ache for her, this child of my body and my heart. She is my own precious daughter. How can I explain the inexplicable? That her life will no longer be hers? That she's embarking on a journey that will forever change her; body, soul, and spirit. And how do I prepare her for the beauty, joy, and pain that will teach her lessons she can't begin to imagine right now?

I can't.

So I do what I can. I go shopping. I scratch her back. I answer her questions as best I can. I hold her. I dry her tears. I reassure. I encourage. I pray. I love.

My child. My heart. With awe, I wait. With hope, I anticipate. With gratitude, I accept the continuing cycle of life.

Eventide

2005-04-11T07:06:00.000-04:00

A sky-filled benediction
Proclaims that day is done.
As whispered vesper glories
Are painted by the sun.

What was to be has happened.
What is to be will come.
Memories of the waning day
Speak hope and joy to some.

To others a reminder
In soft and dappled hues
That time slips by unmindful
Of all that’s left to do.

With brilliant hallelujahs
The sun will rise again.
The promise of a new day
To ask our Why’s and When’s.

But in the glow of twilight
We hear a call to peace.
The fading sun a comfort.
Let fear and struggle cease.

Beauty...It's a Beast!

2005-04-04T18:33:00.000-04:00

You know, there are just some inequities in this world that make me mutter under my breath and shake my head in disgust. One that always gets my panties in a twist is the inequity between how men and women approach self-beautification. Oh, sure. It may be society’s fault that women are held to a different standard. It may even be our own fault for buying into that standard, but it’s still a major harrumph in my life. Until men suffer from having ANYTHING waxed in an effort to look more attractive, I don't want to hear them complain about the burdens THEY carry in this area.

I recently took stock of some of my self-improvement rituals, and I've decided that the time has come to confront a few of these beasts of burden and see JUST how critical they are to me. The Critical Rating Scale ranges from 1-10; 1 being the least critical and 10 being a ritual that allows me to leave my bedroom every day.

Alignment Issues: No matter how many times you see a man reach down to "adjust" himself, I'm still more than half convinced that they actually enjoy those special moments. I, on the other hand, have decided that I should invest in a laser level to help me get The Girls (lovingly named after those madcap gals, Lavern and Shirley) aligned every morning after they've been safely holstered. There's nothing worse than looking in a mirror at the end of the day only to realize that Lavern has been in a perky mood all day, while Shirley has been a little down, so to speak.
Critical Rating: 5
Critical Rating on a Cold Day: 10
Brush Strokes: Makeup is a powerful force in a woman's life. We are lured by promises of pearlesque skin, lips that beg to be kissed, and eyes that say "Come hither" with absolutely no shame. While I understand the temptation, I've had too many close calls with evil mascara wands that want to poke my eyes out, and lipstick that ends up on my teeth without my knowledge, so I've just about given up the battle. The sad truth is that no amount of foundation is going to disguise the fact that I'm a 43 year old woman who still suffers from the teenage indignity of occasional blemishes. No artistic application of eye shadow will make my eyes anything other than a gloriously average brown. And no amount of lipstick is going to make my lips whisper an inviting "kiss me" while I continue to enjoy garlic as a condiment in my life.
Critical Rating: 3
Critical Rating on "Add a New Picture to My Profile Day": 10
Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow: When I was a young lady, I could confine my hair removal to the usual areas: legs, armpits, and eyebrows. As I age, I've noticed that the scope of work and time commitment involved has increased exponentially. I now do a daily once over to check legs, armpits, eyebrows, upper lip, and chin. I think it's a cosmic conspiracy, frankly. Some poor man no sooner loses his hair than it immediately finds its way to a woman somewhere in the universe. It's a sad thing. And it's getting sadder. The other day I actually heard myself mumbling, "I wonder if they make nose hair trimmers for women?" That's just wrong on so many levels. To help in this battle, I have a lovely Vietnamese woman who waxes stuff for me. Her promise is always the same, "I make you look like woman again, Kalen. You see. You be happy with me, Kalen." After the wax and hair has been cruelly RIPPED from my skin, she holds up the removal cloth like a trophy to show me that my $10 was well spent. A necessary evil? Yep. I never want earn the title "Stubbly."
Critical Rating: 10
Critical Rating In Low Lighting: 9

I could go on and on. Pantyhose, high heels, underwire bras, perfumes that cost more some third-world countries, jewelry and accessories, matching ensembles, tone, texture, style...we have to consider them all! It's not a thing for the feint of heart.

When my husband rolls out of bed in the morning, HE never looks like he should iron his face! He hops in the shower and emerges five seconds later smelling like Safeguard. A swipe of a deodorant stick, five more seconds with the blow dryer, a couple passes with a razor and he’s done. His only remaining decision is which of his 50 gazillion tee shirts he’s going to wear with his jeans. I think I hate him. I really do.

It’s exhausting being a woman in search of beauty. It’s expense. And it’s damn depressing because despite all the hard work, all the expense, all the hopes for success, you know darn well some smart ass teenage Adonis is going to call you “Ma’am” and offer to help you across the street before the day is over.

When he does? Step on his foot “accidentally" and tell him you poked your eye out with a mascara wand and couldn't see well.

LIfe Lessons and Building Nests

2005-03-30T19:10:00.000-05:00

A few years ago I was an office manager at an agricultural consulting firm. During the spring, our consultants would take soil samples from farmer’s fields to test them for lime content. Soil testing was dirty, mind-numbing, and tedious work. Because of the sheer volume of testing that had to be done, we would hire seasonal help to perform the tests. This particular story is about Charles, one such temp.

Charles came to our firm right after graduating from a prestigious college with a degree is molecular science. He was a Man of Science. Though he was really sweet, every time I was around him I got tongue tied and shy. I was just so impressed with everything about him; his credentials, his personality, his work ethic, even his appearance. The man was at least 6’ 5” tall! Testing bag after bag of soil in a hot, dusty barn didn’t seem to bother Charles at all. He was grateful to have a job, and he did his best to make sure he earned his paycheck. He was delightful, intelligent, and unassuming. But still! He was a Man of Science! Men of Science know stuff. Important stuff! That was enough to inspire a little bit of hero worship in me.

One afternoon I was enjoying a break from my desk by wandering outside for a few minutes. We were temporarily out of soil to test, and I saw that Michael, the owner of our company, was talking with Charles in the parking lot. When Michael left, Charles disappeared into the barn and came back out a moment later carrying a bucket. As I watched, he stooped over (and at his height, he really DID have to stoop) and started weeding our stone-covered parking lot.

I was appalled! What was he doing? Is this what Michael had told him to do until more soil came in to be tested? This was not the sort of work a Man of Science should be doing! This was busy work! This was menial labor! This was insulting! Pulling weeds, for heaven’s sake? I was horrified, indignant, and just plain miffed on his behalf.

Though I stewed, I noticed that Charles didn’t seem to share my sense of outrage. He was humming while he worked, perfectly content to being doing what he was doing. His humility and easy acceptance only made my harrumph worse. I went back to my desk convinced that Charles was a saint. Simply a saint!

Later that afternoon I made up an excuse to go outside and check on Charles and his progress. He was back in the lab, a truck load of soil samples having been delivered for him to test. There was a pile of weeds waiting to be tossed into the dumpster, and I decided I’d relieve him of that particular duty. It was the least I could do, I felt.

Before I could take a step toward the pile of weeds, the most remarkable thing happened. A robin swooped down to the pile, grabbed some of the weeds with its beak, and flew back to the rain gutter that bordered the barn. He dropped the weeds into the gutter, spent a few moments arranging them, and then flew back to get more to add to his collection. Back and forth he flew, taking what he needed to make his nest. He worked with amazing single-mindedness and purpose. I stood in absolute awe and watched a Life Lesson unfold before my very eyes.

The work that Charles had done, work that I had thought of as menial and demeaning, made it possible for that robin to build a nest. And that nest would someday soon provide a place of safety and shelter for his mate when she laid her eggs, and later raise her young.

I’m sure Charles already knew the lessons that I was learning all over again. Nothing is menial if done with the right heart. Nothing we do is without repercussion, good or bad. Humility is not weakness, it is a strength. Pride is a poor companion that benefits very few. Sometimes the most life-giving gifts are those done with very little fanfare.

Now I know stuff, too. Important stuff.

Life is Like a Box of....Exlax

2005-03-21T20:38:00.000-05:00

With all due respect to Momma Gump, I have what I think is a more realistic analogy. Life is like a box of Exlax. It looks good. It even tastes okay. But you know with dead certainty that more often than not someone's going to need a good pooper scooper by the end of the day.

This post is dedicated to all those hard-working, devoted parents who are trying desperately to survive parenthood with their sanity intact, their credit rating out of the toilet, and their blood pressure levels in the safe zone. As if accomplishing those things weren't enough, chances are good that one or more of their children will be trying just as desperately to prove my Exlax analogy. If I were a betting woman, I'd put my money on Mom and Dad as the couple voted most likely to need the old pooper scooper.

Let's explore some of the evidence I have to back up my theory, shall we?

My oldest daughter read me the riot act the other day for borrowing one of her necklaces without asking her permission. I had a little trouble feeling bad about this error in judgment on my part because my brain was fogged by the fact that she was wearing my red blouse while delivering her lecture about having respect for the belongings of others. You know the one I'm talking about? The red blouse I bought as a reward for myself for not killing her at birth? The same blouse she immediately claimed as hers when she saw it for the first time, reminding me that, "Muuuuther, you KNOW you don't look good in red. It washes out your color." Uh huh. She was actually HELPING me, you see. This is the same logic that has lost me innumerable pairs of shoes, scads of makeup, and even boxes of tampons. "Muuther, you shouldn't use tampons! You could come down with a nasty case of toxic shock syndrome, and at your age, you'd go just like 'that!'"
I have an annoying little habit. I like to shave my legs and armpits with some regularity. So sue me. There are five razors in our shower stall. I'm old, and I confuse easily. Besides, they all look the same to me. And I was desperate. My arm pits either needed a shave or a braid. I opted for the shave. The next morning there was a note on the bathroom counter. "Muuuther, you used MY razor. ALL the razors in the shower are mine. I don't know where yours is. Please open the bag of disposable razors that I got you for Christmas and use one of them in the future." Five razors. She has FIVE razors. I have a disposable and a styptic pencil. I also have razor burn and "skippers" on my legs because I'm not allowed to use her shaving gel, either, but what does THAT matter, eh? Forgive me, Daughter, for I have sinned. Again.
I can't wear my favorite perfume anymore. The Daughter has a dog with a VERY sensitive olfactory system. "He SIMPLY can't tolerate anything more strongly scented than Safeguard, Muuther." One whiff of my perfume, and he starts to heave and shudder and starts playing out a death scene that would make Shakespeare proud. I've pointed out to her that this is the same dog who cheerfully sniffs the butt of any creature he comes near, but she swears his "sensitivity" is legitimate. I've been warned that if I continue to use my perfume I'll be eligible for inclusion in the ASPCA's Most Wanted List. It doesn't matter one iota that this dog can produce enough noxious gas to clear out the living room, or even the entire house, with one expulsion of gas. Nooooo. That's "natural." That's "healthy." That's God-awful, that's what THAT is.
Talking on the telephone is another problem. At least when I do it. Heaven forbid my talking on the telephone two rooms away should provide such a distraction that she can't concentrate on one of her 30+ weekly episodes of CSI! You know me. I'm just a barrel of distracting fun. Who in their right mind could easily pass up the opportunity to listen in to one of my phone conversations when I'm explaining my latest experiment with using hemorrhoid cream for eye puffiness? Then there's the problem with my breathing. I do it. That's the problem. "Muuuther, could you PLEASE stop making that racket while I'm trying to listen to the radio? Honestly, you should have that checked!" What? WHAT? The air goes in, the air goes out. How have I transgressed? As far as I can tell I don't wheeze. Nothing comes shooting out of my mouth or nose that shouldn't. And I SWEAR, if I feel the urge to snore, I quickly take myself off to my bedroom where I can do so without tumbling whole civilizations. Sheesh.
She "needed" to borrow my car the other day. And the day before that. And the day before THAT. But the latest instance of borrowing was needed because she had to go pick up some dinner for herself at McDonald's. She had to go to McDonald's because the balanced, healthy meal that was prepared for her didn't suit her craving du jour. She had to go herself, rather than asking either her Dad or me to go FOR her, because her father was away, and I was on my near-death bed with a rotten cold. Go figure. She needed to borrow MY car because her snazzy little two-door Cougar doesn't have cup holders, and she didn't want to risk a spill on her leather upholstery. MY leather upholstery, however, isn't worthy of being protected from stains because I drive a big, honking SUV. The obvious correlation here is that I lost the last of my "cool" genes the moment I bought the Explorer and thus gave up my right to care about whether I sit in a pool of spilled sticky soda goo. Coolness has its privileges, and I abdicated mine.

I love my daughter. I really do. But sometimes I think that if I don't assert myself I'm just going to curl up into a withered ball of Muuther Putty and start dribbling when I try stand up to her petty tyranny. Sooo...

The other day while she was out of the house I gave her dog a teeny, eeny, weeny bite of an Exlax and let him "play" in her room for a few hours. When she discovers his indiscretion, I'll calmly hand her the pooper scooper and remind her that parenthood can really be a bitch sometimes.

And then I'll go downstairs and breathe REALLY loud, just because I can. :-D

Kiss Me in the Dining Room

2005-03-13T19:23:00.000-05:00

My mom and I spent an enjoyable hour and a bit this afternoon visiting with my Honey Grandma, my maternal grandmother. I don't see her as often as she'd like, nor as often as I should, but when we do see each other it's a lovely, heart-warming time, and I always leave with another memory to file away and cherish for the time when she's no longer a part of my life.

Our conversation today hit on all the usual topics. Family, friends, the local gossip from the retirement community where she lives, and the various aches and pains making the rounds of her octogenarian friends. We took a couple of conversational side trips, as well. For instance, she was a bit appalled that they'd served sauerkraut with the pork roast for dinner. Apparently sauerkraut is too much a "working man's dish" to be worthy of the special honor of being included in Sunday Dinner.

Honey Grandma is truly one of the most grace-giving and loving women I've ever met. She would no sooner stir up trouble than she would kick a puppy. But the sauerkraut thing really sent her spinning for a few moments. As that particular conversation came to a close, she'd pretty much decided that the cook just didn't know any better, the poor dear. It helped that the sauerkraut had actually tasted very good. She'd adjust, she declared. It's a different world now, after all.

Talking with Honey Grandma is always a pleasure. She's a lovely soul with grace to spare, and an abundance of humility. Spending time with her, hearing her stories, is like opening a wonderful treasure chest of memories and adventures. It never matters that the stories are the same ones we've heard over and over again. They never get old. Her enjoyment in the storytelling is so obvious that it's an honor to sit at her feet and be her audience.

As our visit was drawing to an end, the floor attendant came to the door to let Honey Grandma know that her supper was being served in the dining room. She excused herself to use the restroom, and Mom and I got our coats together and prepared to walk Grandma to the dining room on our way out.

As we were making our way to the front door of her apartment, Honey Grandma, leaning on her walker, turned to look at us over her shoulder. She said, "Don't kiss me goodbye yet. Wait until we get to the dining room. Kiss me goodbye in the dining room." Mom and I looked at each other, and then at Honey Grandma, but she didn't say anything else on the subject.

When we got to the dining area she parked her walker and Mom and I escorted her to her assigned chair at her assigned table with her assigned dining companions. When she was settled she looked up and said, "Well, thank you for a lovely visit, Karen and Barbara Ann. " Then she whispered under her breath, "Now." Trying to keep the smile off my face, I dutifully leaned down and kissed her beautiful, soft cheek. With complete sincerity I said (loudly enough to be heard by her companions, of course) "I love you, Honey Grandma." The delight on her face was all the evidence I needed that I couldn't have given her a better gift. Then my Mom repeated the ritual of the goodbye kiss and promised to see her again in a few days.

As Mom and I were walking toward the elevator, we both heard Honey Grandma telling her dining companions, "That was my daughter and granddaughter, Barbara Ann and Karen. When Karen was a little girl..." There was such pride in her voice. Such love.

Such a little thing to ask. "Kiss me in the dining room." Let these people know that I'm still loved. Let them see that I have a special place in your lives. Let them understand that I haven't been forgotten.

Do you have someone who would appreciate being "kissed in the dining room?" Don't wait. Please, don't wait.

~~~~

(Honey Grandma is so named because my two brothers and I were her "Big Honey," "Medium Honey" [me], and "Little Honey." In an effort to keep the grandma's straight, she became Honey Grandma, while my paternal grandmother was Sugar Grandma, so named because she had a dog named Sugar.)

I Am Woman, Hear Me Whimper

2005-03-04T18:39:00.000-05:00

(Some really neat and creative blog friends recently held a writing competition [Senior Thinking and Guarded Lily, among them - see my side bar for their addresses and go visit! You won't regret it. In fact, visit ALL my blog friends and see why they are some of my favorite people in the world!]. The qualification for the competition was that the story submitted had to center on something from childhood that changed you. I was jazzed to add my two cents when Mom got sick. That sort of derailed things, and I didn't have a chance to submit my own story. Here, belatedly, is my story of the event that changed my life, offered solely for your entertainment.)

Being a girl will eventually lead to being a woman. There's just no way to get around it, I'm afraid. Well, not without some serious surgery and intensive therapy, anyway. One of the best ways to make the transition from girl to woman is to find another girl and force her to make the journey with you. For me, that girl was Robin.

Part of being a woman is dealing with...well...women things. You know. High heels. Nylons. Shaving stuff. Boobs. Bras. Boys. And of course, the dreaded menstrual period. Now, Robin and I weren't complete twits. We knew what was eventually in store for us as far as our traitorous bodies were concerned. But no movie seen in the safety of the school room, no delicate "talk" from a loving mother, no information garnered from the bathroom walls left us feeling fully prepared for what promised to be one of life's more momentous occasions. We also realized that chances were really good that we weren't going to experience our "blossoming" at the same time. That was just scary.

I have to digress a little here so that you'll understand just what we were facing, my friends. I'm 43 years old. Thirty years ago women didn't talk about their periods. They whispered to each other behind their hands that they were soon going to "fall off," or that they were "having a visit from their 'little friend'." Women didn't ride bike, swim, or otherwise pretend that life was going to be anything but miserable for at least one week out of the month. When they weren't working, they stayed home and suffered silently, like the good martyrs they were. Then, too, they didn't have the mind-boggling array of feminine products we do today. The only things women knew about that had wings were birds. There were two choices. Sanitary pads the size of small throw pillows, threaded into and held in place with an elastic belt (the ugly cousin to a garter belt, I suppose) or tampons. Tampons came in one size with one style applicator, and from one manufacturer - Tampex. "Good girls" wore sanitary napkins, and "Wild Girls" put their hymens and reputations at risk and used tampons. Those were the facts of life Robin and I faced.

We reviewed our options. We did research regarding products on the market. We conducted interviews with older, already blossomed friends. None of those things helped ease the anxiety. We needed solid answers. We needed...Sharon.

Sharon was Robin's older sister. She was a fount of information on all sorts of really amazing topics. She taught us how to inhale when we smoked, how to buy bras that would guarantee maximum volume for our minimum breasts, and how to pour a beer without making a "head". It was only natural that we'd turn to her for advice. Sharon was 11 years older than us, and she was a bona fide "Wild Girl." We both wanted to BE Sharon when we grew up.

When we approached our guru about this, Sharon's sage advice was to skip the horror of wearing throw pillows between our legs and to begin as we intended to continue - using tampons. That was good enough for us! Sharon had spoken, and we were her eager disciples. Besides, she was going to spring for the box of tampons, sparing us the humiliation of a trip to the drug store where just EVERYONE would know that blossoming was in the offing.

With nary a cramp in sight yet, we decided to be proactive about the whole thing. Clearly, we needed a dry run. (No pun intended.) A practice session, if you will. That way the pressure would be off by the time our time came. Sharon provided the "goods," and Robin and I got to work.

Neither one of us was too keen on admitting to the other that we didn't know WHAT the heck we were doing. Our bodies were pretty much uncharted territories at this stage in our development. So it was with some relief, albeit unspoken, that we discovered the tampons came with directions. Even a diagram! It seemed only fair to share the instructions, so we divided them up. Robin took the diagram, and I took the written directions. How hard could this be, after all? Robin casually made her way to the bathroom, and I stayed in my bedroom, also pretending total confidence in my ability to do this thing.

It seemed like only moments later that Robin was knocking on the bedroom door, announcing that everything had worked according to plan and diagram and that she was now comfortably prepared to blossom. I, on the other hand, was experiencing some technical difficulties. Actually, what I was experiencing was PAIN!

Trying very hard not to panic, I tearfully explained to Robin that there was something seriously wrong with my body. I was sure I was deformed in some hideous way. My tampon wouldn't...move. Well, not much anyway. There wasn't any "gliding" going on, that's for darn sure! And when it DID move, it HURT. When Robin offered to come in and investigate, I insisted that she just push the diagram under the door so I could figure out what was going on.

According to the picture, I was doing everything right. But it was clear that something was terribly, TERRIBLY wrong. There was nothing else for it. I had to further explore. Grabbing a mirror from the bathroom closet, I set about discovering my anatomy. I've got to tell you, I saw things in that mirror that I never want to see again in my LIFE.

What I eventually discovered was that there are actually TWO openings in a woman's... well...down THERE. One opening is designed to take things IN, and the other is designed to...erm... not. I was trying to insert the tampon into "not" opening. That little realization shed a lot of light on why I was in pain at the moment.

Two openings. Who knew? Probably every freaking girl/woman in the world but me.

Okay, so it may not be the most noble story. It may not be the most moving story. But it certainly explains my fear of some of the intimate acts between a man and woman that earn really high scores on online kinky tests. In that way, it did indeed change my life. I'll never be a "Wild Child." Funnily enough, that doesn't bother me. ;-)

News from Around the Water Cooler

2005-03-03T07:22:00.000-05:00

After a really frightening couple of days, Mom came home from the hospital on Monday afternoon. The official diagnosis is COPD (chronic obstructive pulmonary disease), and she will probably be on oxygen and inhalers for quite a while, if not the rest of her life. That's actually the good news. Had she not been found, she wouldn't be with us today. The doctor said she was within hours of dying of Carbon Dioxide poisoning.

During the process of trying to regulate her CO2 and blood oxygen levels there were several complications to be dealt with. There were some issues with her creatnin and potassium rising to unsafe levels, which indicated that her kidneys weren't working at capacity. A common way to treat renal failure is to try and kick start the kidneys by administering large doses of fluids. Unfortunately, they couldn't DO that because Mom suffers from congestive heart failure, and her heart wouldn't have been able to stand the strain of trying to deal with the extra fluid build up. Through the use of steroids, diuretics, antibiotics, oxygen and a lot of prayer things finally started to stabilize.

There has been no permanent brain damage due to lack of blood oxygen, her heart is as good as it can be, her kidneys are functioning, and her COPD is undercontrol for the time being. She will, of course, continue to be monitored very closely for the next several months.

As is usually the case for me, once Mom was stable it was my turn to have a bit of a melt down; just a small one, but enough to remind me that my own healing and season of mourning isn't nearly as completeas I thought it was. Sitting in that hospital room hour after hour, staring at the monitors that were our only guides regarding her wellness, or lack thereof, was a trip down memory lane that I simply wasn't prepared to take yet.

But there really weren't many alternatives, you know? Sometimes things happen that are simply beyond our ability to change, and all we can do is hang on to our sanity, faith, whatever, and stay the course until the ride is over.

That's about where I am mentally right now; simply putting one foot in front of the other with few expectations for good or ill. I'm in self protective mode, and that means I've pretty much found my niche in silence and distance. Not a particularly healthy way to deal, but it feels like my only alternative at the moment.

The pain of losing Dad, the ache of recently losing someone very dear to my heart, the fear of losing Mom, my own health issues that still need to be resolved, my worries about my daughters, about my marriage, about money issues - all those things - they're just stuff I've got to slog through until healing and health return to my heart and body. But I'll get there. I refuse to believe otherwise.

I'll have a more Karen-like blog entry soon, I promise. But I did want to update you on what's been happening. Thanks for caring, my friends. I appreciate you.

Seasons of Senses

2005-02-24T07:15:00.000-05:00

In large part, we experience our environment through the use of our senses. They help form, filter, color, and sometimes change our perceptions. I've found in my life that I've had seasons of senses. And those seasons all evoke powerful memories.

My early childhood was a kaleidoscope of senses. I remember...

Mom's perfume, "Youth Dew," that reminded me that some things don't change.
The feel and smell of soft grass as I barrel rolled down my favorite hill.
The scent of mimeographed paper right off the machine.
Hearing Honey Grandma's sweet, tremulous voice as she sang to me.
Dad's lips, soft and moist, as he gave me goodnight kisses.

My teen years contributed...

The sounds of music - loud and soft; fast and slow.
The smell of gasoline as I learned to fill the tank of my parent's car.
The feel of strong arms around me as I stumbled through my first slow dance with a boy.
The sensation of my heart pounding as I waited for my first kiss.
Moments of celebration or agony seen in the grades written on my test papers in red ink.

My adulthood brought...

The senses associated with physical intimacy.
The unique smells, sights and sounds of babies.
The visual satisfaction of ordering and decorating my home.
The softness of the pets that populated my life.
The sounds of time clocks, alarm clocks, and other alarms that reminded me that I was a grown up with grown up things happening in my world.

They found my mother unconscious on her sofa yesterday morning. Someone from the library went to her house to investigate when she didn't show up for work. She didn't regain consciousness until she was nearly halfway to the hospital in the ambulance.

What we know so far is that Mom's levels of Carbon Dioxide are dangerously high, and her blood oxygen levels are dangerously low. Those two factors caused her to lose consciousness. I don't have a lot more details to share. She's going to be fine. Well, she's going to be treated, anyway. She may never be completely "fine" again...but only time and test results will tell that.

The reason I share this story is because it illustrates the Season of Senses that I've been experiencing during my recent past; since my Dad got sick, actually.

The smell of hospitals; unique and never to be forgotten.
The sounds of rubber-soled shoes on the linoleum as doctors and nurses go about the business of their business.
The bells and whistles of monitors that alternately frighten and comfort those of us who watch them as if they hold our hope in their metallic boxes.
Softly playing Muzak that fools no one.
Lights when lights aren't welcome. Darkness when darkness is the enemy.
Whispers when we want to hear. Words, when we wish for deafness.
Loving arms that hug. Sympathetic hands that stroke paths of comfort. Professional hands that poke and prod. Folded hands that pray.
The taste of hospital food.
The taste of tears.
The taste of fear.

I'm ready for a change of seasons, my friends.

Madness Strikes

2005-02-21T18:00:00.000-05:00

Several of you have taken the time to compliment my new "digs." Thanks for your kind words. All credit goes to Seven at Blogs Gone Wild for taking my ideas, adding his special touch of genius, and creating a lovely new home for my stuff.

Things don't usually turn out this good when I decide to embark on some form of self improvement. While I bask in this little victory, I thought you might enjoy another glimpse into the oddity that is my life, and where a change I made did NOT work out quite so well.

Anyone who's ever lived with teenagers knows that it can be a bumpy road at times. There are often more disagreements, hurt feelings, and rebellion than moments of peace and tranquility. I think that's why those special bonding moments, when they happen, are even MORE special. When my oldest daughter was still in high school we shared such a Special Moment.

Kim worked part time at a local grocery store and one Monday night found her at the center of a swirl of juicy gossip. Apparently her crush on the bag boy had been discovered by a really miserable co-worker who then took great pleasure in telling the bag boy about Kim's crush. Having been so rudely "outed," Kim wasn't looking forward to her next shift at the market. When she got home after work early Tuesday evening there was a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth as she told me about the horrors of being the object of pity and speculation from her coworkers. After about an hour of watching her get more depressed, I thought a little distraction might be in order.

There's very little that can perk up a depressed teen like the possibility of their parent(s) doing something REALLY stupid. Aiming for that coveted Mother of the Year Award yet again, I felt it was my duty to provide such an opportunity for Kim. Taking courage, car keys, and daughter in hand, we left for the drug store. My brilliant plan involved me dying my hair, and letting Kim be an integral part of and witness to the potential disaster. My plan succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.

At the store, my dejected teen chose the color, which was labeled, innocently enough, "Mahogany." So far, so good. Our purchase completed, we scurried back home to the sanctuary of the bathroom and my transformation from mousy brown with glimmers of gray to a ravishing redhead began in earnest.

Mere seconds after applying the magic goop to my hair, we were both stunned to see that the gel was starting to turn...uh...purple. Trying not to panic, I pretended to be unconcerned and carried on with the job at hand. After the requisite 25 minutes it was time for the rinse cycle. Imagine my horror when the entire tub turned a lovely brick color! Being a "cup half full" person, I figured that if so much dye was making its way merrily down my drain I had little to fear, right? I mean, how much could possibly be left in my hair? Lots, as it turned out. By this time, Kim was having a ball. This promised to be one of her mother's best Stupid Moments, and she was thrilled with the possibilities!

The next step was the toweling off and the first glimpse in the mirror; then the swoon and screech of horror. With fingers trembling from the dawning realization of JUST how stupid I'd been, I took blow dryer in hand and turned it to the hottest setting. With one ballet-like move I turned and blasted the satisfied smirk right off Miss Kimberly's face! Feeling better after that piece of retribution was accomplished, I began to dry my hair and tried to come to grips with the fact that there was absolutely NOTHING subtle about the change I had just wrought. I was a brick-colored siren of the worst variety.

Have I mentioned that I'm a master of bravado? Well, I am. By the time Kim finished wiping away her tears of laughter I had already convinced myself that I was truly destined for life as a redhead. A BRIGHT red redhead. When Kim realized I wasn't going to collapse in humiliation there was no more fun involved for her so she took herself to the living room to allow me some time with my new look.

Now that my audience was gone, the full horror of my situation hit me. This was a Bad Thing...a Very Bad Thing...that I had done to myself. I had to find a way to fix it. Immediately. It was then that I realized that Kimberly and I, in blissful and complete ignorance, had used a permanent color rather than the temporary rinse I had planned on using. I was a flaming mahogany temptress. Unfortunately, all I was tempting people to do was laugh.

The only thing to do was call my hairdresser and beg her for her next available appointment. I made the call and found that I'd have to live as a redhead until Saturday. As I mentally calculated how many sick days I had left, I realized that hiding out in the bathroom wasn't an option.

Wednesday morning arrived much too early for my liking. With no other options, I boldly went where angels fear to tread - my office. I knew my coworkers would never be able to let this glorious transformation pass unnoticed or without comment! I was right.

I’ll spare you the most inane of the comments, but suffice it to say the gentlemen (and I use that term loosely), likened me to things like a walking carrot or a missing light bulb from the red light district, and the women simply hugged me and mumbled words of sympathy. I appreciated the support of my female friends. Funnily enough, I didn't share in the good humor or the men. Being the good sport that I am, though, I merely mentioned that I had a drawer full of rubber bands and knew how to deploy them for maximum profitability and infliction of pain. I suggested they either cease and desist, or toddle off to their homes and come back wearing cups!

Time waits for no woman, nor does shampooing five times a day help a great deal. My only hope was that my hairdresser would be able to somehow fix this mess and restore me to normalcy.

Saturday morning when I entered the salon, Rose, my stylist, worked some of her special magic and eventually turned me back into a brunette with some subtle red highlights. The ensuing cut and color left a huge dent in my checkbook, but I didn't care. With a solemn oath to Rose that I would never try to dye my hair myself again, I was off and the world was again a friendly place for me.

All things considered, it was a valuable lesson. I've decided to find the entire episode charming and a bit eccentric on my part. Not an altogether bad way to be, I think.

So there you have it, my friends; another experience under my belt, a brief moment of sacrificial love for my daughter, and entertainment value for everyone. Oh yeah, another amusing aspect to this story is that Kim later discovered that the color, "Mahogany", was one of Clairol's new shades in their African American line of colors! Ah, well. At least for a few days I was culturally relevant!

Sing, Sing a Song

2005-02-19T13:05:00.000-05:00

I love music, and I admire the tremendous talent that goes into writing and performing it. My taste is pretty eclectic. Country, classic rock, classical, swing, new age, folk - they all have a place in my heart. I recognize that my life would be much poorer without music in it.

Sometimes, though, I can't quite relate to the lyrics penned by song writers. Maybe I need more rum in my rum and coke. Well, anyway, I'd like to suggest a few changes to some of my favorite songs that will make them a bit more reflective of my life.

~~~~
Some people may be looking for fun and feeling groovy, but time takes its toll. For me it's more like:

Slow down, you move too fast.
I've go to make this new knee last.
I'm tripping down three flights of stairs.
Looking for meds and feeling woozy.

~~~~
I want to be Little Willie's mother. SHE knew what she was doing. That kid NEVER went home. Reality, for me, is closer to:

Spoiled oldest daughter won't...leave home.
No, you can't push her away; she just won't go.
Tried bitchin' and a moanin' but, oh no.
Spoiled oldest daughter won't...
(insert rhythmic pounding of head against wall three times here)
...Leave home.

~~~~
Some of you probably know my boss. Or at least have met some of his relatives. This is for those who sit in Mahogany Row and make life miserable for the rest of us:

Did you ever know that you're no hero?
You're everything I wish I could flee.
Yeah, you can crawl lower than a weasel.
And you are the lead tied to my feet.

~~~~
And then there are relationship songs. Romantic or tragic, they all find a home in our heart on occasion. But there are times when I stop and consider:

I see hearts on fire, lust burning too.
But you're not here, so what should I do?
And I think to myself, "I should have been gay."
"Damn," I sigh to myself, cause' I'm not made that way.

~~~~
You've got to love the songs that celebrate the bond between humans and their animal soul mates, right? I have four dogs and a one-eyed cat. They are my very own clowns. I send them out, but someone always let's them back in, darn it! Here's the truth of my cohabitation with pets:

I am not rich.
It isn't fair.
Dogs ate the sofa and chair.
Cat peed everywhere.
I want my home
In a state of repair.
Dear Lord, don't step THERE!

Okay, I think I made my point. Now I'm going to flesh these out a little more and send them off to Nashville. Maybe I have a shot at being a song writer. What do you think?

The Five Love Languages

2005-02-14T19:08:00.000-05:00

I find people fascinating. I enjoy talking to them; peeking into hearts and minds, celebrating what makes them so unique. We are such complex beings and there is so much to learn! One of my great loves is the study of personality types and related topics. Mix the study of personality with the mystery of love, and you've got fodder for some awesome ponderments. Since this is Valentine's Day, I'd like to share with you The Five Love Languages.

How many times do we hear about people not feeling loved by their partner, much to the partner’s surprise and frustration? According to Gary Chapman, author of "The Five Love Languages: How to Express Heartfelt Commitment to Your Mate" it is often the case that love is there and being expressed, but not in the "language" that the loved one understands. Each of us has a primary language of love - ways that we express love and things we see as expressions of love. If we can learn and use each other’s love language we can increase the quality in our relationships.

Dr. Chapman identifies these five love languages as:

Words of Affirmation. An unsolicited compliment, a kind word, and words of encouragement are very powerful. Mark Twain once said “I can live for two months on a good compliment.” If your love language is Words of Affirmation, you tell your partner how much you love him, or how handsome he looks to you, or how glad you are that you are with him, or how much you appreciate what he does for you. You express your love with words.

Quality Time. This means togetherness and personal connection, not just being physically nearby. You spend quality time with your partner when you are focused on each other and are not distracted by other activities. An intimate dinner, time to really listen to her talk about her feelings, a walk together holding hands--these are all examples of quality time.

Receiving Gifts. Those small, unexpected gifts may help your partner feel more loved by you. Flowers, a card which expresses love or a gift you give after returning from a business trip are examples of presents which express love. The message here is that the gift giver was thinking of you and wanted to let you know. Expense is not the main thing - it's the thought behind the gesture, behind the gift. A favorite treat picked up on the way home or a card for no reason sends a priceless message.

Acts of Service. These are the little things you do for your partner to show caring. Cooking his favorite meal, sewing a button on his shirt, having the oil changed in her car or bringing her a cup of coffee in the morning are examples of acts of service.

Physical Touch. This is not only about good sex, although it may be a part of it. Hugs, kisses, backrubs or other affectionate touching like brushing her shoulder as you pass her by are other examples of physical touch.

If you're interested, you can explore your Love Language by taking the quiz at the bottom of this website.

Whatever your preference in expressing and receiving love, I hope today gave you opportunities to celebrate the presence of love in your life. Happy Valentine's Day!

List Yourself

2005-02-07T09:24:00.000-05:00

About five years ago, a dear friend gave me a book titled, "List Yourself: Listmaking as the Way to Self-Discovery." It's a book with pages and pages of suggestions for creating lists that will then open the doors to deeper levels of self-discovery. The authors are Ilene Segalove and Paul Bob Velick. (Which makes me wonder why there's not a list topic in there for "List the reasons you gave your child two first names.")

Anyway, I thought it might be fun to try out one of the lists here, so today's list is, "List all the experiences that give you goosebumps." In no particular order:

Medal ceremonies at the Olympics
Changing of the guard at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier
Walking in the battlefields of Gettysburg
The Hallelujah Chorus - standing for it, singing it
A 21-gun salute
Hearing Taps, Reveille, and Pomp and Circumstances
Viewing the aftermath of destruction - natural or manmade
Walking down a dark alley alone
Dogs barking in the dead of night for no apparent reason
Hitting my funny bone
Seeing dead animals on the road
Exquisite beauty portrayed in images or words
Fingernails on a chalkboard
Recalling close calls, whether physical, emotional, or spiritual
Thinking about something good, or bad, happening to my daughters
Having my back scratched
Having my hair brushed
Butterfly kisses on my skin
Whispered words of love and passion
Sensing evil
Sensing goodness or holiness
Acts of patriotism or other types of heroism
Seeing the "impossible" made possible

What are the things that touch you so deeply, whether for good or bad, that they bring goosebumps? What are the emotions behind those feelings? For me it's often fear, awe, a memory reawakened, or simply a physical reaction.

You know, I'd hate to live without goosebump moments. Even the bad ones. They remind me that I'm alive. That I'm capable of feeling. That the world is still a mysterious place with lots of things to discover.

I hope you enjoy a few goosebump moments today. :-)

The Power of Numbers

2005-01-30T11:23:00.000-05:00

I woke up this morning and did what I usually do in the morning, checked my blog for any activity. The first thing I noticed was that my visitor counter was missing! I was horrified, baffled, and a little panicked. What happened to it? How could I get it back? I eventually calmed down enough to notice that my distress was way out of proportion to the situation. Analyzing my reaction, I realized I was feeling almost a sense of loss. I knew I could replace the counter, but when it went *poof* it took all my site stats with it. I didn't like that fact one little bit.

And that made me stop and ponder.

Why was that little counter so important to me? I'll tell you why. It was important because it was one of the measuring sticks I used to reassure myself that people both in and out of the blogging community thought I had something to offer. It affirmed that I was contributing something. It made me feel good about myself, my writing, and my ability to entertain. That's a lot of responsibility for one little site counter, isn't it?

And it's a telling insight into my personality. I needed those numbers. I needed the comfort they gave. Every time those magical numbers registered another visitor I felt a small thrill of renewed confidence in myself. That's powerful stuff. But it also seemed a little sad when I thought about it. To be so caught up in a number feels so shallow, somehow. I don't think I'm alone in this one, though, am I? The fact that they MAKE such counters indicates that others use the same sort of measuring stick.

We have so many ways to judge ourselves, don't we? The power of numbers to affirm or condemn is amazing to me. Life is not lived on a rating scale, but it surely seems we embrace that type of thinking more often than not.

When a baby is born it is examined and labeled with an APGAR score that quantifies the baby's overall health. I remember feeling an absurd pleasure when my daughters were declared 10's on their APGAR. I did something right. I produced a healthy baby. Yea me. The power of numbers begins that early.

As we grow and mature we often remain captives to this same power of numbers. Think about it.

Test scores shape how we, and others, view our intellectual capacity. IQ tests results are so powerful in their ability to affirm or destroy that many schools won't disclose them to the student or parents of the student tested.
How many Valentine's Day cards did Jimmy get? How many roses came in the bouquet Steve gave Sharon? How many minutes did Jane spend composing that love sonnet for Jeremy? How many dates have you had in the past three months, Carla? Or even...How many visits did you make to your ailing grandmother, Karen? How often did you tell your daughters you love them this week? How often did you let that someone special know you were thinking of them? We measure our romantic and relational worth by numbers.
What cup size are you, ladies? Or what is your cup size, for that matter, men? How many pounds can you lift? How many miles can you run? What size are the jeans you put on every day, folks? What does the scale tell you when you step on it in the morning? We measure our physical desirability and fitness, or lack thereof, based on the power of numbers.
How many bank accounts do you have? How many cars? How big is your diamond? How many credentials can you tack on the end of your name? How many awards have you received? How many promotions? We often measure our level of success based on the power of numbers.
How many books do you own? How many music CDs? How many pets? Pairs of shoes? Children? Friends? Lovers? We amass people and things, and the more we have, the better we feel about ourselves. All because of the power of numbers.

Are we really so shallow? No, I don't think we are. We're human. And being human, we crave proof of our worth. Only the very confident can easily ignore the power of numbers to affirm or condemn. At some time, in some area, most of us fall prey to needing outward measurements to reassure us. And sometimes we use the power of numbers for the purpose of self-condemnation. And therein lies the danger.

The truth of who we are can't be quantified so easily or cheaply. And it shouldn't be. Not by others, and not by ourselves. We're complex, astounding works in progress.

I'd like to tell you that I'm not going to reinstall my visitor counter. I really would. But I'm one of those works in progress, too. But maybe someday I'll get there. One step at a time. One scary step at a time.

The power of the numbers. Amazing.

Pathways Beyond

2005-01-25T11:39:00.000-05:00

Before Dad got sick, I was a volunteer grief counselor for our local Hospice organization. I also served on their Care Team, a group of volunteers who sit with actively dying people when family and friends can't be there. The things I learned about the human spirit, and the experiences I had while working within the Hospice community changed me profoundly. Some day I'll share my stories with you, if you're interested. I'm so grateful that I had a chance to learn that death is something that can be surrounded by love, dignity, grace, and peace.

I will eventually go back to my volunteer work, but it's only been six months since my Dad's death. I'm still experiencing my own grieving process. I need some time to heal. But I WILL go back, because I can think of almost no higher calling in my life than serving those who are facing the final part of their earthly journey and the loved ones they will leave behind.

Anyway, the Hospice organization that I work with publishes a monthly newsletter called Pathways for Grief and Loss. In this month's issue there is a lovely poem that I'd like to share. The author is unknown, but as you can see, not unknowing.

We trust that beyond absence
there is a presence.

That beyond the pain
there can be healing.

That beyond the brokenness
there can be wholeness.

That beyond the hurting
there may be forgiveness.

That beyond silence
there may be a word.

That beyond the word
there may be understanding.

That through understanding
there is love.

Beautiful, isn't it? And so hopeful. All things in time. All things in time.

If you or someone you know is experiencing a season of grief and loss, whether for a loved one, a circumstance, a dream; any type of loss is a loss, please share this poem with them if you feel it's appropriate.

Introducing Miss Cranky Pants

2005-01-24T15:13:00.000-05:00

No, I'm not suffering from PMS. THAT would be too easy! Pop a couple of Midol you're back in happy land. No, it's not PMS I'm struggling with. I'm struggling with LIFE! And life is winning. I'm not equipped. I'm not prepared. I'm not old enough for this stuff. Let me share some of the reasons that life and I are finding ourselves incompatible right now.

I came home from a long, hard day at work. All I wanted was the sanctuary of my home and some affection from any of the creatures that live here. What I found was a catastrophe of amazing proportion. My daughter's seven month old puppy, Jag, was sitting in the midst of what looked like an exploded snow globe. He was happily gnawing on some foam rubber - foam rubber that was supposed to be filling the arm of my sofa! It seems that Jag found a pin-prick sized hole in the arm of the chair and decided to try digging to China. Foam covered the entire length and width of my living room. The arm of my sofa is now stuffed with a towel and the fabric has been seamed and stapled to the frame of the sofa with a staple gun. It's my fault, I'm sure. I have trust issues. I trusted that my daughter would be responsible enough to crate Jag before she went to work. And I trusted that I didn't need to say to Jag, "Don't eat Grandma's sofa today, Baby." I should have known. Life 1. Karen 0.

It's been terribly dry and cold around here lately. Battling static cling has become an obsession for me. I'm afraid to touch anything metal, or kiss anyone ANYWERE. It's gotten downright dangerous! Today when I got up from my desk, my skirt decided not to come along for the ride. As I yanked it free from its electric grip on the fabric of my chair I actually saw sparks fly. It was time to hit the bathroom and douse myself with Static Guard spray. I grabbed the spray can and started the process of grounding myself, so to speak. Imagine my surprise when I saw that my skirt was foaming! Trying to figure out the mystery, I checked the can I was holding. It was Right Guard antiperspirant. It takes a special kind of stupid to confuse deodorant and static cling spray. Meet Karen, a Special Kind of Stupid. Life 2. Karen 0

I plucked my eyebrows the other night. I plucked them while I had one eye on a movie I was watching in my semi-dark living room. And, of course, you can't pluck your eyebrows while wearing glasses, right? When the movie was finished I took my tools of torture into the bathroom to put them away and examined my handiwork. I looked like Mr. Spock. But not as cute. I now have wings instead of eyebrows. I don't think it's a look that's going to catch on. Life 3. Karen 0

The battle with life was getting to me, and I decided I needed an extra boost of self confidence. The other day I decided to wear makeup to work, not something I usually do. I worked hard to get the "right" look; something tasteful and flattering; mostly, I wanted to avoid looking clownish or as if I'd survived a bout in the ring with a pro boxer. I have to tell you, I was pretty impressed with the results. And it really did boost my confidence. When I got to the office my boss wanted to talk to me. We went over some business for a few minutes, and I kept hoping for some comment about my newly-enhanced look. I wasn't disappointed. As he followed me out of the office he said, "I like your new hair style, Karen." I got my "new" hairstyle two weeks ago, my friends. It requires no work. I wash it and walk out of the bathroom. No effort. The make up thing? Thirty minutes. Thirty freaking minutes. Life 4. Karen 0

I don't have call waiting activated on my cell phone because I don't know how to switch from one call to another. I've sent so many calls into the communication abyss that Nokia is going to feature me on their FAQ page. Similarly, I don't know how to use my daughter's DVD player. If I want to watch a DVD and she's not home to do the dirty work, I pop the movie into my computer. We got a new microwave from our second daughter for Christmas. It scares me. There are too many buttons and too many options. I've started using the stove again. I recently had voice mail installed on my home phone line because I ran out of space on my answering machine tape and didn't know how to erase it. But I can't access my voice mail yet because I lost the access code number and I'm too embarrassed to call the help desk one more time. Groucho Marx said, "A child of five would understand this. Send somebody to fetch a child of five." Amen Brother. Amen. Life 5. Karen 0

Until next time, this is Miss Cranky Pants signing off. Be careful out there, my friends.

Confessions of a Feared Cult Leader

2005-01-19T13:47:00.000-05:00

The other day I spent some time at one of several internet personality quiz sites. It was an enlightening experience, and I feel more whole and complete now that I've participated in this type of self-analysis. Truly! I do! Absolutely.

If you do a Google search on the words "personality quiz sites" you'll find about 342,000 possible sites offered for your browsing pleasure! I've probably been to most of them. I'm hooked because it's cheaper than therapy and with just a few "clicks" of my mouse I can learn about myself and my life. With a few MORE clicks, I can change the results until I find the personality I WANT to have. How cool is that?

I have a theory about why there's such a plethora of these sites, and why they're so popular. Several theories, in fact.

-People are bored.
-People are curious.
-People want explanations, confirmation, justification, or absolution for their own perceived quirks, or the quirks of others.

Think about it! How can you refute a test that tells you with complete scientific authority that by earning a score 60% you most closely resemble Pooh Bear of all the denizens of the Hundred Acre Woods?

When things aren't going well in a relationship, isn't it comforting to find that it's not YOU who has/is the problem? I mean, how on earth can you hope to coexist in peace and harmony with someone whose color personality is "Puce", while yours is a lovely and sedate "Goldenrod"? You don't have to be the sharpest crayon in the box to see that this relationship isn't going to work. Clearly, the only thing to do in a case like this is find yourself a "Pomegranate" and fulfill your destiny.

And we don't need to talk about the futility of trying to defend your "Buick" personality to your "Camero" coworker. Everyone knows a Camero is simply incapable of any thought that requires more depth than a parking lot puddle after a gentle spring misting. The Camero is all flash. You're all wheel drive.

Here's a summary of the things I've learned about myself:

I'm a monkey.
I'm an average internet user.
I'm Pooh Bear.
I'm the color Burnt Sienna.
I'm a VW Bug.
I'm a Leo who should be with a Sagittarius in order to feel complete.
I'm a piece of cheesecake with strawberry topping.
I'm a green M & M.
I'm sensible shoes and flannel.
I'm an ENFP.

The most disturbing of my self discoveries, though, has to do with my past lives. According to one quiz I took, I was a feared cult leader in a past life. According to another, I was a nun. I'm a believer, I swear! But that seems like a huge disparity to me. Hey! Wait! Perhaps I was the nun AFTER I was the feared cult leader so that I could have a chance to do penance for my evil cult leader ways! That must be it. Yeah.

You know what really fries me, though? What really puts the harumph in my heart? In NONE of my tests did I find confirmation that I'm a sexy, alluring, femme fatal sort of woman. No matter how many times I changed my answers, I couldn't make that one work out. I'm the Dorm Mom/Librarian type with enough inhibitions to keep me chaste well into my next 7 or 8 lives. I guess there are worse things, right? RIGHT? *sigh* Maybe in my next life, huh?

Go take a test and report back to me, will you? ;-)

Making Tapioca and Other Divine Callings

2005-01-13T16:16:00.000-05:00

Ambition can be a wonderful thing. Or so I’ve been told. My ambitions are rather modest, and no one will ever be able to accuse me of being driven. For the most part, I’m content to go through life trying to do more good than harm. That can be a full time job some days. I’m not much of a goal setter, either. When I lay down to sleep at the end of the day, I count it a good day if I…

…Kept a toe in the waters of reality AND kept wedgies to a minimum by wearing undies that fit my fanny, rather than my fantasies.

…Practiced critical thinking skills by remembering my name, where I parked the car, and how to spell Pennsylvania.

…Evidenced proper levels of self care by managing to get more food into my mouth than into my bra.

…Displayed physical acuity and attention to detail by making it through the backyard with mud on my shoes, as opposed to dirt of another sort compliments of our four dogs.

…Remembered to be grateful for laughter, and in return helped someone else to laugh.

I’ve been thinking Big Thoughts about this sort of thing for quite a while now. I’ve decided I believe that there can be worth in any ambition, goal, or action regardless of the perceived size, expense, or heroics involved. To a person aching with loneliness, a touch or kind word from a compassionate soul can be as life giving as an organ transplant performed by a gifted surgeon. Bigger, with all it’s subtle and not so subtle shades of meaning, is not always better. Sometimes it’s just bigger.

We all have the stuff of heroes within us, because we all have something to give; something to offer that someone else needs; Divine Callings, if you will. Sometimes we don’t recognize them in ourselves, but others do. Be sure of that.

It’s really kind of awesome, if you think about it. And a little scary. And a lot humbling. Regardless of our ambitions, almost nothing we do or say goes out from us and returns without somehow touching someone else. Our pebbles ripple the waters of other people’s lives. If you find that a little hard to believe, consider the story of The Tapioca Maker.

Toward the end of my Dad’s life, it was obvious that the cancer was winning. It was eating away at his body, dignity, and spirit. Dad didn’t go quietly into that good night. He wasn’t the sort of patient that inspires others by their strength and equanimity in the face of adversity. I loved him so much. I loved him enough to honor the man that we was without feeling the need to make excuses for him. Dad was angry, impatient, and not ready, even at the last, to accept the painful truth that he was going to die. There was very little any of us could do to ease his pain, soothe his moods, or help him find peace.

It’s incredibly hard to watch someone you love slip away from you. The helplessness is sometimes unendurable. You want to go, do, mend, fix. Anything you can do to feel like you’re contributing to your loved ones care feels like a small miracle, and you search for ways to serve. There’s no request too big, no sacrifice too demanding. You’ll do WHATEVER you have to do, because you love.

Dad eventually lost his appetite for most foods. That was a very scary thing for us, because Dad has always loved food; all sorts of foods. Food had been one of his greatest pleasures. But eating became something we forced him to do because his body needed the nourishment and because it made US feel better to see him eat.

One day Dad had a craving for tapioca pudding. REAL tapioca pudding. And what Dad wanted, Dad got. The next day when I arrived at the hospital, it was with tapioca in hand. Dad was only able to eat a few spoonfuls at a time, but he ate it. And he smiled. He once again found some enjoyment in food, and for a moment, in life. And I helped make it happen. That felt so damn good. I can’t begin to explain it to you. I wish I could.

The next day I went back to the deli where I bought the tapioca, and I bought some more. When the clerk was ringing up my order, I asked him if they made the tapioca on the premises. Yes, he said, they did. I told the clerk about how much Dad had enjoyed the pudding, and asked that he pass my thanks on to the person who made it. As I told him the story, I encouraged him to see his role as one of the ripples that helped to make a dying man happy. He looked at me like I was a little odd, but I didn’t mind. Some things you just have to “get” on your own.

Making tapioca isn’t brain surgery. But for a lot of us involved with Dad's care, it certainly felt like a Divine Calling. I hope the clerk took the time to tell the Tapioca Maker what a difference his calling made. And I hope someone tells you, too. If you have a list of ambitions, I hope you’ll add to it the ambition to search for and recognize your own Divine Calling. Because you have one. We all do.

Internet Chat - The Land of Beginning Again

2005-01-10T19:38:00.000-05:00

If all the world’s a stage, as the good Bard would have us believe, then Internet Chat is the Broadway of cyber space! Anyone waddling through the World Wide Web will find an amazing variety of chat experiences as close as their next keystroke. At a conservative guess, I’d estimate that tens of thousands of people log into a chat room somewhere on a daily basis.

Like weary disciples seeking enlightenment, chatters come seeking a variety of things: escape from reality or boredom, meeting new friends, a chance to find Mr. or Ms. Right, and several less honorable motives that I don’t need to enumerate here. The needs are as varied as the people who frequent chat. I’m sure there’s probably some over-endowed institution somewhere that’s come up with a typical “Chatter’s Profile,” but as in the “real world,” labels often fall short of the whole truth.

I’d like to share my observations about the chatting experience, if I may.

PERFORMANCE ANXIETY - The Bar is Raised

Yahoo Chat, my chat preference, has some wonderful features, all designed to put unbelievable pressure on chatters! There are custom color schemes, custom fonts, custom emotions, and voice chat. I can’t coordinate my home as well as I can coordinate my chat experience!

Please! Ask me to defend the 1st Amendment to the Constitution! Ask me to debate the abortion issue or gay rights! For the love of God, you can even ask me to cook! But, please, PLEASE, don’t ask me to choose a new chat scheme. I can’t take the pressure anymore. Performance anxiety has raised my blood pressure, undercut my self confidence and driven me to drink; which, now that I think about it, isn’t such a bad idea when chatting.

And then there is the screen name.

SCREEN NAMES - A Rose by Any Other Name

A rose by any other name . . . is probably an incredibly ordinary person hiding behind a hot alias! Okay, that may be overly cynical, but not by much. Choosing a screen name is the first test of a chatter’s creativity. This process is not one to be taken lightly! Chat names are the first vehicle by which we reveal ourselves to others and can be very insightful. Sometimes you may not WANT that much insight, though, as was the case the other night when I ran into a man whose screen name was “Sheeppluggert." Can we all say "Ewwww" together? Screen names run the gamut from the sublime to the ridiculous. I’ve started jotting down those I find particularly amusing or creative. Here are just a few:

pie_r_not_square_22222
omggetmeoutofhere
ivana_b_rich_20
wasntmeitwasthedog
miss_spent_youth_2000
wife_and_dog_lost_reward4dog
WastinWorkTime
tinydick_lookin_4_farsighted_f
Rapt_Presence
lackofabettername

Aren’t they great?

Many people feel the need for more than one screen name. We are, after all, complicated creatures not willing to be boxed in by a name like “LostintheUniverse.” Depending on his current frame of mind, for instance, “Lost” may very well have an evening when “stud_in_thong_4U” is more appropriate. Freedom to express ones self is a trademark of chat.

After choosing a name, one is encouraged to provide a public profile. Like screen names, the public profile is another peek into the psyche of your fellow chatters . . . or not. See what you think.

PUBLIC PROFILES - I’ll Take What’s Behind Door Number 5, Monty.

So you want to be a rocket scientist? You have a mole that looks like Idaho? Men in black lace and heels turn you on? Put it in your profile! Each profile page invites you to reveal tantalizing glimpses into your world. A profile is a veritable wonderland of information. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, most people fill it with FALSE information. Think about it. What’s more appealing?

Name: Eugene Snodbottom
Age: 67
Location: Trailer Park Lot #43, Beaver Lick, KY
Occupation: Laundry attendant at Baby’s Diaper Service
Marital Status: Single and destined to stay that way
Hobbies: Making figurines from ear wax
Quote: “See Spot run. Spot runs fast. Run, Spot. Run”
Picture: Snappy shot of Eugene with his latest deer trophy hanging from a tree.
Favorite Links: HealthWatch.com: Living with Hemorrhoids

OR

Name: Slate Garcon
Age: 35
Location: Paris, France
Occupation: Entrepreneur
Marital Status: Single and looking
Hobbies: Wine tasting and updating my stock portfolio
Quote: “At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.” Plato
Picture: A tanned hard-body holding a glass of wine, wearing little more
than a seductive smile, and standing on the deck of a yacht.
Favorite Links: Tiffanys.com

Voila! With a few deft keystrokes, Eugene becomes the envy of every man and the desire of every woman. Frankly, people will believe anything if their reality is bad enough. One is left to wonder why these people have not been snapped up as great fiction writers by talent scouts from Harlequin Romance.

You’ve got your name and your profile is complete. Now you need to find a chat room!

CHAT ROOMS - Someone Toss Me a Map

Chat rooms are like a community. There are categories and subcategories. Would you like to chat with people in your geographical region? How about in your age group? Perhaps you’d like to mingle with others who share your passion for turn of the century Chinese urn collecting? If you can dream it, there’s a chat room for it.

You can join a chat room in a number of ways. The most common is to simply select the room that sounds like it will best meet your needs and join in. You can also be invited to join someone else’s room, public or private. Be suspicious if someone you’ve never met invites you to join them in a room called “The Riding Crop,” though. Room names can be just as misleading as screen names. Chances are about 50/50 that The Riding Crop has NOTHING whatsoever to do with equestrian pursuits.

Finally, you’ve found a room that caters to your needs. You can’t suppress the delighted shiver that snakes down your spine when you realize there are other people in the world who share your love for collecting velvet Elvis portraits. There’s only one thing to do. Let’s chat!

CHATTING - "Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears!”

Learning to chat effectively is not as easy as you might imagine. A chatter wants to communicate in a way that presents the best image and most closely mimics a “real” conversation. That can be quite a challenge. Without clues like facial expression and vocal tone everything depends on the written words and how they are enhanced. As mentioned earlier, being skilled in fiction writing also helps. And reading between the lines is a must. Actually, chatting is not dissimilar to reading an ad in the classifieds. Let me demonstrate.

FREE TO GOOD HOME - female AKC German Shepherd, 2yrs old, neutered, good with children.

TRANSLATION:

Free to good home: We can’t deal with the problem, but we’re hoping you’re stupid enough to try.
Female, AKC and German Shepherd: Territorial, neurotic and hairy police-dog-wanna-be.
Two years old: Personality is established, as is drinking from the toilet and gnawing on the mail carrier.
Neutered: The vet promised the operation would make her more amenable. He lied.
Good with Children: Hasn’t actually eaten a child...yet.

Now apply the same discernment in the chat room and you have:

HOWDY! I’M KALFROMPA. 39/F/PA. I’m married with two daughters, ages 15 and 18. I’m a Project Assistant and I like to read, play the piano and chat with friends.

TRANSLATION:

Howdy: Trying desperately to sound friendly and inviting. I want to be a cowgirl when I grow up.
Kalfrompa: I have no imagination and this was the best I could do. Pity me.
39/F/PA: I’m a female having a mid-life crisis, and I live in a state where all things Amish as sacred.
I’m married: But am I happily married? Would I be here if I were? Reference aforementioned mid-life crisis and make me an offer.
Two teenage daughters, 15 and 18: My mind is mush, my bank account is depleted and I’m two days away from institutional life.
Project Assistant: Glorified secretary. I can’t face the reality of my dead end job and living the rest of my professional life waiting for “causal days” or warding off paper cuts and carpal tunnel syndrome.
Read, play the piano, chat with friends: I want to appear intelligent and talented, but the only enjoyable interaction I have with people is in chat.

The adage “Buyer Beware” is at least as applicable in chat as it is in commerce. Perhaps more so.

CUSTOM EMOTIONS - Bubble, Bubble, Toil and Trouble . . . I’ve Got Writer’s Block!

Nothing enlivens the chat experience quite like the use of “emotions”. Yahoo Chat offers a variety of pre-programmed phrases, or macros, that are used as shortcuts to typing and are called, for no apparent reason, "emotions." One click of the mouse posts a message like, “Kalfrompa waves to the room,” or “Kalfrompa hiccups and searches for a glass of water.”

The best test of creativity, however, is the custom emotion. These are phrases the chatter writes himself. Custom emotions become a showcase of inspiring offerings or amusing witticisms from people who normally have the emotional depth of a parking lot puddle. Given half a chance, chatters blossom into poet laureates before your very eyes! Or stand up comedians. Or saucy flirts. Or pigs. It’s a matter of taste, I suppose, but honestly! When custom emotions meet up with raging hormones, chat rooms afford one the opportunity to indulge in a sort of cyber voyeurism that would make a sailor blush.

VOICE CHATTING - Whaddya Say Schweethart

Finally, no discussion on chatting would be complete without visiting the topic of voice chatting. I’ll admit it. I don’t like change. Voice chat is a change I didn’t embrace at first. It is, however, becoming very popular with many chatters. Grab a microphone, click on a button and you can find yourself (gasp) talking to fellow chatters.

While there are some advantages to voice chatting, it must also be said that it rips away the veil and forces us to confront reality. I just hate that!

Imagine if you will: You’ve been chatting for quite some time with a fantastic man named “Rebel_Heart.” Mutual interest is running high. His profile looks believable enough to encourage further investigation. Soon you find yourself imagining what he looks like, what he sounds like. Personal preference and a vivid imagination combine to attribute a deep bass voice with a husky southern accent to this Rebel.

Then it happens. He invites you into a PM. You accept, your pulse pounding, your heart thudding in your chest in anticipation. After more small talk, he pops the question with a studied nonchalance that doesn’t fool anyone, “Wanna voice, Wings_to_Fly?” You can almost hear the husky invitation and imagine a sexy little wink. With trembling hands you clutch your microphone and join him in voice chat.

But wait! How can this be, you wail silently to yourself? CRASH! That’s the sound of your fantasy crumbling about you as you come to terms with the fact that your bass-voiced, southern-accented Rebel sounds remarkably like Kermit the Frog.

Shallow? Of course. Am I consumed with remorse for being shallow? Never. Which brings me to my final point.

INTERNET CHAT . . . The Land of Beginning Again

However vehemently chatters want to convince themselves otherwise, chat is the place where dreams take flight. It’s the Land of Beginning Again where a person can completely reinvent themselves and their circumstances. It is a place to indulge in fantasy and escape. And what’s wrong with that? Heaven knows we all have to face reality on a daily basis. For many people, reality is not a pretty place.

Kept in perspective, chatting can be a grand thing. Truly, chatters are among some of the most fascinating people I’ve ever met. I’ve been in chat rooms where I’ve laughed so hard that tears have come. And I’ve been in chat rooms where I’ve been humbled and touched beyond measure by the stories I’ve heard. I’ve seen people reach out to others out of their own pain, and I’ve seen life celebrated with enthusiasm. I’ve been taught by others, and I’ve had the chance to teach others. I’ve seen real and committed relationships form in chat rooms between people who need each other desperately, but may never meet outside that realm. Does that make them any less valid? I don’t think so.

Chat is a classroom for any student of human nature. Yes, there are less than pristine aspects to chatting and chatters. In that way, chat mirrors real life. Chat does have an ugly side. There are stalkers in chat that are as dangerous as their real-world counterparts. There are people who chat with motives that are less than noble. Some chatters are so lonely and unhappy with their lives that they form unhealthy attachments to fellow chatters and become almost parasitic. Chatting can be addictive, and it can give such a sense of false comfort that people stop trying to address their very real personal challenges.

All that having been said, and with the acknowledgment that the autonomy of chat does allow for deception, it must also be said that the relative safety of chat allows for some of the most amazing disclosures I’ve ever witnessed. People need to connect with other people. Chat answers that need in a unique way. When all is said and done, chatters are simply people; they come in every color, size and disposition and from every locale. Some come to chat whole and some broken, but they do indeed come.

One night I hosted a private room with several women and we were having a great time. Only a few of us knew each other prior to that evening. The laughter was contagious and spirits were high. For that place in time, we allowed ourselves to be silly and fun and a little wild. One of the most lively and entertaining members of the group said her goodbyes and then sent me a private message. We had never met before, and she wanted to thank me for welcoming her into the moment and helping her laugh. She went on to share that only that morning her daughter had been diagnosed with a brain tumor. For a while, at least, that woman’s greatest need had been for distraction and escape. She found that in a chat room filled with strangers.

Will I keep chatting? You bet. Will I continue to poke fun at myself and my fellow chatters? Probably. After all, all the world’s a stage...and I’ve always wanted to be an entertainer.

Trivia Bricks Defined and Submitted

2005-01-07T10:37:00.000-05:00

Trivia bricks are pieces of personal information one reveals to others. A trivia brick, in its most noble form, is meant to encourage a similar sharing of trivia bricks from others. You give one to get one. This exchange then leads to mutual entertainment, enlightenment, and perhaps even blackmail material.

Okay, okay. What a trivia brick is REALLY supposed to do is help build a foundation upon which a relationship can grow. That's the intent. To be known and to know; vital steps in the relationship dance.

However...

Some people hurl their trivia bricks haphazardly, with little regard to those in harms way. The bricks from people like this are usually a little scary and are put out there to make a statement, or for their shock value. They prostitute the whole cause of exchanging trivia bricks because they are not intended to build anything (except maybe to build a legal case against the hurler at some point in the future). These "are in your face bricks." A perfect example would be when the person in front of you in the grocery check out line turns to you and says, "I like my men the way I like my turkey. Cold, hard, and trussed up with rope." If you're smart, you'll note the hurlers license plate number as you run to the safety of your car.

Other people toss their trivia bricks out there gently, almost apologetically, hoping for a nibble of interest, but not completely willing to risk it. Their bricks are more like trivia nerfs. If they graze someone on the head, they don't leave a mark. These poor souls are afraid to "burden" others with their information. They've been crushed once too often by someone wearing a tee shirt that says, "How can I miss you if you won't go away?" A typical example of this type of bricking might be, "I love puppies. They're so soft and cuddly. Kittens, too." This person is NOT a risk taker. The most appropriate response is to pat the person on the head and say something like, "You have a good heart."

Then there are the people who realize the true potential of handing out trivia bricks responsibly and with a certain degree of panache and self confidence. In their hands, a trivia brick can be entertaining, maybe a little disturbing (but not in a she/he-should-be-in-incarcerated sort of way), and truly relationship building in nature.

Modesty won't permit me to categorize my own style of trivia brick dissemination. You'll have to decide for yourself. I will tell you, however, that each brick is true and usually has a very logical explanation behind it. Honest.

I once had sex with a bird. Wait. It would be more accurate to say I once unwittingly provided a moment or two of carnal pleasure for a female cockatoo named Allie. There's blog entry about it somewhere here if you want the details. (See "A Bird in Hand - Is a Happy Bird, It Seems", October archive.) Allie no longer lives here, by the way. She kept looking at me with those hope-filled blue eyes afterwards, and I couldn't take the guilt.
Some of my closest friends call me Moses because I once (again unwittingly) set my crotch on fire. It wasn't one of my finer moments. I thought the "pffffffffttttt" sound meant the cigarette had reached the water of the toilet bowl. It hadn't. It reached SOMEWHERE, but not the water. I no longer smoke, but I DO keep a fire extinguisher in the bathroom cabinet. It was JUST that bad.
I don't cook. I once had to call my mother (at the age of 40) and ask her how you can tell when a hot dog was done cooking. After she explain the phenomenon of "plumping" to no avail, she told me to get in the car and drive to McDonald's. I did. May Ronald's reign never cease.
When I drink, I think I can sing. Most of the time I test that theory in my favorite chat room using the mic. People there like me, so they humor me. In other words, they lie. That's one reason I will never go to a Karaoke bar. Those people are strangers. They won't lie.
I will do whatever it takes to avoid eating asparagus. I don't like its shape, color, or texture. It's looks like a pointy object used for torture, or at the very least something to help perk up lonely, sex-starved housewives. No thank you.
I rock. Not in the sense that I'm cool. In the literal sense. When I sit, I rock. From the waist up, I move back and forth rhythmically. I'm not autistic. I don't have a repressed need for comfort. My mother didn't drop me on my head as an infant. It just feels good. It's soothing. I've done it since I was a little child. I rocked at my desk at school and rock at my desk at work. I rock in the car while driving. I rock in the computer chair while typing (you type on the forward swing). And I rock in the church pews. Funnily enough, rocking in a rocking chair makes me motion sick. Go figure.
I am geographically challenged. I only found out a few years ago that Pennsylvania (where I live) is bordered by New York. I don't know North, South, East, and West. I know Up, Down, Right, and Left. I can't be Catholic, because I can't figure out the correct way to make the sign of the cross. If someone asks me to name the seven (there are seven, right?) continents, I have to first try and figure out the difference between a country and a continent. It's just an ugly truth about me. I'm sorry.
I hate housework. HATE it. I've been known to be late for work because I've forgotten to do laundry and had to hand wash and then dry a pair of panties using a blow dryer. I think the vacuum cleaner is a tool of Satan and refuse to have anything to do with it. I think coaxing the dog to swish his tail across the coffee table is a perfectly acceptable alternative to dusting. If my automatic toilet bowl cleaner ever stops working, I'm screwed.
I've been known to use air freshener as perfume when I've forgotten to scent myself before leaving for work. You'd be amazed at how many people love my swanky French perfume, Potpourri a la Glade.
I'm a little lackadaisical in my approach to exercise. I'd rather jump to conclusions than a rope. I think walking the dog should qualify as an Olympic event. Lunges should only be attempted when chocolate is in danger of hitting the floor and you're too far away to catch it with your tongue. Changing the toilet paper on the spindle can wipe me out of energy for a good two hours. My motto (which I stole from some teeshirt somewhere) is "Eat right, Exercise, Die Anyway." I'm also fond of "No pain, no pain."

There you have it, folks. Some of my most cherished "stuff" put right out there for your judgment. Please be kind. ;-) Oh, and feel free to share some of your own bricks. It's a little intimidating being out on this limb all by myself.

A Watched Pot

2005-01-05T16:11:00.000-05:00

One of the things I never anticipated about having a blog is the self-imposed pressure that it can bring to feel like I have to find something thought provoking or entertaining to say. It occurred to me today, as I was gnawing my fingernails down to nubs from the anxiety of it all, that there are JUST some things that can't be forced. Perhaps filling the pages of my blog is one of those things.

Following that train of thought led me to another ponderment; what OTHER things can't be forced with much hope of success? How many times do we think that simply by force of will, force of muscle, or force of expectations we can MAKE something happen? Sometimes we can bully, cajole, or plead enough. Sometimes we can fight hard enough, try hard enough, believe stongly enough, that we can make our desired outcomes happen. Sometimes we can.

And sometimes we can't.

I'm sure some of you have heard the ideology, "Name it. Claim it." You'll most often hear that assurance used within Christian circles. Yes, you too, my child, can make every prayer come true if you simply have enough faith, enough prayer, enough pure motives, enough good works, enough money to give to the televangelist du jour. The Good Book says it. Our job is simply to pull ourselves up by our faith bootstraps and BELIEVE it. Mountains will move. Lepers will be healed. The national debt will disappear. And sometimes it works.

And sometimes it doesn't.

And when it doesn't, who is to blame? The faithless one who didn't believe strongly enough to name it and claim it. The disciple with feet of clay who JUST couldn't get it right ENOUGH.

Then there's the "Act it until you feel it" admonition. Unhappy? Depressed with life and love and various other details that crop up to snag you when you least expect them? Well, hecky thump! Easily enough fixed! ACT like you're enthusiastic and soon you'll FEEL enthusiastic. Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and march on, little soldier. Pretty soon the drummer you're marching to will be beating a jig tempo and you'll feel like dancing again. Dust off your rose colored glasses, Pollyanna, and plop them on your face. Soon your tears will turn to diamonds and life will be grand again. And sometimes it works.

And sometimes it doesn't.

And when it doesn't, who failed?

Truly, I'm not being as pessimistic as I sound. I believe with all my heart that "God is not dead, nor does he sleep." I still believe in miracles. I believe that circumstances CAN sometimes be changed by changing attitudes, expectations, perceptions, etc. But not always.

Facts are facts. We live in a world where "fair" isn't always easily found. We are fallible, fragile human beings. We make mistakes. We hurt ourselves and others. And sometimes we are victims of things we simply can't control, no matter how hard we wish we could. And sometimes we victimize others.

Some things can't be changed.

Watched pots won't boil any faster than those that are completely ignored.
Hundreds and even thousands of prayers don't always change the course of life events; loved ones still get sick and die, disasters still happen, diseases still strike, and grief finds its insidious way into the most noble and deserving of lives.
Love and passion can't be forced into blossom where they simply don't exist, no matter how much we might wish otherwise.
Forgiveness and grace can't always be extended by hearts wounded so deeply that trust is shattered, no matter how great the desire to do so.
Puppies deprived of adequate chew toys will continue to eat shoes, furniture, and each other.

Okay, that last one was my not-too-subtle segue into the more optimistic phase of this ramble.

So what IS the answer? How do we confront the painful moments in life that seem completely out of our control? How do we slog our way through those circumstances that are immune to our most creative machinations to change them from horror to hope?

I have no idea. Sorry.

But I have a list of "maybes."

Maybe we need to be honest with ourselves and others. If that means we have to wallow for a bit, then at least let us be honest about it. Let's Pretend doesn't make the pain go away, it just keeps us from working through it in a healthy way. Life is a process. Go through the steps honestly.
When wallowing has run its course and threatens to keep us stuck, then maybe we need to look outside ourselves for a bit. Change the focus away from us and onto others. Give back. Pass it forward. Do unto others. See a bigger picture. Become a wounded healer. Reach out and touch someone.
For those of us familiar with guilt, the gift that keeps on giving, maybe we need to be gentle with ourselves for a time. Yeah, we need to be accountable for our actions, or lack thereof. We need to acknowledge when we've hurt or failed; whether it's ourselves or others. But heaping blame upon blame on shoulders already frail from the burden of failure won't right any wrong.
And finally, maybe we need to find our hope again. Or our faith. Or our optimism. Or even our reality. Call it whatever you like. Bad things happen to good people. Good things happen to bad people. Those are facts. The reality is that, if we're willing to accept the challenge that is life, bad AND good things will continue to happen.

And tomorrow? Well, tomorrow...

Maybe you'll hold a baby in your arms and you'll feel refreshed.

Maybe you'll hear that you're loved, and you'll believe it.

Maybe you'll see or hear something silly that will make you laugh.

Maybe you'll read something that will make you think big thoughts.

Maybe you'll hear a song that makes your heart glad.

Maybe you'll experience grace; a second chance, a loss redeemed.

Maybe you'll be licked by a puppy, or serenaded by purring cat as you stroke it.

Maybe you'll find beauty in the softly lined face of an elderly saint or a friend's heart.

Maybe you'll find inspiration in the most unlikely place.

Maybe you'll find you have something to share on a blog, or in a life, after all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as if everything is." Albert Einstein

"We are more than what we do...much more than what we accomplish...far more than what we possess." William Arthur Ward

"Be glad of life, because it gives you the chance to love and to work and to play and to look up at the stars." Henry Van Dyke

"He's Just Not That Into You"

2005-01-02T13:06:00.000-05:00

My older daughter (22 years old) has, for the past two years, suffered from a nearly catastrophic case of unrequited crush. If you ask her, she'll swear it's love. If you ask ME, it's just sad. Sad, sad, sad. Kim has a lot to offer, and certainly more than her crush-er deserves. Some truths, however, must be learned by mercilessly beating one's head upon the rock of reality several THOUSAND times before they finally take root. Such is the case with Kim.

While watching a recent episode of Oprah, purveyor of all wisdom, Kim was introduced to Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo, authors of, "He's Just Not That Into You: The No-Excuses Truth to Understanding Guys." (See below for link to book info at Amazon.com.)

In a nutshell, the book slaps every single, seeking woman in the face and heart with a strong dose of the author's version of truth. The target audience is any woman who has ever held on to the hope that the man in her life who treats her like dirt does so because he's misguided, has commitment issues, wears his briefs too tight (thereby restricting the blood flow to his brain and impairing his judgment), or suffers from any number of other justifications she can come up with to excuse him for treating her with less devotion than he would his Boston fern, for example.

This woman, because of her own needs, fantasies, or desperation, truly believes he'll come around. It will just take a little more time, patience, love, trust, devotion, unconditional acceptance, or turning yourself into a pretzel to make this relationship and this man The One.

The truth, according to the authors, is that "he's just not that into you." Their book was written to liberate women from their bondage to hope and fantasy and encourage them to go trolling in streams stocked with better catches.

I read the book, and I'm willing to accept that there's more than a little truth within its pages. It wasn't an easy book to read because it did a masterful job of stripping away excuses that didn't want to be stripped. However, by the time I finished, I was ready to break into a rousing chorus of "I Am Woman" and march forth with a commitment to be stronger, more in control, and to never again be victimized by a man who just isn't that into me.

I predict this new-found feeling of self righteousness will stay with me until the next time I get a phone call, after a week of silence, and hear some creative excuse like "I was trying to clear up my toe fungus. Sorry" And I'll buy it. Well, hell! Toe fungus is a horrible thing, after all! And besides, MY guy is different. He'd never deliberately.... Yeah.

Get the book. Read it. Figure out for yourself if there's any validity to the author's suppositions. In the meantime, I've decided to share some of my own hard-won wisdom. Here are some behaviors I feel should indicate that "he's just not that into you."

He comes home after being out of town for a week and brushes past you with no more than a distracted "hi" to gather his cat in his arms and tell her how much he's missed her. If this is followed by kitty kisses before YOU'VE received a kiss it should pretty much cements the notion that "He's JUST not that into you."
You call him on his cell phone and whisper something provocative in his ear. He puts you on hold. So he can take another call. From his sister. Read the writing on the wall, or the phone bill. "He's just not that into you."
You've been dating for several months. Visions of china patterns dance in your head. You run into his best friend at the mall. The one he works out with every week. The one you've never met. It's obvious his best friend knows NOTHING about you, either. This best friend says, with a perplexed look on his face, "Karen? You're Karen? I thought Karen was your aunt, Buddy?" Not a good sign, but as clear as a newly washed window; "He's just not that into you."
Every time you start a discussion about marriage he breaks into a sweat, possibly accompanied by a case of hives, and mumbles to himself wondering whether or not the French Foreign legion is still in existence. Yeah, he may be into you, but his phobic reaction means "He's just not THAT into you."
If you constantly find yourself lagging on his list of priorities, take the hint. If spending time fighting gingivitis, channeling his dearly departed hamster, or ironing take precendence over time with you, "He's just not that into you."
He knows every statistic for every player in the NBA. He knows when the Treaty of Versailles was signed why it was important. He can recite the entire dialogue of "The Terminator." But he has no idea when your birthday is, what your middle initial stands for, or if you're allergic to bee stings. Frankly, 'He's just not that into you."
And the biggest of the big hints: In a moment of passion he either, a. can't remember your name, or b. calls you by another woman's name. Run ladies. Run fast. "He's JUST not that into you." But before you run, do the gracious thing and thank him very kindly for all the good times. And call him by name when you do it... Ron...Tom...John...pick any name you like, as long as it's not HIS name.

Like I said, get the book. Then come back here and tell me what YOU think. ;-)

Link to the book at Amazon.com:
http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/068987474X/qid=1104689223/sr=8-1/ref=pd_csp_1/104-7640133-6611104?v=glance&s=books&n=507846

Hope for the New Year

2004-12-31T22:16:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine, someone very dear to my heart, wrote of this day...

"New Year's Eve....Why is this day important? Because tomorrow begins a new year? So what? So what if the world keeps moving and if time keeps ticking away?"

It made me think. What DOES make life worth living? What makes the passing of time more than just minutes ticking away? When it would seem so easy to give up and give in to the pain or apathy, why keep trudging on?

I can't answer these questions for anyone else, particularly not my friend. He will have to find his own path through the morass that is surrounding his heart and soul right now. But I know what makes me stay the course - hope. To be without hope is to be without life.

In 2005, I hope...

to love and be loved.
to enjoy the discovery of new friends.
to hold my new grandchild in my arms.
to see my daughters healthy, happy, and successful.
to be a blessing in someone's life.
to learn something new.
to grow spiritually and emotionally.
to find some reason every day to laugh, and sometimes even to cry.
to remember to be grateful for all I have been given.

I hope.

It's that simple, and that complex.

Happy New Year. I wish you hope.

The Mysterious "G" Spot

2004-12-28T10:49:00.000-05:00

I've spent a good portion of my recent days pondering the mysterious "G" Spot that every woman is supposed to have. To hear some women talk about it, finding your "G" Spot is the equivalent of finding Nirvana. Depending on who you talk to, discovering this sacred location is an experience that will forever change your life. I want that experience. Really. And I've been looking. Desperately. Mostly in the privacy of my bedroom. I mean, you don't just go to the mall and ask a perfect stranger if he or she will help you on this quest. Or if you DO, you must be prepared to do some jail time. Ermm. Where was I? Oh, right. Looking for my "G" Spot. Sadly, it's eluded me so far.

Oh, I've experienced several "G" Spots in my life, to be sure. And they've all been instrumental in shaping who I am. But I don't think we're talking about the same sort of impact. However, as I said, they've all been significant in one way or another so let's review some of them:

The first "G" Spot I discovered was my Grandparent Spot. My grandparents had soft laps, hearty and frequent laughs, lots of hugs and kisses to share, and deep pockets that held all sorts of magical things like candy and coins. They had cool stories about my parents that I used more than once in my own pleas for justice, and they had enough patience and grace to make St. Francis look testy. I was blessed to know two sets of grandparents, at least for a little while. Finding my way in life was a lot easier because I discovered the Grandparent Spot. To Honey Grandma and Grandpa, and Sugar Grandma and Grandpa, thank you.

Next was the discovery of my Girl Spot. I have two brothers; one older and one younger. For years I thought I was a boy, too. I wanted to go, do, see, be everything my older brother experienced, but I wanted to do it carrying along my favorite baby doll and wearing Mom's best lipstick. I should have realized THEN that I had latent Girl stuff inside me. My full discovery of my Girl Spot came at the tender age of six when one of my brother's friends offered me some candy to lift up my sundress and show him my panties. (Since this friend was seven at the time, it's not as horrific as it sounds, I promise.) In those days I'd do just about anything that didn't require kissing slimy creatures or drawing blood in order to get some candy. (Not much has changed there, actually.) So showing off my panties was JUST not that big a deal. But it did cement the idea that there was something very different about me that would forever after preclude me from being, "one of the boys."

By the end of my years in elementary school, I had found my next "G" Spot; the Girlfriend Spot. Realizing by that time that boys were a little icky, I was delighted to find that girl friends were much more fun. My best friend was Robin, and together we worked through the intricacies of growing up. We giggled our way through childhood and adolescence. Together we learned about first periods, first crushes, first kisses, and first heartaches. We sat for hours reading the "good parts" of The Godfather, and wondered what the love scenes really meant. We stuffed condoms with modeling clay to see what a "real man" would look like, and scared ourselves witless at the results of our experiment. We shared secrets, tears, hopes, and dreams. We pledged our undying devotion and swore that no one would ever come between us. Time passes and lives change, and Robin and I haven't seen each other in years. I still mourn that loss, but realize that my life is better because she was part of it for so long. Robin was a special blessing in my life.

Eventually came the "Guy Spot". This disovery occurred when I realized for the first time that guys had more redeeming qualities than just their ability to kill bugs and lift heavy objects. They were shaped differently than I was. They thought differently than I did. And not all of them wanted to be the boss of me. That was just my brother. And he was a dork. These OTHER guys? They didn't suck entirely. With just a little training, they could be taught to talk about their feelings, keep their bodily noises to a minimum, and to remember important anniversaries with appropriate gifts. Yes, once I became aware of the Guy Spot I was hooked.

The Guy Spot eventually lead to other spots with other letters, most notably the "M" Spot and the "P" Spot. Both the Marriage Spot and The Parent Spot brought incredible lessons in love, patience, and how to keep ones sanity in the midst of chaos. To try and capsulize them here would be a work of futility. I think you need to live them to understand. But in terms of sheer impact on my life, they are rivaled by none.

And here we are. The search for the ultimate "G" Spot is still ongoing with great hope of success. I haven't abandoned the cause. But I have once more been a little sidetracked.

It seems I'm going to be experiencing another "G" Spot before too long. A few days before Thanksgiving my younger daughter came to me with the news that I'm going to be a grandma in July. A grandma. Imagine that. I almost can't. And yet I can. A grandma. The whole idea of my baby having a baby is so fuzzy to me at the moment that I can't quite wrap my brain around it. I feel... joy, sadness, fear, expectancy, curiosity, hope, gratitude. I simply FEEL.

I may yet find the "G" Spot that has provided so much physical pleasure for other women. I believe it's there. I'll keep looking. (but not at the mall, as mentioned earlier!) In the meantime, though,I can't mourn the lack of discovery too much. The other "G" Spots in my life have, for the most part, been spectacular, and I'm grateful. Truly grateful.

(walks away whispering in an awed voice.....) A grandma. How totally cool is THAT?

Christmas Morning - The Process

2004-12-23T11:36:00.000-05:00

Santa Arrives

This one was a little rough for me to put into words, because it reminds me of Christmases past when Dad had the starring role in our Christmas morning dramas. I finally decided that sharing our tradition might be a good way to honor a cherished memory of a beloved father.

My Dad was very process oriented. There were steps involved in everything he did, and one didn't shortcut those steps unless there was a darn good reason. The definition of "darn good reason" usually involved life-threatening incidents, or a reason HE came up with. Any alterations to the process suggested by anyone else were simply not entertained.

The Process for Christmas morning was no different. My two brothers and I knew it by heart. It went something like this.

THE AWAKENING - My brothers and I could wake up at any hour of the morning, but invading the parent's bedroom and waking THEM up could only happen at 7:00 a.m. Not a MINUTE earlier. Until the church bell pealed the last of its seven rings we were confined to one of our bedrooms, trying to keep each other quiet and entertained until we were allowed to hurl ourselves on Mom and Dad's bed with enthusiastic squeals of, "It's Christmas! Get up! Come on! Get up!"

THE CHOREOGRAPHY - Mom's job, upon being roused (although she swears that she and Dad were always awake before us and listening, with amusement, to the three of us plot our course of action for The Awakening) would leave us in Dad's charge and go downstairs to prepare the scene. She would start the water boiling for her cup of tea, then turn on the Christmas tree lights and start Nat King Cole crooning on the record player. Only when we heard Nat's voice did we know that Mom's responsibility in upholding The Process was complete.

THE TORTURE TEST - While Mom was doing her thing downstairs, OUR job was to try, emphasize TRY, to hurry Dad through the bathroom torture test.

First, he HAD to have his cup of coffee. Dad kept a white ceramic coffee cup and a jar of instant coffee in the bathroom. Using only hot tap water, he'd prepare his coffee and sip at it while working through the rest of The Process. For thoroughness of execution, you would have thought he was brewing the most costly and rare of drinks. Toss some crystals in the mug. Add water. Taste. Toss some more crystals in the mug. Taste again. Heaven help us if he made it TOO strong. Then he would have to start the whole process again from scratch, thereby costing us more time away from the presents. Is it any wonder I hate coffee?

Next in The Process was using the facilities for its God-given purpose. For this step we were all shooed from the bathroom, where heretofore we'd been circling him like three little anxious, impaitent Indians itching to start out on a raid.

When the all clear was sounded, we were granted access to the bathroom again. As we continued to bounce and whine and cajole, Dad would calmly brush his hair; a mandatory 20 strokes, counted out loud with infuriating thoroughness. And then his teeth. Brushing his teeth required getting them out of the cup on the toilet tank lid and attacking them with a vengence. For years I thought every grown up kept their teeth in a cup overnight. Who knew?

Then there was the shave and dousing of scent. Dad never went ANYWHERE or did ANYTHING without first marinading himself in scent. Ask any woman or girl receiving a kiss from Dad. We'd have Brute or other cologne du jour on our lips or cheeks for hours! It was Dad's trademark. Actually, the aftershave part of The Process was the least objectionable, because we got to watch him wince and otherwise dramatically overreact for our benefit as the aftershave hit his newly shaved skin. Seemed like fitting retribution to us.

Finally, with a last glance in the mirror to make sure he was properly groomed, we'd hear the magic words we longed for, "Okay. Let's go down." In actuality, Dad's processes took no more than 5-10 minutes at best, but to my brothers and me it felt like an eternity.

Upon being released from our captivity to The Process, we would launch ourselves like human projectiles from the bathroom, every moment of torture instantly forgiven. Legs and arms flailed as we would more tumble down the steps than descend them. Dad, of course, followed at a more leisurely pace.

Skidding to an abrupt halt at the archway that led to the living room, we would see a dazzling array of gifts arranged into three piles. I can still remember feeling breathless as we'd stand there, stopped in our tracks by an invisible barricade composed entirely of our own awe and wonder. Mom would then direct us to the appropriate pile, and she and Dad would watch and smile as we opened our gifts. Each child would alternate opening a present so the others could watch and celebrate with us as we unveiled our treasures.

The tradition carried over into my own home when the girls were born, but the roles changed. It was ME who tortured THEM with a bevy of delaying tactics, while their Dad made sure all was in readiness downstairs. Other than that, though, very little was changed.

The girls are grown now, and only one will be home to awaken on Christmas morning. Such is the passing of time. Perhaps one day my daughters will resurrect The Process with their own families. Or maybe they'll start their own traditions. I hope they will. I hope we've taught them that tradition is something to be cherished and enjoyed.

I hope you all find comfort and joy in the traditions of the season. Merry Christmas.

The Mother's Ring

2004-12-10T13:26:00.000-05:00

Merry Christmas

When Kimberly (my oldest daughter) was 12 years old, she had already been earning money every week for several months by housecleaning for my aunt and uncle. The more her horde of cash grew, the more content she was. She had plans for that money, as I would find out soon enough.

Christmas was about a month away when Kim started dropping hints that she'd already bought my present. It was easy to see that she was completely tickled with both her ability to buy me a gift with her own money, and with the gift itself. One day she finally blurted out her fondest wish. "Mom, I want you to love this gift so much that you cry!"

Tears of joy. That's what she wanted from me. That her gift would be so special, that I would be so touched, that I would cry. That was her standard for my reaction.

Now, I do tend to be moved easily to tears, but this was a bit more pressure than I wanted to feel about a gift a 12 year old could dream up.

I found out later that only my mother was privy to the secret of the gift, and she was only allowed to participate because Kim needed an adult for a few of the procurement procedures. Mom was sworn to secrecy. Even SHE was told that this gift needed to be one of such surprise and magnitude that it would make me cry.

As we got closer to Christmas, I got several threatening phone calls from my mother letting me know in no uncertain terms that if I couldn't react with tears naturally, then I'd darn well better bite the inside of my mouth until they were tears of PAIN instead. Kim would never know the difference, she assured me. Mom was as touched by Kim and her Mission as she hoped I'd be with the gift.

The closer we got to Christmas, the more I worried. Here's my first born child, dearly loved, buying me her first gift with her own money. And with such expectations! What if I couldn't cry? What if my reaction was even a tiny bit less than she craved? It would crush her, I knew.

And I DID know, because in the heart of the daughter, I saw the child that I once had been. A child so eager to please her parents, yet never quite feeling that she'd made the mark. A child who more than anything would have loved to have had the ability to move her own mother to tears. How ironic that the grandchild could do what the daughter never accomplished.

Christmas morning dawned. Kim had the entire scenario choreographed. First the girls would open their stockings and gifts. Then it would be Daddy's turn. Then I was to open my gifts from my husband and second daughter, and finally it would be time for The Gift.

I'll never forget it. I was even instructed where to sit and Bruce was told to put on my favorite Christmas CD. Everything had to be perfect. Isn't it amazing that she knew that music would help hedge her chances for the reaction she so craved?

When everyone was suitably attentive and nearly consumed with anticipation, she went to the tree, got her gift for me and put it in my lap. She then sat on the floor at me feet, prepared to wait and watch and enjoy. I recognized the box as one that jewelry would come in, particularly rings. With shakey hands, I unwrapped the box, opened the lid and found a ring.

Before I could even take in what I was seeing, Kim started to babble nervously. "It's a Mother's Ring, Mom. I designed it for you. The pearl is my birthstone, and the two red stones are garnets, and those are Bri's birthstones. I'm sorry it's so small. I'm sorry you can't see the garnets so good. But I only had $200 (her entire earnings to date, by the way) saved up, and I had to explain to the jewelry man what I wanted, and this was what he said I could have."

Only then did she pause in her apologetic chatter long enough to actually look at me, realizing that I hadn't said anything yet. Then she stopped talking altogether as she reached out and brushed a tear from my cheek. "Oh, cool," she whispered.

Her face exploded into a huge smile as I gathered her into my arms, and she wished me a Merry Christmas. She put the ring on my finger, and it hasn't been off since.

I hope this holiday season brings untold joys for you, whoever and wherever you are. :-)

The Woman Inside of Me - Lite Version

2004-12-06T14:05:00.000-05:00

Not only is there a woman inside of me, but she's not REAL happy at the moment.

I've recently returned home from the hospital after having had Abdominal Surgery. Please note that the use of capital letters isn't by accident, either. Everyone kept telling me that my procedure was classified as Major Surgery. To my way of thinking, any procedure that carries it's own classification deserves the honor of being capitalized.

And they were right, by the way. Abdominal Surgery isn't for wimps. There's a reason the good Lord hid things like internal organs on the INSIDE. It's so well-meaning folks don't go poking around at them with sharp pointy objects!

However, since I had to undergo this surgery, I figured the least I could do was share some of the stunning insights I've learned so far.

ABS - NOT JUST A RESTING PLACE FOR BOOBS. Who knew? My abs and I were perfectly content to have a live-and-let-live sort of relationship up until now. Gosh, before the surgery I didn't even know I HAD abs. Abs were for people who went to gyms and knew other catchy abbreviations for their body parts like "pecs" and "delts" and so forth. Me? I thought those things were travel destinations. "Oh right! I'd heard you and Stan visited the Delts last summer. How was your trip?"

Nope. I thought my abs were merely the muscles (if they can even be classified as muscles in my case) that kept my insides from coming out, and prohibited me from ever again thinking I'd be able to wear a crop top.

Frankly, what I've learned about my abs hasn't endeared them to me overmuch since the surgery. First of all, I had to come to the realization that this set of muscles was a set that is pretty integral to daily living. Why did someone not tell me about this? It was only after I struggled to raise myself up to a sitting position in my hospital bed with only the help of a desperate need to get off another set of muscles (my gluteus maximus) that I realized I'd sadly underestimated this vital relationship. I think the resulting scream made my revelation clear to everyone on the post-surgical floor, too.

Finding out all the things my abs actually do for me was a truly spiritual experience. Truly. Simple things like coughing, sneezing, laughing (although I didn't test that one until the morphine was working!) and raising and lowering myself from and into a chair were usually preceded by a prayer that went something like, "Sweet Jesus, take me now!" Fortunately, I suppose, God chose not to answer that prayer. He did, however, have sufficient mercy to see that I had some REALLY good drugs. God is good. Morphine is better.

DIGNITY - ONE SIZE DOES NOT FIT ALL. Let's talk for just a moment about hospital gowns, shall we? Anyone who has had the unhappy happenstance of finding themselves on the receiving end of a surgeon's scalpel will no doubt agree that whoever invented the hospital gown should be hoisted by their own patard (I have no idea what that means, but it certainly sounds painful, doesn't it?) wearing ONLY a hospital gown; one that opens in the back, of course.

It simply boggles my mind that we can accomplish any manner of scientific marvel, but have yet to find hospital attire that allows one to walk down the hallway dragging our IV stand without our butts sticking out. Morphine did a lot to alleviate the humiliation on MY behalf, but there were times when I was the gawker rather than the gawkee. At those times my compassion would stir and it took all my restraint not to rush out of my bed (okay, that's a blatant lie. I wasn't going to be 'rushing' anywhere) and toss a blanket across the shoulders of some poor soul who was providing a parade of flesh that he or she never bargained on.

And let's not pretend that double gowning (one gown on open in the back, a second gown worn as a robe and open in the front) is a viable option. Once you try to get back into your hospital bed, the cotton of the robe-type gown meets the cotton of the hospital sheets, and it takes nearly Herculean strength to challenge that velcro-like bond in order to scoot that now-covered butt across the mattress. I was stranded several times in this situation and had to wait patiently for some merciful soul to unstick me.

Please people. Let's work on a silk or satin gown that covers what it should, okay? A little dignity goes a long way in the recovery process.

2:00 A.M. THE WITCHING HOUR - I swear to you, I was awakened at 2:00 a.m. so the nurse could give me a sleeping pill. I was also awakened at 2:00 a.m. for various and sundry other things, such as a blood draw, a vital sign check, and most ridiculous of all, to find out what I wanted for breakfast. Apparently the nutritionist only noticed at that hour that I hadn't filled out my menu for the following day. Hmmm. Let's see. Apple juice or cranberry? Lime jello or orange jello? Chicken broth or beef broth? Yep. I can see why that was such a crushing emergency that I had to be roused from a lovely, drug-induced sleep.

I love nurses. I really do. And I appreciate that they have a tough job. Truly. But I secretly harbor the notion that nurses and aides who work the graveyard shift get some sort of sick pleasure out of waking their patients for these sorts of things. Perhaps they're a tad resentful that THEY have to be awake, and want to share the misery?

I finally drew the line, though. When Nurse Beelzebub woke me to ask if I'd passed gas yet, (something that was strangely high on their list of interests) I informed her that I hadn't, and invited her to stick around for the show. I'd certainly be willing to put some effort into it if it was that important to her. She didn't appreciate my humor. I didn't appreciate her...ANYTHING. I'm not sure, but I think she was the one who ordered a suppository for me the next day. Sometimes it just doesn't pay to draw lines.

As the drugs wear off and I remember more of my insights, I'll be sure and post them. Until then, stay well. I know *I* surely intend to. Sheesh.

The Woman Inside of Me

2004-11-18T13:26:00.000-05:00

Who will care enough to see
The woman who’s inside of me?
The other me who feels afraid
Of decisions that must yet be made?

Who will care enough to know
That masks are false; they’re just for show?
That laughter hides a truer face
That never truly knows her place?

Who will care enough to share
The road I walk with so much care?
The path that turns and winds and yields
And often leaves me without shields?

Are these dreams too much to dare?
Is there really no one there?
Am I meant to walk alone?
Or is there more than I’ve been shown?

Taking courage by the hand,
I keep on searching through the land
For someone who will care to see
The woman who’s inside of me.

Remembering Dad

2004-11-13T18:53:00.000-05:00

My Dad

On July 22, 2004, my Dad passed away after a long and bitter battle with cancer. I miss him every day. So very much. But I don't want the memory of Dad's struggle with life and death to be what I remember most vividly. So this is my attempt to remember and honor Dad; the man who filled my life with laugher, tears, frustration, and tenderness. Oh yeah, and this is my Dad, the man who called me "Stinky."

My Dad was a bit of a party animal in his day. Yes, indeedy. Dad was known for having the best dirty jokes, the best singing voice, and the best tolerance for a whiskey sour that you could find in any of the bars in Manheim. His often-stated and dearest desire was to grow old enough to be a "dirty old man." It's true. That was the sum total of his ambition. He made it, too.

Fathering two sons who didn't seem to want to be the "Good Sons" (meaning liquor-guzzling, dirty joke-loving, bar sitters) left Dad with only one option. Corrupt the girl child. And so began my journey into a world where I could comfortably ask any stranger to "pull my finger," tell tawdry jokes without batting an eyelash (even if I DIDN'T understand them), and where I could easily drink double my weight in alcohol while STILL being able to belt out the words to "The Lonely Goatherd" from the Sound of Music, while standing and balancing on a bar stool, no less! I became (much to Mom's horror) "The Good Son." And it was good.

UNTIL I had a child of my own.

In one giant "ooomph" of my uterus, I was forever changed in my dad's eyes from "My Boy" to "Oh My Gosh! She's a Girl and She Squirted out a Baby Girl JUST for Me!" My role as Dad's bar companion was about to change drastically, I learned. I became "The Sacred Vessel" from which more adorable babies might mysteriously spring forth!

Anyway, as the Sacred Vessel AND the mother of "My Granddaughter" I was lovingly, but firmly told that my presence at the weekly "Boys Night Out After Bowling" was no longer required. Nor was I supposed to repeat my portfolio of dirty jokes ANYWHERE near "My Granddaughter," and worst of all, I had to start being...ugh...RESPONSIBLE! For the foreseeable future my lot in life was to be Sesame Street, Dr. Seuss, and apple juice only.

You know what the biggest change was, though? I became a GIRL in his eyes. I mean, *I* always suspected that I was one anyway, but when a baby comes torpedoing out of you, there's not much hope of pretending anymore, is there? And now Dad was doing GIRL things for me. Buying me flowers. Getting all sappy when he saw me holding the baby. Helping me down the steps. Okay. Wait. That's a bit of an exaggeration. He helped me by carrying the baby and yelling back to me, "Don't trip on that crack, Stinks. It's a killer." But still!

He became...tender. Not long after I got home from the hospital after having given birth to Kimberly, Dad came to our apartment for a visit. He was holding the baby in his arms, cooing, and falling completely and utterly love with his first granddaughter. There were tears in his eyes as he looked over at me. It was a beautiful moment. I sensed he had something he wanted to say; something to reflect all the emotion that was so obviously churning inside him.

I was right. As he wiped a tearaway, he said in a shakey voice,"You know, Stinks, I'm just amazed. This HAD to hurt a lot more than even my WORST rhoids." I was so touched and choked up I couldn't speak. I think he knew, though. I think he read the "I love you too, Dad" in the hysterical laughter that followed his analogy.

That was my dad.

Small - A poem

2004-11-13T18:04:00.000-05:00

Small

She stood on the hillside
The breeze touched her face.
A bent, weary figure;
Of hope, not a trace.

As light pierced the darkness
Of cloud-laden skies
Her heart yearned for answers
To all of her "Why's?"

The trials of a lifetime,
The fears she had known
Were dashed by the splendor
Of what she was shown.

Her eyes scanned the heavens
And cares seemed to fall,
As her soul sensed the wonder
Of feeling quite small.

A voice softly whispered,
"Tis my hand you see,
And all of your questions
Find answers in me."

"Though darkness surrounds you
And hope seems to fade,
My hand is upon you.
Your path has been laid."

"Go forth from this place now.
Be strong and stand tall,
Yet cherish the memory
Of feeling quite small."

Technology: Not Always Our Friend

2004-11-04T14:29:00.000-05:00

Technology is not always our friend! The following snippets should prove that beyond a shadow of a doubt.

The other night I tried to turn the television up using my daughter's cell phone. Not just once, either. That's the REALLY sad part.

I created a new art form when I nuked a bowl of soup in a container that apparently wasn't nuke safe. The bowl kinda melted in on itself on one side, and belched a bubble in the other side. Kinda cool in an artsy-fartsy way, but leaves a lot to be desired in the soup eating way.

My daughter and I were watching a DVD the other week. When it was over, she walked over to the DVD player and ejected the disk immediately. I was amazed. "Gosh, it doesn't take long to rewind THEM, does it?" She humored me and said, "Nope. They're real fast these days." She's a good daughter.

I couldn't get my remote to unlock my driver's side car door. I was running late for work, and I was soooooo frustrated. I kept pushing the little button on the remote harder and harder, hoping it was something wrong with the pad. Close to tears of frustration, I dug my cell phone out of my pocketbook and called my husband. I wailed, "I can't get the door open on the car. My remote isn't working. What am I supposed to do now? I'm late for work!!!" Silence. Then he said, "Karen, see those dangly things on the ring with your remote. Those are called KEYS. Use one of them and open the door."

Okay. Your turn. :-D

Where I Come From...

2004-10-10T11:35:00.000-04:00

Typical Lancaster County View

I live in a small town in the heart of Amish Country in Lancaster County, PA. It never occurred to me that it was might be unusual to be able to walk three or four blocks in any direction from the heart of our town and find yourself looking at some of the most beautiful farmland in the country. You can step out of the grocery store and right into a farmer's field. :-)

Lessons Learned the Hard Way

2004-10-10T11:01:00.000-04:00

Having just emerged from a near-death experience which I'll fondly refer to as "The Shower", it occurred to me that my friends might benefit from the wisdom I've amassed over the years of applying personal hygiene principles to my life. No need to thank me; your continued health and happiness is all I desire. Read on for tips and observations I've found to be most useful:

· The first, and most immutable, law of bathroom reality is that the person who used the last of the toilet tissue is the same person who cheerfully waved goodbye and left the house empty in your time of need. Learn to either check the supply before you enter the sanctuary, or be prepared to have your wails of anguish bounce off the echoing walls of an empty house.

· Even if you've never dared dream you'd have the physical astuteness needed to perform a straddle split, fear not! It can be easily accomplished by placing one foot outside the shower and onto a vinyl floor dewy with condensation. With just the right amount of "push" from the foot still IN the shower, you will find yourself ready for Olympic-style gymnastic competition. My experience with this feat, however, is that what it demonstrates in grace is sorely compromised by the resultant scream of pain that ensues as body hits tub rim in a plethora of pain.

· If you, like me, are visually challenged, be sure to put your glasses on before reaching for beauty products. For instance, in order to lure women consumers into buying shaving cream made specifically for their satin-like skin, many manufacturers have gone to great lengths to make their cans decorative. Again, without benefit of glasses, one MIGHT erroneously find oneself happily using shaving cream in lieu of hair mousse, which completely defeats the purpose of both products. One is used to remove hair, the other to add volume. You see the dilemma, I'm sure.

· In the same manner, here's a small chemistry lesson for you. Facial astringent and nail polish remover are NOT interchangeable products. Astringent is used to firm, refresh and renew. Finger nail polish remover will instantaneously suck every drop of moisture from your face and leave you wearing an expression similar to that of a Haitian Death Mask.

· If you use gel toothpaste and some discourteous soul leaves the cap off for an extended period of time, nothing short of a surgical procedure will allow that toothpaste to flow freely again. I believe the mythical little boy in Holland who used his finger to stop the leak in the dyke first applied a generous dollop of dried toothpaste gel liberally to his finger.

· When purchasing toothbrushes for the family, make sure each person has an assigned color and toss the old ones. I realize there are a multitude of uses for worn out toothbrushes, but I hasten to assure you that this piece of wisdom was hard won. My toothbrush is red. Coincidentally, so is the toothbrush my daughter uses to clean her jewelry IN THE BATHROOM. Enough said, I think. (I must add as an afterthought, though, that my fillings have never looked so shiny!)

· There is nothing in life to compare to the start of surprise you'll receive when, during your shower, you feel a tongue lick your leg. Delighted anticipation is quickly usurped by chagrin when you realize it's not an amorous mate, but the dog who can't get a drink because someone had the poor taste to lower the lid of the toilet.

· Living with animals is a joy. They provide unconditional love. They also provide unconditional honesty. If the dog flees the bathroom in horror as you step out of the shower, it may be time to rethink your lackadaisical approach to physical fitness. You know as well as I that's it's neigh on impossible to embarrass a dog. Take heed of these subtle, yet important hints from our canine friends.

· Do NOT attempt to dry your hair and shave your legs at the same time. Time is a precious commodity, but no amount of efficiency can make up from leg burns from a hot hair dryer and bald spots from an errant razor blade. Both will heal, but the humiliation is complete.

· I listen to the radio while I shower. May I suggest that if you do the same, tune into a nice, mellow station. In a frenzy of movement inspired by "Boot Scootin’ Boogie", I learned that the shower curtain is not an adequate anchor to prevent a falling body from hitting the shower floor. However, the crescendo of body and curtain (with rod, or course) wildly flailing about does add a nice touch of percussion to the song. Screaming is optional.

· And finally, anyone familiar with the amusement park ride known as the water slide will appreciate the fact that one must, absolutely must, dry off completely before taking a seat. One wrong move will add new meaning to the phrase "slip sliding away" as you find yourself jettisoned from the commode like a torpedo gone mad.

I trust you'll find this information helpful. I offer it with my love and best wishes for safe and happy bathroom usage for years to come.

Love and Hugs,
Karen

My Dreams - A Poem

2004-10-10T10:40:00.000-04:00

My Dreams

My dreams are jeweled pebbles at the bottom of a sea.
Inviting hope and longing to be released in me.

Their colors speak of beauty with each reflected ray.
My soul longs to embrace them and let them guide my way.

But the sea is often murky with the actual and true,
And the pebbles seem to mock me with all that I must do.

And hope becomes a burden that my soul cannot cast down,
And the way to all I long for is lost and can't be found.

So I sit beside the water's edge and trail a hand below
The surface of the here and now seeking truths my heart will know.

Dreams beckon me with what can be...Truth urges me to see
That life is culled from good and ill...At last, perhaps I'm free.

A Bird in Hand - Is a Happy Bird, It Seems

2004-10-02T18:34:00.000-04:00

I had sex with a bird! (waiting for that to sink in....)

The other evening I was sitting in my favorite chair in the living room, minding my own business and reading a steamy Nora Roberts novel. I was ALSO absentmindedly petting my daughter's cockatoo, Allie, while I was reading. Just kind of stroking her underneath her wings, not thinking anything of it. Anyone with pets knows that it's very relaxing to pet them, right? And Allie loves to be petted. This was NOT an unusual situation, I swear!

When it was time to turn the page of my book, I looked down and saw that Allie was shaking and shuddering! Scared me to death, because I thought she was having a seizure of some kind. Turns out I was right. A seizure of the BEST kind.

Not knowing that at the moment, though, I yelled to my daughter, "What's wrong with the bird?!" to which my daughter, the sweet innocent 19 year old, replied, "Holy Cow, Mom! She thinks you're haveing sex with her!" and she quickly scooped Allie off my lap and put her on her perch on the other side of the room so I wouldn't "overstimulate" her again.

I was left to wonder if I should light a cigarrette, add this new found talent to my resume, or just be really, REALLY grossed out. Really, really grossed out won.

My daughter came back and proceeded to give me a lecture about the evils of ...errr...stimulating... a bird, (thought I kept TELLING her I didn't KNOW I was doing that at the time!!!) and warned me that now Allie (a lesbian bird at that apparently!) would lay some eggs, and it was all my fault. Me and my magic fingers. Who knew?

Geezy Peezy! I'm going to be a daddy!

Housework Survey

2004-10-02T11:22:00.000-04:00

HOUSEKEEPING SURVEY

Housework is a mystery to me. I need guidance from those more in tune with liquid detergents and their proper place in this world. To that end, I have composed the following survey to find out how normal people feel about housework. Please share your feedback as soon as possible for my edification. Be advised, however, that participating in this information-gathering effort will in no way obligate me to change my ways. I will, nonetheless, weigh and consider all information...and probably discard if it means I need to pick up a mop or participate in some other such form of torture.

MULTIPLE CHOICE:

How long should empty shampoo bottles be left in the shower stall?
a. Until all your hair has fallen out. ("You" being used in the universal sense here.)
b. Until the soap scum on them renders them the status of a science project.
c. Until someone ELSE tosses them.

Leftovers should be discarded when:
a. They start to grow mold and can thus be used for medicinal purposes.
b. When you find a group of starving Chinese people desperate enough to eat them.
c. When friends and family offer to take up a collection to buy you groceries.
d. There should almost never be leftovers. It shows an appalling lack of planning skills.

Bedding should be changed:
a. When they are so stiff the dogs refuse to lay on the bed.
b. When you can document your love life by them.
c. When you KNOW you're never going to be a bed maker of conviction, so you'd better make the commitment to clean sheets.

The vacuum cleaner is....
a. Our friend. It helps us maintain a clean and wholesome atmosphere and makes a home a castle.
b. Evil incarnate and to be avoided at all cost.
c. A multi-functional tool, useful for cleaning and intimate moments between consenting adults.
d. A piece of exercise equipment to tone and firm when finances don't allow for a gym membership.

Smudges on glass tables, doors, windows, etc. are acceptable when:
a. They prevent physical injury to friends and family who don't realize the glass is there because it's so clean (i.e., sliding doors).
b. The smudges make strange designs that might be of interest to the psychiatrist next door.
c. When they are so plentiful that they can replace curtains as a privacy tool.
d. Smudges are never acceptable. No compromise. Ever.

ESSAY QUESTIONS: (answers provided by a wise and witty friend)

You find the toothpaste tube squeezed from the middle. What is the appropriate punishment for the offending party? Bonus question. The cap of said tube has been left off and the paste is now concrete. How painful should the death be? Please elaborate as necessary.

For squeezing from the middle of the tube, the person must be punished very severely. After all, it is that sort of blatant waste of resources that topples the economy of an entire nation! That is why I recommend that the person be forced to brush his/her teeth with baking soda for 1 month, and be subjected to 14 straight hours of Martha Stewart. Martha would NEVER squeeze from the middle. For leaving the cap off, death should be swift. If you are lucky enough to be in Kentucky, you don't even have to worry about punishment from the law. This clearly falls under the "He needed killin'" murder defense.

Please give two examples of the pros and cons of piling items on the stairs for future hauling to the second floor. Bonus points awarded for answers that do NOT include the obvious risk of physical pain from the inevitable cascade of said items upon someone's feet.

The obvious advantages to leaving things on the steps for carrying up later are that you save the number of trips up the steps, thus conserving energy that could be better utilized in some cleaning capacity, along with it providing a visual reminder that order and disciplined action are called for in every capacity of our lives. Perhaps there is something wrong with the organization of the house? Why else would you have needed to transport the item from one floor to the other, and then back? And if there is something wrong in your house, then where else are there deficiencies waiting to be uncovered? Thorough introspection is called for.

The disadvantages are thus: first, it decreases the number of opportunities for someone to participate in the organizing of household items. The person who does carry the items gets the lion's share of the satisfaction for that day, leaving other family members to feel empty and without fulfillment. Secondly, the awareness that there are items in the house that are not currently in their proper place can distract one from his lesser tasks, such as intercourse.

Please explain the ritual of "separating the wash" before doing laundry. This one has always eluded me.

You pick up each item. Those that smell too bad to wear get tossed to the side. Those that could be worn again get tossed onto the bed for next time you get dressed. When there are too few items to properly dress, borrow from a roommate or sibling.

TRUE OR FALSE:

Moving items from one room to the other when asked to clean up is in FACT cleaning up. T / F

Toilet paper is a mysterious entity that miraculously grows on the spindle, thereby eliminating the need to change an empty roll. T / F

Housework is vital, but should never be elevated above REALLY important things like chatting or counting the holes in the ceiling tile. T / F

Dishpan hands are a crime against God and nature. T / F

Deafness has been known to strike as a direct result of hearing the words "It's time to clean out the attic, dear." T / F

Cooking should be left to professionals or those with well padded homeowner's policies. T / F

RATING SCALE (Please rate on a scale of 1-10; 10 being most important; 1 least):

Keeping white clothing white. (This goes to the endless debate on the validity of using bleach.)

Having sheets that smell "outdoor fresh."

Knowing at least ten ways to use hamburger.

Having toilet paper come off the roll according to your personal preference (over vs. under).

Eliminating the dreaded curse of soap scum from the face of the earth forever.

Thank you for taking the time to participate in my survey. I look forward to being enlightened just soon as I finish this box of Bon Bons and watch the latest edition of Jerry Springer. :-)

Karen