One Positive Thing

Yesterday, as you may know, was not the greatest day for me. If you didn’t read yesterday’s post, go ahead and catch up…we’ll wait…

So, now we’re all up to speed on the poop? Great. Well, guess what -- he just did it again.

It was not nearly as bad as yesterday, but there was still poop on the floor and a smiling, proud boy was standing over the pile. This obviously means war. Bring it on, poop boy. You will not defeat me.

I was also unable to watch “Psych” last night since JAO and I got caught-up in the State of the Union address and all the backbiting, finger-pointing, empty gesturing, lame excuse-making, insulting rhetoric-spewing mess that swirls around such an event. (And that is not a statement about any particular party or person. It's depressing to see just how bad it has gotten on both sides of the isle. Bleh.) So, I went to bed feeling rather down about life.

Perhaps it was serendipitous that this morning I should pull up this old post from ten years ago…

One Positive Thing
October 10, 2000

I was introduced to an interesting bit of philosophy yesterday. I asked someone how their day had been, and instead of getting the automatic, non-committal "fine" response to my perfunctory question (which I expect, no, demand from people), this person proceeded to ponder his answer in search of an accurate description of his day. As I prepared to lecture this person on the proper rules of polite, yet empty, gestures, he says, "Well, no matter how bad your day has been, you're supposed to find at least one positive thing about it. So, what would that be...?"

He then continued to mentally review his day looking for that "one positive thing." If he ever came up with one I didn't notice. I was too busy mulling over this ultra-positive, frighteningly uplifting way of looking at life. Do you realize the implications of this philosophy, of forcing yourself to come up with "one positive thing" every freakin' day? I mean, come on people! I find it agonizingly difficult to come up with "one positive thing" to cover an entire year! But to try and eek one out every day? I'm sorry, but I just don't need that kind of pressure. Geez, being optimistic must be exhausting.

Back to the present. Unless you hadn’t already noticed, when I was in my twenties, I wasn’t quite the stable, emotionally mature picture of mental health that you see before you today. I lived in the negative because, quite frankly, it was easier. And often it was funnier. Do you really think “Seinfeld” would have been such a hit if it was a show about four up-beat, positive, happy-go-lucky pals?

But, now that I am a happily married woman with two wonderful children, my life is much more fulfilling. Well, most of the time anyway. Okay, some of the time. Okay, most of the time I am faking it, but I do it for the children. (For the record, I have never faked it for JAO.)

In my own little way, I’m trying to foster this idea of positivity in my children. When I pick her up from preschool, I always ask L to tell me what her favorite part of the day was. Usually she tells me it was going out on the playground or whatever it was they had for snack. I continue to ask, however, hoping that one day I will get an answer that is remotely related to the process of learning -- just so I don’t feel as though I am plunking down $250 a month for her to play outside and eat pretzels and cheese.

Z has picked up on her repeated answer, obviously, because one day after school when I asked him what was his favorite part of the day he thoughtfully replied, “Um….go out paygound.” Only it happened to be a day when it was pouring down rain. Perhaps, despite the dreary weather, he was just trying to stay positive.

So I encourage you, as you go about your day, to try and find that “one positive thing.” I might not always be easy and sometimes you may have to claw your way through a whole lotta negative to find it. But, if you look close enough, it’ll be there.

It might be buried under the poop, but it’s there.

What A Load of You-Know-What

Today was not the best day in the life of Mommy and Z. In fact, he is lucky to still be alive.

The day had actually been going pretty smoothly until mid-afternoon. The kids were downstairs playing and I was in my bathroom organizing the contents of my hair accessories drawer. (I have a prissy 5-year-old daughter. We have a lot of accessories.) Anyway, I was happily organizing when Z came in waving his hands around and saying, “Yook, Mommy! Yook what I do!” Well, I smelled what he do before I even had to yook. The boy was standing there, stark naked, with poop smeared all over his fingers and hands. And he had the nerve to be smiling proudly about it!

My mind was racing and I wasn’t sure what to do first. So, I yanked him up, dumped him in the tub and dared him to move a muscle. I then went in search of the poop. I just needed to see what I was up against before I hosed the kid down.

As I approached the back staircase landing, the smell began to hit me like ape scent gloriola. The boy had smushed and smeared poop all over the carpet! Seriously?! What inside his born-with-original-sin head made him think that was even remotely a good idea?!

I turned and marched purposefully back to the bathroom willing myself to calm down. I discovered him still in the tub where he was happily smearing the poop all over the faucet. I quickly turned the water on and scrubbed him down from head to toe -- twice. When I was finished, I deposited him, wrapped in a towel, in his room and threatened him and his future children if he even thought about leaving. I then took a deep breath and steeled myself for the task at hand.

As I’m scrubbing the carpet, swearing under my breath and breathing through my mouth to avoid the wretched aroma, I’m thinking, “How in the holy hell can he play in this nasty-smelling stuff and think it is fun?!” I guess that’s like when a dog that rolls in the foulest-smelling thing they can find. Or when people sniff something horrid and then hold it out to you and say, “Oooh, this smells awful! Here, smell it!”

After I had successfully (at least I hoped anyway) removed the offensive material from my carpet, I returned to the bathroom to Clorox the tub and faucet. Upon returning to the bathroom, I discovered that in my absence, the demon child had not stayed in his room like I had instructed, but instead had come into the bathroom and written all over the cabinets with a yellow highlighter!

I went in search of the spawn of Satan and found him naked in the den with his sister. (It should also be noted that the entire time this drama was being played out, L was hovering in the background continually reminding me that she had nothing to do with the poop and was being a very good girl today.) So, I firmly told Z to get back up to his room. His response was to throw the wooden train he had in his hand at the flat-screen TV. Are you kidding me? It was at this point that he received a swift and firm smack -- okay, two -- across his bare bottom. (Yeah, I said it – I spanked him. Call DFCS and tell them if they have a problem with it I’ll let them come clean up the s**t next time!)

So, I marched him back to his room and slammed the door. Yes, I slammed the door. Not the most grown-up reaction, perhaps, but I think all things considered I think I was justified.

Since I really needed to work off some of the frustration, I thought I’d channel that energy into a workout. I hoped my anger would carry me through Jillian’s 30-Day Shred. And it did. So, with my workout completed, I went to the kitchen to begin dinner. It was at this point that I discovered that the Anti-Christ had gone to the kitchen, gotten the box of cous cous that I was going to prepare for dinner off the counter and dumped it all out on the kitchen floor. Do you people have any idea how tiny the grains of cous cous are and how impossible it is to sweep every, single grain up off of a white, tile floor? We’ll be crunching around on cous cous until the cleaners come again – and that’s not for another whole week! So, that little stunt earned him another smack on the bottom. (Yes, I spanked him again! Go ahead, call DFCS. Please!)

By the time JAO got home from work, I was so happy to see him that I elbowed the kids out of the way so I could run up and give him a hug.

Sigh. Sometimes being a mom is a really crappy job.

Well, at least they are all in bed now and the house is quiet and poop-free once again. Oh, glass of Merlot, you are my friend. Let’s go watch “Psych.” We deserve it.

Dieting for Dummies

Hi, my name is Regina, and I am addicted to Pringles.

Hi, Regina.

I have had a love-hate relationship with food dating back to my early college days. While it is no longer the dangerously unhealthy disorder that it once was, it is still a complicated relationship that is plagued by bouts of abject dependence and obsessive control.

I don’t like to exercise and I don’t like to sweat. I guess you could say I was a lazy anorexic. And I firmly believe that anyone who says exercise makes you feel good and is actually addictive once you get into it is crazier than a poop-house rat. (I know, I know, the original phrase is much more expressive, but there could be kids reading this.)

But I knew I needed to reel it all back in when I had an unsettling experience with a pair of pants. I was walking around feeling all comfy and thinking, “Hey, why haven’t I worn these pants in so long – they are so comfortable?” Then I looked at tag and discovered why – they were maternity pants.

So, now I’m back on the 30-Day Shred train. Choo-freakin’-choo.

In my quest to fit back into some of my old (non-maternity) clothes, I have sought diet advice from the Internet, friends and the cover of People Magazine. Oh, sure, the best tip is to eat less and exercise more. But, that’s no fun. Plus, it seems too simple. Surely an epidemic as serious as obesity must require a more complicated plan of attack. So, as another public service to you, my loyal readers, I have compiled a list of some of my favorite diet tips. (The diet tips are in bold. The smart-ass comments are mine. Shocker.)

Diet Tip #1: 100-calorie packs help snackers snack less. Do I even need to say why this one is a load of dung beetle poo? Who the heck eats just one pack at a time?? No, really…anyone?

Diet Tip #2: By switching from a 12-inch plate to a 10-inch plate, you’ll cut calories by 22%. Unless, of course, you just continue to fill up the 10-inch plate until you’ve eaten the equivalent of a 30-inch plate.

Diet Tip #3: Don't allow the bread/breadsticks/crackers/chips basket anywhere near your table in restaurants! Excuse me? That’s the only reason I go to most restaurants. Once, I went to Red Lobster and was told they were not serving their garlic cheese biscuits that day. Needless to say, I left.

Diet Tip #4: Since portion sizes are way too large in most restaurants, ask the waiter to bring you a carry out container along with your entre. Before you even take one bite, put half your meal in the container so you will not be tempted to eat the entire serving. That’s actually a very good tip. That way you have something to eat in the car on the way to the ice cream store.

Diet Tip #5: At the movies, buy a kid’s combo which has a tiny portion of popcorn, soda and a piece of candy. It's just enough to treat yourself, and a lot less fattening. Can anyone honestly say they go to the theater to actually see the movie? The last movie I saw had someone in it who did something with someone else. Or something like that. Oh, but I got a large popcorn that I had Karen – that was the name of the nice, young lady who took my order -- fill it half-way with popcorn and then add butter and then fill the rest of the way and top with more butter and I also got a medium Coke (and Karen was like, “Did you say you wanted Diet Coke?” and I was like, “No, Karen, are you on crack? You don’t drink Diet Coke with popcorn!”) and a big box of Milk Duds because it is really good to pop one Milk Dud in your mouth and then add a mouthful of popcorn and enjoy the sweet/salty/crunchy/chewy/chocolaty goodness that makes you glad to be alive. Oh, and I think the movie also had a dog in it. Or maybe it was a squirrel.

Diet Tip #6: Avoid alcoholic beverages as they are high in calories. Well, until I find Diet Bacardi on the shelf, I guess I’ll just have to do a few extra sit-ups.

Diet Tip #7: Phone a talkative friend when a food craving strikes. Call from a corded phone outside the kitchen, and stay on until the craving fades. Who the heck has a cordless phone anymore? And if you are calling a talkative friend won’t just sitting there mindlessly listening to them ramble on and on without allowing even one tiny break in the conversation for you to get a single syllable in leave you with plenty of time to snack? Just in the time it took me to write this, you could have stuffed three cookies in your mouth.

Diet Tip #8: Stand near fatter people. They make you look thinner. I swear to all that is holy, if I see any one of you standing too close to me the next time I see you, I will know why and I will smack you down.

Diet Tip #9: Smash your trash. When you throw food away, thoroughly bury it under more trash so there will be absolutely no question of changing your mind. No need to explain. Um, actually there is a need for explanation. Are there seriously people out there who are so tempted by food that they would go back and dig through the garbage in order to lick that last bit of frosting from the cupcake wrapper? You know, anyone besides my 2-year-old? If you are sifting through trash in order to find your next meal, perhaps your diet isn’t your only concern.

Diet Tip #10: Get a tan. A tan helps you look thinner. And while you are looking thinner, just hope that no one is paying attention to the sunspots, advanced wrinkling, and pot-marks in your face left by the removal of melanoma.

Diet Tip #11: Cross your legs at your ankles. Your thighs and calves will look slimmer. This only works if you are sitting, by the way. If you try it while standing, you’ll just look like you have to pee.

Diet Tip #12: Drink plenty of water throughout the day. Water helps reduce fluid retention and helps curb your appetite. Not to mention all the extra exercise you get from running to the bathroom all day. If I wanted to be plagued by the need to pee every fifteen minutes, I would just get pregnant again. And if I did that, then I would have an excuse to wear elastic waist pants!

As you can see, these tips might not be the key to your weight-loss success. But, don’t fret, my friends. I’m always here to help. I have discovered the one tip that actually works. This trick is certain to curb your appetite, strengthen your resolve and be motivated to work out harder than you ever worked out in your life. Are you ready for it, America?

Work-out in front of a full length mirror…in the nude.

Do this and I guarantee the next time you find yourself digging through your garbage hoping to find that one of the kids accidentally threw out a pack of Princess fruit-snacks with one or two of the chewy snacks still inside, you’ll conjure up an image of yourself doing naked jumping jacks. And then back slowly away from the trash.

Female Stuff

The number one rule in writing is: Write about what you know. Well, I am a female. And I know about being a female. So, here are two entries I wrote that deal with issues of being a female.

(Note: I am also sarcastic, lazy, overly-dramatic and quite self-absorbed. So, I like to write about that stuff, too.)


Two Eggs, Over Easy
March 28, 2001

Continuing with my on-going attempt to experience things I don’t normally experience, I went to a reproductive/infertility clinic last week to attend a seminar on egg donorship.

Lest you all think I was attending the seminar to learn how I can distribute my DNA to all four corners of the world (a frightening thought for us all), let me assure you that I was there merely as an interested party who is fascinated by this process. I wanted to know what was involved in this modern miracle and I also wanted to know what kinds of people actually take part in this procedure. I, myself, am too selfish to ever consider giving such a gift. I don't even buy cards for people on their birthdays. But I can respect that there are woman out there who want to help, and I went simply to learn more about it.

I will begin by saying that the going price for a viable female egg plucked farm fresh from the ovary is $5000. This is, of course, the standard National Coalition of Egg Gatherers agreed-upon rate. I have no idea how much you could get for one on e-bay. This price was determined to be a suitable compensation for the time and effort put forth by the donor without being so much that it would incite those who would simply be donating for the money. And believe me, after I learned all there was to know about this procedure, I knew that $5000 was definitely not enough for an altruistic-deficient person like me. The price would have to be much higher for me to hand over my genes -- and then it would no longer be about helping unfortunate couples battling infertility, but about buying me a new car. So, it seems the Coalition has set the right price.

But even if they were offering me a new car in exchange for half the ingredients needed to cook a human being, I still don’t think I could go through with it.

The next thing I discovered was that not just anyone can toss their eggs into the gene pool. These programs have extremely high standards, as well they should I suppose. But as an insecure neurotic freak whose paranoid fantasies include the fear that I am constantly being rated and judged in every aspect of life, I immediately began to feel the pressure to succeed. The ideal age range for a female egg donor is 21-years- to 29-years-old. Right away I allowed myself to panic thinking that my eggs were only good for another two years. There is also a weight requirement based on what The Man calls the "ideal weight" for a woman in relation to her height. I don't meet this requirement. A slightly ill part of my brain takes pride in the fact that I am eight pounds under this "acceptable average" category. I often take pride in the wrong things.

Before you are accepted into The Program, you must submit to an extensive physical, psychological and genealogical screening. Past medical records are studied while results of personality and psychological tests are interpreted. Blood and hormone levels are checked and rechecked, and a session is scheduled with a genealogist who maps out your DNA with the precision of a Human Genome Project technician. You’re being judged on a genetic level, people. That's not something you can study for. You can exercise, get in shape, try and pass the physicals. You can do a lot of soul-searching, bone up on your lying skills, try and out-smart the psychiatrist. But your genes? There ain't no changin' 'em. As any woman who has tried to retrain a man will tell you.

I have to wonder how I would handle it if I were not accepted into The Program. And, quite frankly, I don't think I could take the kind of rejection. All my self-esteem needs right now is -- after all that testing and screening and consulting with psychiatrists, physicians and genealogists -- to get a phone call and hear, "Um, yeah, Regina? About that egg donorship thing? Well, while we really appreciate the gesture, we're just not so sure you should be reproducing. Yeah, in fact, we've never actually recommended sterilization to anyone before, but after examining you case, we'd like you to at least entertain the idea. Look, what we're saying is, for the love of all that is ovarian, please keep your DNA to yourself. Have a nice day."

But let's just say, for the sake of a really funny argument, that I (and all my physical, psychological and let's not forget genealogical problems) slip past the guards and actually get accepted into the program -- the eggs now have to be harvested.

In order to prepare your ovaries to produce the maximum amount of healthy human seeds, hormones are injected into your system for weeks before the harvesting. These hormones are given by injection (which you can give yourself if you are so masochistically inclined), three times a day for a week -- two in the morning, one at night. 36-hours before the eggs are taken, one last double-duty shot is given intramuscularly in the hip or butt area.

And, lastly, we were told how the eggs were retrieved. Ladies, go ahead and start internally clenching your ovaries right now.

In yet another example of how unfair this cold, cruel world is for women versus the sunny, happy land inhabited by the penis-barers, removing just one fragile, precious egg from an ovary is not nearly as simple as releasing the floodgates to allow millions of mindless sperm to splash into a paper cup. Nor is it as pleasurable. All the girly magazines and skin flicks in the world won’t ease the discomfort of having a needle inserted through your vaginal wall directly into your ovary.

Needle.

Vaginal wall.

Pierced ovary.

Sign me up.

Now, all talk of money, discomfort and/or inconvenience aside, there is still the issue of why a woman would do this. I just can't seem to tap into this uber-humanitarian desire to help total strangers in such an extraordinary way. Giving them 50% of a human? I've never even given anyone a puppy.

Also, I won't get into a discussion on nature versus nurture or what constitutes a family. I have several friends who are adopted and I have never seen any difference between their family and my own biologically-grown one. However, I, personally, can't seem to separate myself from my DNA. Maybe I’ve seen too many episodes of "The X-Files" and, therefore, don't want to let my eggs out of my sight. You've seen what's happened to Scully, for the love of all that is reproductive. And as much as I think the world would benefit immensely from thousands of Regina Clones, I just can't take the risk that one of my clones may go on to be happier or more successful than me. Because that would be so like me to try and show me up.

And, finally, I think I am just egocentric enough to want to take credit for anything that may come out of my body. I believe that if I produce something, I should be able to point to it at any given moment and say, "See that? I made that."

So, for now, I'm keeping all my eggs in my basket and not even the Easter Bunny will be able to get at them. Unless, of course, the Easter Bunny has a brand new car to offer. Then, we'll talk.



Feminine Journey
August 8, 2001

I am posting this entry at 6:00 in the freakin' morning. Just so you know.

I was very tired yesterday. As a result, when 10:30 PM rolled around, I made the horrible mistake of thinking I could simply go to bed early and catch up on some much needed sleep. At 3:30 AM, I was wide awake again, watching an infomercial for the latest and greatest in herbal fat burning products.

After dismissing the legitimacy of this product, and finding no other believable products for sale on the other 78 channels' offerings of early morning inventions, I decided that perhaps I would go to the store to buy some feminine products (as I am a female and occasionally in need of products). Also, the familiar feeling of uterine rebellion was upon me and there were currently no products of a feminine nature in my apartment.

So, at 4:30 in the morning, I got in my car to go to my local 24-hour Kroger. God bless a nation the offers us the opportunity to buy feminine products (or any products, for that matter) on a 24-hour basis.

Not too many people frequent Kroger at 4:30 AM. I wasn't surprised by this, of course, and was in fact glad to have the store practically to myself. While I am quite confident and at ease with myself (hey, I hardly think a sarcastic laugh was necessary there), I still like to have my privacy when buying my feminine products. Not that it isn't a perfectly natural process (this need for feminine products), but when you walk up to the check-out counter with nothing but a box of Tampax and a box of sani-tree towels, you just know the cashier is making conclusions about the activeness of your sex life for the next five to seven days.

I wanted to add a couple of decidedly non-feminine products to my purchase, just to divert some of the attention from the true nature of my business in that store. Unfortunately, due to a $100 Target shopping spree made over the weekend (funded by my benevolent Mother) the only thing I could think of that I still needed was a box of Kleenex. Unfortunately still, the only other people in the store happened to be two, big, burly men stocking the shelves on the Kleenex isle. I debated returning my feminine products to their shelves, going to select my box of Kleenex, and then returning to the Chick Isle to reclaim my products -- but then I decided that would just be plain silly.

So, I just didn't buy the Kleenex.

I know, I know...but at 4:30 in the morning, in a relatively deserted Kroger, with a war raging in my uterus, I was in no mood to lecture myself on the need for a more Gertrude-Stein-I-am-woman-this-is-my-uterus-and-I'm-not-ashamed-of-it attitude.

Now, I'm back home (after buying only what I went to the store to buy, thank you very much), watching the early-morning news and wondering if I shouldn't just go ahead, get in the shower, and be at work hideously early.

(Again, with the sarcastic laughter.)

Just How Smart Do They Have To Be?

I cannot put it off any longer. A decision must be reached on where L will be attending kindergarten. Arrgggh! Why is this so hard? It’s not like I’m trying to decide which college she will attend! But somehow this decision seems just as monumental.

As parents, we want to present our children with the very best opportunities. We want to place them in a school where they will grow and excel. We want to choose an environment that will nurture their minds, as well as their souls. We want to promote self-reliance, cultural- awareness, community-activism, team-work and tolerance of all people and lifestyles. We want them to be challenged to reach their highest potential and to strive to do their best, live their best, be their best!

There. Did I say all the right politically-correct, no-child-left behind, up-with-people, we-are-the-world things?

Okay, here’s how I really feel…

Today’s society expects our kids to know way too much, way too soon.

“Your Baby Can Read?” Seriously? That’s necessary? Why? It’s not like they can read the streets signs they pass on the road because they’re still sitting backward in their flippin’ car seat! And if you teach your baby to read, you’ve missed out on a good four-to-five years of being able to have adult conversations in their presence by spelling out the things you don’t want them to understand. They aren't taking any tests, they aren't applying for any jobs. The only reason you would teach a baby to read is so you could point to your offspring and say, "See that? I made that. And it can read."

Parents believe their children’s progress translates into a reflection of their own intelligence and success. If your baby can read, then you must be one, smart parent, right? So, if my baby is drooling and chewing on the sofa cushions and still -- gasp! -- pooping in a diaper, does that mean I am an idiot? Or does it simply mean that I am the parent of, oh, I don’t know -- A BABY?!

Sigh. Perhaps my view of this is a bit skewed. I suppose I should confess that no one in my past (and dare I say no one in my present) would ever accuse me of being an over-achiever. I know, I know, big shocker. But, what you might not know is that I was once a straight-A student and in the gifted program. That’s right, you heard me -- I was “gifted.”

This was all up until the 7th grade, however. It was at that point that I decided it was way too tiresome to continue on such a path. I declared to my parents that I was no longer going to be a straight-A student nor was I going to be labeled “gifted.”

And, I say with misplaced pride, I excelled at that.

But then God gave me L -- a beautiful, Type “A”, over-achieving, ultra-motivated, driven-by-the-obsessive-need-to-succeed daughter. Most of the time, I look at her as if I have no idea who she is. And, truth be told, I don’t. Her determination, while it is something I know I should admire, actually just makes me kind of tired.

Examples:

When she wanted to learn to whistle like her Daddy, she walked around the house for days blowing through her lips trying to make a sound. She would get frustrated, but then get right back to it, day and night. The afternoon that she was able to make that first whistle emit from her lips you would have thought she just discovered how to fly. Now, she can whistle any tune even better than JAO. I’ve tried a few times to perfect my whistle, but I really only have one note. I can flutter my tongue and make that one note sound like a bird, though! So, I’m really okay with just the one note.

Then there was the day L was determined to learn to jump-rope. She had my parents’ dog’s leash and she must have swung that dang thing over her head 250 times in a matter of an hour-and-a-half until she successfully cleared the swinging leash with her feet.

Just yesterday, we were working on shoe tying. I showed her how to do it one time, then we walked through it together, and then she insisted that I stop helping her -- “I know how to do it now, Mom, you don’t have to keep telling me.” Of course, she forgot a step, the loop didn’t pull through correctly and she threw the shoe across the room and announced, “I can’t do it. I’ll never be able to tie my own shoes!”

But then she regained her composure, marched across the room, picked the shoe up again and proceeded to tie it eight or nine times in a row until she was satisfied that she had mastered the art.

People, I am 35-years-old and I only own one pair of shoes with laces. Slip-ons are so much easier.

So, I’ve started to cringe every time she says, “I’d like to learn to…” because I know it only means I have to put up with the dogged determination and almost adult-like level of frustration and the hours and hours of doing whatever it is over and over again until success is reached.

Sure, it’s lazy of me, but I’m like, “Come on, lady -- give it up! Isn’t there something on TV we could be watching?”

I just want her to be a kid. To have fun! She has a lifetime of responsibilities and expectations ahead of her. What is wrong with just wanting her be my little girl?

I know, I know...I have to be careful not to let my slightly less-than-stellar academic reputation taint my daughter’s scholastic future. If she is showing signs of wanting to -- shudder -- excel, then I don’t want to stand in the way of that. And now I am brought back around to the whole kindergarten dilemma.

Well, at least God gave me Z. My precious baby boy, who is 2-and-a-half and has yet to pee or poop in the potty. He is definitely showing signs of being much more like his mommy. Good boy, Z. Way to under-achieve!

(You know, I feel I should qualify the above statement that I was gifted by saying that once you are considered “gifted” you never really lose that title. Just because I don’t always chose to use my “gifts” to their fullest potential, doesn’t mean they aren’t still there. I could access them at any moment. And I will -- just as soon as Z and I are finished watching this episode of “America’s Next Top Model.”)

How Embarrassing

I am no stranger to being caught in embarrassing situations. As are most people, I suppose. But, it is not the level of embarrassment you may feel, it is how you react to the situation that really matters. For instance, if you slip and fall in the middle of a crowded room, your best bet is to jump right up, take a bow and say, “Thank you! And for my next trick…”

Since I am not that graceful, I’ve had to use that one a lot -- most recently at White House/Black Market. Both of the kids were in school and, for whatever reason, I had actually taken the time to fix myself up. So, I walked into the store feeling all confident and happy that I was about to enjoy a nice morning of shopping without having to bribe anyone with suckers or gum to get them to stop hiding in the racks or pulling up the mannequin’s dress.

I stepped inside and was just about to reply to the nice saleslady’s chipper, “And how are you today?” when my foot slipped across the tile one way sending my butt another way and I ended up sprawled in an awkward half split on the White House/Black Market floor. So, I did the only thing I could do -- hop up, take a dramatic bow and say, “Thank you! I’ll be here all week!”

Sadly, the saleslady was not amused. She was, instead, overly-concerned with my well-being. I told her not to worry, that I wasn’t going to sue. But I did think a nice discount was in order.

This morning, I spent about twenty minutes with the stereo cranked up, dancing around the house and belting out GLEE songs. Then, I realized that there were workers outside rebuilding our fence. Nice. I hope they like GLEE.

This is not unlike the time I ran downstairs topless to get my upper-body wear out of the dryer, completely oblivious to the fact that all the blinds were wide-open and the lawn-care crew was outside. I didn’t take a bow that day. But, I guess I should have.

Once, back when I was working in the cubicle jungle, I was caught talking out loud to myself. (Okay, I’m sure I was caught talking to myself more than once, but this particular incident was the only one I recorded.) I was alone in the elevator chatting me up as I am wont to do when I am alone in an elevator. I was right in the middle of explaining to myself why I needed to have a chicken salad sandwich for lunch verses an egg salad sandwich, when the doors opened to reveal a man waiting to get on. As I happened to be holding my arm out looking at my watch at the exact moment that this gentleman appeared, I did the only thing I could do: I got off the elevator and continued talking into my watch in the hopes that he would simply think I was an undercover operative relaying information back to headquarters via the transmitter hidden inside the wrist band. Because otherwise he would have just thought I was crazy.

I don’t know why I feel the need to constantly try and involve strangers in the continuous comedy routine that is my life. But I love when people join in on my humor.

However, I think I love it even more when they don’t.

Last year, some friends and I were going to see “So You Think You Can Dance” at the Gwinnett Arena. We were late so we were running across the parking lot. We got there, all out of breath, and I handed my ticket to the lady at the door. I said, “Phew! We made it! Did you hold the show for us?”

She just looked at me, scanned my ticket and said flatly, “The show hasn’t started yet.” And then she moved on to the next person.

Once inside, my friend Tonya said, “Does that happen to you a lot?”

And I said, “Yes. Yes, it does.”

The Aging Process

In less than a month, I will be 36. It’s not a very significant age – not like 35 which requires me to now check the Age 35-to-40 box on surveys. But, at this point in my life I don’t feel like fighting my age or my increasingly rapid acceleration toward being able to claim the extra 15% discount every Wednesday at Kohl’s. I'm at peace with the few errant grey hairs, the faint appearance of lines around my eyes and the way nothing on my body seems to be in quite the same position it once was. I don’t care if I ever wear a bikini again, nor do I feel the need to capture the eye of passing men.

(Though I feel pretty confident that if I did wear a bikini now, I’d certainly capture everyone’s eye – just not quite in the way one would hope.)

Poor L is already beginning her stage of the battle, which actually begins by wanting to grow older as fast as possible. Ever since she turned five in back in October, she has been asking when she will be five-and-a-half. We keep telling her she won’t reach that milestone until around the time her brother turns three in May. However, she overheard me tell someone the other day that she was five-and-a-half. L gasped with joy, got a huge grin on her face and said, “I’m finally five-and-a-half! Yea!”

“And-a-half” is a big deal to the young. It can be a big deal to the old, too, just not in the same way. When I was 16-and-a-half and my mother would tell people that I was 17, I was thrilled. Years later at a family reunion I found myself repeatedly reminding my mother that I was not 27, but 26-and-a-half.

So even though I am now comfortably chugging across this mortal coil, I’m sure there will come a time when I turn around and start clawing my way back to the past. I bet when I’m 40, and I'm frantically dying those grey hairs back into extinction, and the "faint" lines around my eyes start resembling a country road map, and nothing on my body is in the same place it once was, then I'll start staring longingly at that bikini again.

Here are a couple of entries from a time when I was having an immense amount of trouble accepting the aging process…



The Growing Older Thing
October 9, 2000 – 26-and-a-half years old

I am not enjoying the Growing Older Thing. Not only have I recently come to the conclusion that there is now an entire generation of men that are too young for me to date, but there is also an entire generation of women whom the generations of men before during and after me desire -- and are legally allowed to pursue. I feel that I am too young to start popping out the babies -- and not old enough to handle any type of responsibility whatsoever -- yet I'm too old to get away with this mentality. And little things keep happening to me that make this situation even worse.

Perfect example of why I am not enjoying the Growing Older Thing:

Last week I entered a QT station to pay for my gasoline purchases and a pack of cigarettes. (For those of you reading this who did not know that I smoke, well, I do. I also eat poorly and drink too much. Yes, I will die early. I've accepted this.) Anyway, the cute young man behind the counter asked to see my I.D. I naturally assumed this was because I look so darn youthful, and not simply because it is the law, so I handed it over with a flirtatious smile.

This boy looks at my I.D. and says, "Yeah, I thought you looked older than me."

WHAT?! What the heck was that?! I just stared at him willing his head to pop off his immature little boy body. Then I snatched my I.D. back from the child and went on my way, careful not to bump into anything on my way out lest I fall down and break a hip or something. Thank God that Boy Scout was waiting in the parking lot to escort me back to my car.



When Nude Photos Are No Longer A Good Idea
February 20, 2001

I became another year older yesterday. Yea, me. I didn't die for another whole year.

Actually, I have handled turning 27 fairly well, I think. I had a great weekend and a great birthday. I found myself enjoying the benefits of being born. You get free stuff, people treat you just a bit more special. You even begin to feel a bit special.

But then the next day you're back to being just you again. Only, an older version of you.

Yesterday I had a friend suggest that I have someone take nude pictures of myself now while my body still looks good naked before I reach the point where I don't look good naked and I then won't have proof that I once did, indeed, look good naked. (This suggestion came from a guy friend, of course. No woman would ever encourage or condone such masochistic behavior.) And while I was appalled by this idea -- at first -- I am now considering its merits. I mean, there's some truth in there somewhere, right? Do we not owe it to ourselves to document our youth before it's so long gone we've forgotten that we were ever young in the first place?

I think this nude picture thing ranks right up there with traveling to distant lands while you're still young enough to hike across Europe, or going to that one last club that is open 'til 5am while you're still energetic enough to stay out all night and yet still go to work the next day, or making out in weird places while you're still flexible enough to maneuver around inside a public phone booth. We should do these things while we're young because we have the excuse..."Hey! What do you want from us? We're young!!"

I am teetering on the edge of being able to use this excellent excuse to get away with spontaneous, wacky behavior, and being looked upon with pity because I'm trying to use this lame excuse to get away with irresponsible, immature behavior.

And, I must say, my big fear is that I will get the nude pictures back and realize that the time to have taken those photos was actually two years ago and I have already passed the point where I could take good nude photos. Maybe I just don't need that kind of disappointment in my twilight years. And the thought of hiking across Europe makes me tired just thinking about it. And I have, on more than one occasion lately, looked at my watch and said, "My God! It's almost 11:30! I have to be at work in the morning!" And getting all romantic in a public phone booth? You know how many germs there are inside one of those things? Not to mention the fact that they are very drafty.

Hmmmm…I may have to reevaluate my list of things to do while I'm still young. Would you consider staying up 'til midnight playing Trivial Pursuit with a small group of friends, drinking wine and discussing current events a crazy celebration of youth?

Nah, I wouldn't either. But until they start making public phone booths larger, more sterile and better insulated...Trivial Pursuit it is.

Off Night

The other day I touted JAO's wonderfulness as a husband and father. And while I still believe that to be true, I thought it only fair and balanced to include a story about a time when he was not so wonderful. Heh, heh. Actually, I'll let you judge for yourself who was at fault here. And I strongly encourage you to agree with me. After all, JAO isn't the one filling your days with clever stories and witty observations.

Anyway, as you all know, in the very beginning of a relationship there is the "honeymoon" phase where everything is all rose-colored glasses and The Voice. All personality traits are cute and any imperfection is deemed adorable. You can't get enough of each other, your body is one big tingly, excited mess and your world is giddy and fun.

And then the honeymoon ends. The glasses come off. The traits are annoying and the imperfections are downright inciting. And The Voice is replaced by, well, it is still called The Voice, only this Voice is laden with sarcasm and a touch of spite.

Some will argue that this euphoric honeymoon feeling cannot be sustained -- and isn't meant to be sustained -- and that it is then replaced by a deeper, more meaningful feeling. A feeling that signals a life of dedication, devotion and mutual respect and love.

Whatever.

I don't believe there is a person out there who is now in a long-term, stable relationship that doesn't, at least partly, miss the pleasant euphoria that is the honeymoon phase.

So, I thought I would share the first time I caught a glimpse of the end of my honeymoon phase with JAO. The rose-colored glasses started to slip off my nose a bit -- and then it was all downhill from there. (And when I say "downhill" of course I mean our descent into a comfortable, loving, stable, deeply-emotionally-bonded relationship built on mutual respect and love.)

Whatever.

You know I love you, Boo. I wouldn't trade our life for anything. But, again...badder is funnier. :-)



Off Night
November 11, 2001

Last night, The Boyfriend and I had an "off" night. We just weren't in sync with each other. Have you ever experienced one of those nights? Oh, what fun. Nothing you say or do seems to help.

I suppose I may have started it. I was feeling a bit "off" myself and I allowed that mood to take me over. Though, I'm not completely convinced that he was merely reacting to my mood or if he was in his own funk and, therefore, forcing me to react to him. You decide.

This is how it went...

When I got there, he was folding his laundry. I sat on the bed and watched. I was trying to come down off of the high "Buffy, the Musical" had put me on. I think that somewhere on my way down, I made a wrong turn.

He was matching his socks and rolling them up in a ball. I was only trying to help when I said, "You really shouldn't roll your socks up that way."

"Why?"

"Because it stretches them out at the top. You should just put them together and fold them over." Very Martha Stewart of me, don't you think?

"Thanks for the tip." He looks me in the eye -- and continues to roll his socks up in a ball.

There is some silence and then he says, by way of striking up a conversation I guess, "So. What's up?"

"Oh, not much. How about you?"

"Well, I'm just trying to get all this stuff done before you got over here."

Inwardly, I say, "Well, you didn't succeed, since I am obviously already here and you have obviously not finished with your chores."

Outwardly, I say, "Hmmmm."

More silence as he finishes the folding of his laundry. Then it's on to dusting.

As he's dusting the top of the wardrobe, and the white cloth he's using is turning black, I'm thinking, "Darn, how long has it been since you've dusted the top of that thing?" But I say nothing. Until...

"Do me a favor?" I ask, full of innocence.

"What?" (Is it my imagination or was that a defensive 'what?')

"Open that third drawer and dust underneath it."

"What?" (Okay, that one was downright incredulous.)

"The third drawer. Open it up and dust the strip of wood underneath it. You dusted the top rim of the drawers but you neglected the strip of wood underneath." (Am I wrong in saying this?)

So, with a sigh, he does so.

"Um, and the door."

"What about the door?"

"Open it up and dust the inside of the cupboard area."

I don't even get a response to this one. But he does it. So I won, right? I mean, how can I be expected to sleep in a room that I know is not properly dusted? But I tactfully decline to ask him this.

I decide, instead, to change the subject. Get back to something light. I know! We can talk about our upcoming New York trip! That's guaranteed to lift our spirits! Last week, when Delta had its mad marked-down ticket prices sale, we booked a flight to New York for $74.26 for each round-trip ticket. Since then, I have been unable to think of anything else.

The Boyfriend has never been, so one night last week I pulled out all my maps of the city and spread them out on the floor for his first New York lesson. I explained all I knew about the layout of the city, the position of the neighborhoods, the location of all the favorite tourist sites. But I sensed that he wasn't as into the lesson as I was. He kept watching the television -- and reruns of "Friends," while entertaining for sure, shouldn't win the attention of someone who's supposed to be learning about the greatest city in the world, should it?

See, I didn't think so either!

Anyway, I poured over our hotel choices with the obsession and care of someone picking out her child's name. I was so proud when I found the most beautiful hotel right at 52nd and 6th for the low, low price of $129 a night. Unfortunately, as someone who was born and raised in the significantly less expensive town of Stone Mountain, Georgia, The Boyfriend was shocked at our $608 hotel bill. As I was justifying that reservation (as well as the $145 price tag that came with our Broadway show tickets) it dawned on me that this poor boy didn't quite realize what he was getting into when I called and said, "Hey, you wanna go to New York?"

That notwithstanding, I was still determined that he was going to love this city as much as I did and assumed that he was equally excited to the point of insomnia over the idea of our trip.

All bubbly and cute, I ask, "Did you get a chance to go on-line and look at the hotel I booked for us?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, that's okay. I brought pictures!"

"Pictures of what?"

"Of the hotel -- so you can see what it looks like. Wait until your see our room! It's really beautiful. You're gonna love it!"

"Okay."

Hmmm...I try another tactic: "You know, Jen and Mike are going to Philly right after Christmas. I was like, 'Philly? Why would you choose Philly?' But she said that neither of them has been there before and Michael is a big Eagles fan -- whatever that means. She said something about wanting to drive into Atlantic City while they were there and I was like, 'Jen! If you're going to drive somewhere, got to New York! You're almost as close to the city at that point.'" (I mean, why wouldn't someone want to go to New York if given the chance? No offense, Jen, but come on!)

Again, am I wrong here?

Apparently, I am.

With a sense of cruelty that I never knew he was capable of, The Boyfriend said, "You know, not everyone is as infatuated with New York City as you are."

Boom! Silence.

Inwardly, and with great consternation: "Excuse me?!....What?!"

Outwardly, and very calmly: "I told you before, if you don't want to go, I'll change your airline ticket to someone else's name." (Half joking/half I'm serious if you aren't going to be excited about this then I don't even want to share it with you.)

He said (and rather explosively, I thought), "Look. I told you. I want to go. I'm excited about it. Really."

"Okay." (Hmmm....I think I'll suddenly become engrossed in this brochure touting all the best golfing resorts in the Florida panhandle.)

"Are you okay?"

"Of course!" (Big smile. Gee, I had no idea there were so many golf courses in the panhandle of Florida.)

"I really do want to go."

"I know you do." (The resort in Destin seems nice.)

"Fine."

"Fine."

Then he goes about his dusting duties.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

Beat. Beat. Now with hurt indignation, my speech designed to explain it all and regain his love and affection while simultaneously filling him with the wonder and joy that is New York:

"I know that my obsession with New York may seem crazy. But I love that place. I have never felt more alive than when I was there. I was born to be in that city. There's no place on earth that I would rather be!" (Oh, my. Did I just quote Ava Gabor in "Green Acres?")

Silence.

Okay, so that speech didn't go exactly as I had planned. Guess it's back to the brochure.

When he stands on the bed to dust the fan blades, which are directly above my head, I stand up to leave the room. I don't want the dust to fall on my head, now do I?

"Where are you going?" he demands. (Okay, he just kinda asks, but I heard "demands.")

Inwardly: "I'm leaving and I'm never coming back, you New York-hating, sock-ruining, poorly-dusting, insensitive man!"

Outwardly: "To the bathroom."

"Oh. Okay."

Geez. Is it just me, or was he being sensitive or what?

Other People's Stories

I choose to surround myself with funny people. Not necessarily funnier than me, of course. I don’t need that kind of competition. But, funny people nonetheless.

And often, these funny people have funny stories. And since I am bizarrely compelled to share funny stories with the world, I will share with you now, the funny stories of Emma, Renee and Debra...


Emma’s Story
July 29, 2000

My friend, Emma, is the most adorable British woman that I have ever met. She's genteel, proper and kind, and I love her accent. Being a sucker for a proper British accent, I could listen to her read the ingredients on a cereal box and find it the most charming monologue I have ever heard. So, to hear her recount her tale of the most publicly embarrassing female-related incident, made me bray with laughter as only an improper Yank would do.

After I stopped laughing, I told her she needed to start her own on-line diary and begin it with that tale. She told me that I should just post it on my web-log instead. So, here it is: Emma the Proper Brit's Most Publicly Embarrassing Female-Related Tale (as told by me, the Improper Yank).

Needing to purchase some, uh, feminine products, Emma rushes into her local deluxe pharmaceutical chain (CVS Pharmacy, to be precise) with the intention of buying a box of sanitary towels. (She pronounces it "sani-tree" towels, making them sound all exotic and everything. Where I come from, we just call 'em pads -- or worse, rags. But, then again, I'm from Georgia.)

Anyway, with only mere minutes before CVS is to close, Emma dashes about the store in search of these items, but to no avail. There is not a sani-tree towel to be found. Finally, she spots a familiar site -- a box marked "Kotex." In a haste she grabs the box and rushes to the check-out.

Immediately, a line forms behind her consisting of (of course) three men. The first two are young, college types, and the third man is an elderly gentlemen of about eighty. Even though it is a natural process, one that everyone on the planet over the age of at least 12 knows about and understands, very few women are still comfortable purchasing sanitary pads (towels, napkins, whatever). Few men will do this, while even fewer men will talk about or even acknowledge this wonder of nature. So, to have an audience of three men while buying any item even remotely related to this phenomenon makes Emma a bit uncomfortable. But, hey, even the British reproduce, right?

The cashier is a female and for this Emma is grateful. A fellow sufferer of "the curse" will be quick and discreet, allowing Emma to make her purchase and scuttle out of the store while still maintaining her dignity.

Or so Emma thinks.

The female cashier looks at Emma's purchase, and in a volume of voice usually reserved for capturing the attention of someone standing several miles away asks, "Are you sure this is what you wanted, dear?"

Stunned by this sister's betrayal, Emma politely stammers, "Why, yes." While thinking, "What is happening to me?! Just hurry up!"

The cashier again looks at the purchase, then back at Emma, and again asks, "Are you sure, dear?"

Looking around for that hole that would mercifully appear in the floor and swallow her up, Emma again replies, "Yes, I am sure." While thinking, "Please, please let this end soon!"

Obviously feeling like she hasn't made her point, this evil traitor to her gender explains the reason for her seemingly rude questioning, "Honey, these are incontinence pads. I think you want sanitary pads."

In a state of horrified mortification, Emma grabs the box, mumbles, "Thank you," and rushes to return the embarrassing would-be purchase to its shelf. As she passes her fellow customers, the two young men quickly duck their heads and avert their eyes (as any polite young man in this situation would do), embarrassed to have been anywhere near this conversation, much less anywhere near a box that would contain either incontinence pads or sanitary ones. 

However, the last man in line, the elderly gentlemen, catches Emma's eye - and winks.

Mortified, Emma deposits the offensive box on the nearest shelf and ducks out the door without having made her intended purchase.

She has not been back to that store since -- for fear she ever run into that old man again.

Thanks for the story, Emma. :-)



Renee’s Story
March 30, 2001

I will begin by saying that this is, indeed, a true story. I did not experience it first-hand, however. I am relaying this story from my cousin, Renee. But after having heard this story, I soooo wish I had been there.

Renee attends a large church with an even larger choir. Being an extremely talented and gifted singer, Renee is a member of this choir. (And often a featured soloist. As I said, she is extremely talented and gifted. She gets it from me.) Anyway, Wednesday night during choir practice she and her fellow singers had an encounter with one of those truly random and bizarre people who wander this earth in search of situations in which to present their true randomness and bizarreness.

Just as the choir director was stepping to the podium to begin his directing duties, a woman entered the rehearsal hall, walked the length of the room, and stopped in front of the choir director. She then asked him if she could say a few words.

Let me point out that no one knew this woman. Dressed in a somewhat grungy fashion and carrying a backpack, she was a stranger to everyone in the room. Confused, I am sure, but curious, perhaps, about what she had to say, the choir director stepped aside and allowed her the floor.

This woman stepped in front of the podium and, speaking clearly into the microphone, began to lecture the choir on the dangers of confusing live wires with ordinary clothes lines.

Seriously.

She spoke at length about how people should be made aware of the fact that if you pick up a live wire thinking that it is just a clothes line you will be badly injured, maybe even killed. People should also take caution not to step on these live wires that crouch hidden in the grass disguising themselves as harmless little clotheslines just waiting for some hapless victim to stumble across them. Some people just do not know, she said, and they have to be told. Live wires can kill.

When she was finished, the choir director thanked her, and she began to leave. She then suddenly whipped back around and asked, "You don't want the Devil to get you, do you?!"

To which the choir director responded, "Uh, no ma'am, we sure don't."

Then the woman turned back around and departed, leaving the bewildered choir to ponder the dangers of confusing clotheslines with live wires, and just what exactly that has do with Satan.

The choir director watched her walk out the door, turned back to his charges, and went directly into the next song. No one spoke of the incident, no one commented on their strange visitor. Renee, fearful of setting off a non-stoppable chain-laugh reaction, chanted "don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh" inside her head while attempting to sing. Even after rehearsal was over, no one talked about it. I guess some things just don't need to be discussed. Everyone chose to mull over this important life lesson in private as its profound meaning began to sink in.

Later, Renee said (and I quote), "Just think. I could have been out in my yard this summer, about to hang up my clothes to dry, and unwittingly grabbed onto a live wire! I could have been killed simply because I didn't know any better! I thank the Lord for sending this real-life guardian angel to us all."

Okay, so that's not a direct quote. But you get the idea. I mean, who knows how many innocent lives this woman has saved, how many horrible electrocutions she has prevented in her crusade to educate and enlighten? She is probably out there, right now, spreading the word, stopping choir practices all over the nation to teach, to warn, to save.

Because I'm telling you, people -- they are out there. And they are in larger numbers than we care to admit.



Debra’s Story
September 26, 2001

One week, Debra came to Atlanta for a visit and she stayed with me for a couple of nights. On a Tuesday, I left her at my apartment while I went to work fairly confident in her ability to take care of herself in my absence. How wrong was I?

In the early afternoon, I got a phone call from her and she was laughing hysterically. After she told me why, I was laughing hysterically. And after I shared this story with all of my co-workers they, too, were laughing hysterically.

Here is what she told me:

After spending the majority of the day lying on the sofa watching television, Debra decided she would be productive and take a shower. (Just so you know, she was on vacation from work and school and was looking forward to just lying around and doing nothing. I tell you this so you don't think that Debra has nothing better to do with her time than lie around on other people's sofas watching television on a Tuesday.) Before getting into the shower, Debra placed two towels on the toilet seat. While in the shower, she realized that she had left her facial cleanser on the counter by the sink. She reached through the shower curtain and leaned over the toilet to get the cleanser, placing her hand on top of the towels to support herself.

Unfortunately, Debra had forgotten one very important detail -- she had not put the lid down on the toilet. The towels, and her hand, went straight to the bottom of the toilet bowl, pitching her body forward and sending her legs flying up in the air. She froze for a moment, still in that position, and thought, "Okay. I am wet. I am naked. And my arm is in a toilet up to my elbow."

She laughed through the rest of her shower, as well she should have. And while that story still makes me smile, I am glad that she wasn't hurt beyond a nice bruise that appeared on her arm. I would have hated to come home and find her lying passed-out-naked on my bathroom floor with my toilet full of towels.

Thanks for the entertainment, Deb. I know I can always count on you to make me laugh.

The JAO Chronicles

Yesterday was a horrible day as far as my head was concerned -- migraines are miserable things. However, it was a great day as far as my marriage was concerned. JAO was such a great husband and father! He took care of the kids, did some laundry, cooked, cleaned the kitchen -- he even had some of Lily's friends over to play! All while I languished upstairs willing my head to stop pounding and my stomach to stop rejecting anything I attempted to put into it.

And, after the kids were in bed, he went out and got me some Ginger Ale and the cheese and peanut-butter crackers that have ultra stomach-healing powers.

Sigh. What a man. Since I have a tendancy to only report the bad things that happend in life -- because, well, let's face it, badder is funnier -- I really wanted everyone (and him) to know how much I love and appreciate my husband.

See? That's not funny at all!

Okay, back to the funny...

While I was keeping up this online diary, JAO and I began (re-began) the relationship that would lead to our marriage. Lucky for him, I was able to document some of our finer moments. Heh, heh.

Before we began dating seriously, I was the queen of first-dates. I was a commitment-phobe who invented Seinfeldian reasons for rejecting men and had no clue how to behave normally in a stable, loving relationship.

So when an obsessive-compulsive, neurotic, red-hot-mess of a girl meets a calm, dependable, has-it-all-together boy...well...you can see what happens...



The Coolness Factor
May 10, 2001

Last night I went to the Mario Andretti Speed Lab. Named such, because they have made a science of racing. (This is just a guess.) It is an indoor racetrack where you can suit up and race like the pros. Well, if the pros only went twenty-miles-an-hour, that is. I didn't actually get to race, however. Being a silly little girl, I left the house in fashionably clunky open-toed sandals. And while my feet looked fabulous, these sandals are not accepted race wear. So I just had to sit and watch while the boys (wearing their less-fashionable, yet more-race-friendly sneakers) pretended they were Mario (or one of the other Andrettis) for seven, action-packed minutes.

I was there with The New Guy and some of his colleagues. This was a big deal as these colleagues were also good friends of his and I was meeting them for the first time. Since he and I have known each other since high school (therefore, not really making him all that "new" I suppose), we've already met the families. But we haven’t really ventured into the "meeting the friends" arena. So, because I choose to put pressure on myself for the stupidest reasons, I was slightly nervous about the evening.

However, I can now say with arrogant pride -- I performed magnificently.

When I excused myself to go to the ladies' room, his friends told him that I was "cool." I wasn't surprised by this because, well, I am pretty damn cool. Of course, being the only girl in the group upped my chances of being cool as there were no other women there to compete against in the coolness category. So that helped me.

And now, because I think this is a useful service, allow me to share with you some tips on how to be the "cool girlfriend."

1.) Do not be offended by the boys' occasional foul language and/or off-color jokes.

2.) Throw in your own occasional choice word or phrase. But limit those instances to at least three. Remember, there is a fine line between being cool and still remaining a lady.

3.) Order cheap, redneck beer. Southern men feel that you are one of their own kind and Northern men just find it charming.

4.) Compliment your boyfriend. Do not do this is a gushy, baby-talkie way, of course -- that is nauseating. Simply make a few well-timed comments here and there that say, "Yes, I am very pleased to be dating this man." He feels propped-up in front of his buddies and his buddies are pleased that he is with a nice girl who really seems to care about him.

5.) On the flip side, don't be afraid to get in a few good-natured jibes as well. It establishes your sense of humor and sends the message that you can hold your own if need be.

There are obviously a few other things you can do that will earn you the "cool girlfriend" title, but you wouldn't want to do them in front of his friends. Well, unless, of course, you are all into that. To each her own.

Now, ladies, I am in no way suggesting that you try and be anything you are not simply to ingratiate yourself to your man and his friends. Nor am I saying that you have to abandon your free-will as a woman in order to mold yourself into a guy world. I am merely saying that men are easily manipulated. It only takes a few simple strategic moves on your part to gain the "cool" title. And once you have established yourself as the "cool girlfriend," then you can begin to be the true bitch that you are. He won't even know what hit him.

Again, with the kidding.



Diary of a Mad Woman
June 5, 2001

Monday, June 4, 2001

Weight: 110 (but scale in kitchen is off by six pounds -- not telling you which way). Cigarettes: 3 (if you are my mother); 8 (if you are not someone who will lecture me). Alcohol units: 1 1/2 (v.g. for a Monday).Calories: no idea. Number of times felt all warm and tingly over New Guy: 57 (nice). Number of times felt panic over possibility of screwing things up with New Guy: 32 (v.g. -- down from yesterday). Resolution: Mustn't let Bridgett Jones's warped theories and paranoid fantasies about men effect my new-found relationship.

9:15 a.m.
When read Bridgett's first book, thought she had brilliant insight into the complicated and heartbreaking world of Singletons. But, at the time, I was a Singleton myself. Now that I am sinking comfortably into the safety of the Smug Newly Datings, feel she may be a bit self-destructive and ultimately incapable of maintaining a healthy adult relationship. Because I certainly am capable of maintaining a healthy adult relationship without the aid of constant conversation dissection and body language analyzaiton or dependence on "Mars/Venus" theology. Right? Aren't I?

9:25 a.m.
Still...can't help but identify with Bridge even now. And, must say, still sneakingly suspect she may be right when says in a relationship, "Men must feel they are the pursuer." Could this be true? Could C. have been right when said, "Be careful. You're going to burn this one out. Don't chase him. Make him call you." Is that possible? Is the phrase, "I really need to just stay home tonight and catch upon some work" a legitimate excuse and not a tactful way of saying, "Bugger off, woman, seven days in a row is plenty of you?" Beginning to obsess.

10:00 a.m.
Resolution: Need to be aloof, yet attentive; detached, yet caring; independent while still making it clear that my life would fall apart without his existence. Easy enough.

12:00 p.m.
He has not called yet today.

12:15 p.m.
Still has not called. What could be...Ahhhhhh! Phone!

12:30 p.m.
Blast. Was Mother. Shared The Pursuer Theory with her. She responded by saying, "Dear, we live in the year 2001, not the year 1901. Things are different now." Oh, no, Mother. You only wish. We are fighting millions of years of the collective unconscious. One decade of bra-burning isn't going to erase centuries of social morays and opposite sex patterns. If men have always been the hunters, one chorus of "I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar" isn't going to change that.

1:00 p.m.
Began Pursuer Theory test. Resisted urge to call by sending emails in waves to friends who have vowed to not let me screw this up. Watched the clock, watched the phone, imagined all the reasons why he would not have called: 1.) trapped under something heavy and, therefore, unable to get to the phone (however, always has his cell phone on him so could use that to call me and have me come rescue him); 2.) extremely busy at work as he is a dedicated and hard-working man who will make wonderful provider (though too hardworking will leave me at home with five screaming babies and no life of my own); 3.) desperately wants to call but is testing his own theories about pursuing and is sitting staring at his phone as I am sitting starting at mine. (No. Least likely of them all.)

7:00 p.m.
It worked! Hurrah! He called me! Even got an "I miss you" without having to illicit. I am woman, hear me roar! Resolution for tomorrow: Do not play games or test theories or obsess or become paranoid lest sabotage a potentially long-term, legitimate, stable, adult relationship with wonderful, normal, practically-perfect-for-me-in-every-way New Guy. In other words, do not be usual self. Well, can be self, just not typical relationship-sabotaging self. Be confident, calm, together, fun-loving, supportive, whimsical self.

10:00 p.m.
Called again! Double hurrah!! Listened to long story of his day's troubles while practicing being the nurturing, supportive, loving partner. Think I succeeded.

1:00 a.m.
Must stop playing Free Cell and go to bed. Big day of no-game-playing and no-theory-testing tomorrow. Must rest up for challenge.

Note to self: Do not let New Guy read dairy posts. Not just yet. Possibly already thinks am deranged.

Note to everyone else: Do not give out diaryland URL to New Guy. You already know am deranged. No need to share just yet.



The Voice
August 29, 2001

Okay, fine. So, The New Guy has officially become The Boyfriend. There. I said it. I have a boyfriend. Whom I love. To whom I have actually said, “I love you.” And from whom I have actually heard, “I love you, too.”

Phew. That wasn't so hard to say.

Wait. Why is everything going black...? fuzzy...Toto? Toto? Is that you...

Okay. I'm fine now. Seriously, The Boyfriend is great. And that's all I have the ability to articulate right now. I won't go into any of the mushy stuff, because, quite frankly, you don't want to hear it. Instead, I'll continue to share the more amusing aspects of this learning process.

Yesterday, while on the phone with The Boyfriend, I realized with shocked dismay that I was using The Voice. The Voice that you use on the phone when you’re talking to The New Guy who has since become The Boyfriend. The Voice that usually indicates the predication of the “L” word. Not the annoying, baby-talky, goo-goo-gaa-gaa voice, but the other one -- the one that is really a lack of annunciation and the drop of an octave. The Voice that is made through a sly smile and a coy duck of the head -- which is, of course, not something The Boyfriend can see, but rather something he can hear. I hung up the phone with the sly smile still on my face and my head still coyly cocked to the side. And then I snapped out of it and thought, “What the hell am I doing?”

And then I thought, “Oh, yeah. I'm falling in love.” And then I started smiling again.

HAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAA!! Ohhhhhhhhhhh!!! I'm sorry! I'm sooooo sorry! I just can't end this entry like that. I have a reputation to uphold.

Sigh.

Oops. The Boyfriend just called me. I used The Voice. Right here in the office. This is getting serious.

Nature Hater

It has never been a secret that I don't get along well with nature. I don't care to look at it, touch it or let it get on me. It's messy and itchy and germy and prickly and the smell is almost impossible to get out of your hair and clothes.

Ask my father about the time we went camping and all we had was an outhouse and how I was determined to hold my pee for the entire weekend and I could have done it, too, if they hadn't forced me -- screaming and crying -- to go into the cold, dark, bug-infested, stinky nightmare of a toilet (which wasn't really a toilet at all but a broken toilet seat sitting on top of a piece of plywood with a hole cut out of it). And trust me, you don't want to know what was at the bottom of that hole.

Or the time we were riding in the Blazer (on our way to yet another camping trip, I swear my parents hated me), when the container holding the crickets came open and a hoard of the disgusting, creepy creatures swarmed out all over the car. I spent the remainder of the hour-and-a-half long trip curled up in a tiny ball, rocking back and forth, trying in vain to find my happy place.

Or the time we were camping (yes, there can be no doubt that my parents hated me) and Mom and I were sitting on the hammock and she looked down and said, "Oh, hey, will you look at that?" just as calmly as one would say, "Oh, gee, that blade of grass sure is green" only she wasn't talking about a blade of grass, she was talking about the most gigantically large alien bug that was crawling up her leg. I didn't sleep for the rest of the weekend.

But, I digress.

I do that a lot.

So, here are a few entries that give you some more insight into my tenuous relationship with nature...



Kamikaze Cardinals
July 21, 2000

How can you tell if a bird is suicidal? And what steps do you take to intervene?

For the past two hours, a pair of cardinals has (have?) been flinging themselves against my office window. I can only assume it has something to do with the fact that David Duchovny has already been replaced by that really freaky “Terminator Two” guy. What else would drive otherwise stable and sane birds to commit such a violent act against their own person?

At first, I thought they were simply bored and looking for some fun. You know, much in the same way we used to try and make ourselves faint as kids, or see how hard we could punch a tree before we really started to do damage to our fist, or try and determine exactly how much was “too much” purple Kool-Aid for one afternoon.

But after observing these two hapless creatures, I came to the conclusion that they weren’t doing this for fun. They were obviously driven by some type of suicidal mission. I don’t claim to like nature, but I couldn’t just sit back and watch this happen.

So, in an effort to curb their kamikaze quest, I taped a piece of brightly colored paper to the window. This helped for about five minutes. Apparently, the birds decided that it was just paper, so, hey, they could fly right through it.

So I taped another piece of paper up (bright yellow this time) thinking that maybe they'd see it and think, "Oh, well, now there's TWO pieces of paper up there. Certainly this is a solid pane of glass and we will immediately cease hurling our fragile, little bodies against it."

No, they did not think this.

It's a little disconcerting really. My sympathy for these poor birds is quickly turning to disgust. I have very little tolerance for excessive ignorance, even in the animal kingdom.

I walked outside to have a little chat with my feathered friends, but they flew off when they saw me coming. I looked at the window from my new vantage point and discovered that it did, indeed, perfectly reflect the trees and blue sky that the birds were obviously seeing. I was almost tempted to hurl myself at the window as well. But as I got closer to the window, I discovered that I was perfectly reflected in the glass, too.

So, my last thought is, "Okay, so it does look just like an extension of their world and it seems reasonable to think that they would assume they could soar on into that perfectly reflected blue sky."

"But wouldn't they at least try and avoid hitting the other bird flying right at them?"

Maybe I just don't understand nature.



The Mystery Carcass and Other Dead Things
August 18, 2000

Right outside my front door, in between the bushes and the house, there is the rotting carcass of...something. It’s furry. That’s about all I know. Oh, and it smells terrible.

My roommate’s cat has been really showing off his alpha-maleness every since our new male roommate moved in. I think George (the cat) is threatened by Jamie’s (the roommate) presence. Since Jamie has joined out little Three’s Company episode, George has brought home dead mice, birds, and frogs. And let’s not forget the rotting thing in the bushes. I think it may have been a squirrel at some point, but I’m not exactly sure.

Over the three years I have lived in that house, George has delivered a few gifts here and there, but he always left them on the back porch. However, the past three times he’s come home from the hunt, he’s brought his kill into the house. INTO THE HOUSE! So, okay, while I can’t understand the need for things to kill other things, I will concede that it does happen. However, I don’t feel that there is ANY reason for these things to take place indoors.

The first time it happened, I was sitting in the den watching television. When Amy opened the door to come in, George came tearing in after her. This is not unusual as George is often tearing from one place to another in a mad effort to be on time for his many cat appointments. After a moment, I could hear George making terrible noises in the kitchen. He was growling and mewling like I’d never heard him do before. Jamie was standing in the foyer, eating a piece of pizza and watching George do whatever it was George was doing that would make him produce those noises.

I asked, “What the hell is wrong with George?”

Jamie, very calmly, replied, “Oh, he’s brought a mouse in here and he’s playing with it.” Then he took a bite of pizza.

“What?!” I screamed as I jumped up from my chair, “Are you serious?!”

“Yeah.” Again with the calm, again with the bite of pizza. “He’s batting it around the kitchen.”

After several moments of shocked silence I managed to scream, “Well, don’t just stand there....DO something!”

Jamie looked at me witheringly and asked, “What do you want me to do about it? He’s obviously having fun with it.” Calm. Bite of pizza.

This is when I realized that living with a boy doesn’t mean that you are automatically supplied with a bug catcher, light bulb changer, fuse reconnecter, all-around handy worker who will rescue you from things like dead mice in the house. Instead, it means that you are now living with a creature who is so unaffected by carnage that he can stand there and calmly consume his dinner while watching the cat bat a limp, lifeless mouse around the kitchen. (Did I mention it was the kitchen? Where we eat? Where we have food? The very last place in the house where you would want a dead, diseased-filled mouse?)

In the end, I watched Amy wrestle the mouse away from George, scoop it up and dump it outside. I watched all this from the safety of the staircase. I didn’t want to even be on the same floor as the mouse. Jamie watched from the foyer. He was eating pizza.

After that, George brought in two dead birds on different occasions. Thank the Lord, I was not at home either time. I did discover the dead frog on the front steps, though. I was thoroughly repulsed.

And now there’s this mystery carcass in the bushes. I certainly hope George regains his sense of manhood soon. I can’t take much more of this nature invading my personal space. Especially dead nature. That’s the worst.



Little Piece of Nature
October 12, 2000

This past weekend I was visiting a friend who was house-sitting. And at this house where my friend was sitting there lives a young squirrel. Okay, so I have absolutely no idea how old this thing is, but it makes the story sound better.

Anyway, this squirrel will come right up to you and take a cracker or a nut right out of your hand. At first I wasn't overly-impressed by this. A two-year-old will do the same thing. Hell, so will a man. But once it was explained to me that this is not normal behavior for the typically cautious and paranoid squirrel, then I reluctantly agreed that it was actually kind of cool.

I picked up a handfull of peanuts, still in the shell, and walked outside to greet this creature. I crouched down (as to appear less threatening) and held one of the nuts out to the squirrel. "Here, squirrel," I gently cooed. "Here, Mr. Squirrel," I said, hoping to sound more polite. "Here, you little piece of nature, you!" That did it. It came scampering over and took the nut right out of my hand. Suddenly I was like the Crocodile Hunter, getting in tune with the wild beats that share this planet with us!

So, I offered it another nut, and then another. I was determined that before I left, this squirrel would think I was Mother Nature herself, bestowing gifts upon my many animal children. As I sat there watching my new friend, reveling in my new-found connection with nature (while at the same time battling the thought that this creature was probably flea-ridden and possibly carrying deadly diseases in its scrawny body -- you didn't expect me to embrace nature all at once, did you?), I noticed that it took the squirrel quite a while to crack open each shell to get to the nut inside. So, I went that one extra step to prove to this animal that I was a good and kind person. I cracked open the next shell for it and laid my offering out open-faced on the ground before me.

The squirrel scurried back over and picked up the opened shell, but, as it picked the shell up, the nuts fell out of the shell and back onto the ground.

Then this little piece of nature looks at the empty shell, then back up at me as if to say, "Is this some kind of a cruel joke?" Then it dropped the shell, and with one last look of disdain thrown back over its shoulder at me, ran away.

And I thought, "Well, that's certainly the last time I try and do something nice for a squirrel."

Obviously, some of them just don't want to be helped.

Adult's Get Snowed on Snow Days

We woke up to a dusting of ice crystals and the news that school was, indeed, canceled. You know...lest any young thing slip and fall on said ice crystal dusting and sue the county. So, now I am dealing with two extremely hyper kids who should otherwise be in school, not enough snow to play in and 16-degree windy weather -- so they wouldn't even be able to play in the ice crystal dust even if I wanted them to.

JAO felt that the truck would be a better mode of transportation than the car given the new frozen tundra terrain that we woke up to. See, he still has to go to work today because, well, the county didn't grant a Snow Day adults. They never do I am learning. (No wonder my mother was not nearly as excited about Snow Days as we were!) Anyway, so now I am watching JAO go back and forth from the truck to the kitchen sink, carrying cups of warm water outside trying in vain to melt the ice around the door frame enough so that he can get into the truck.

Oh...I just heard the car start up. Good luck out there, dear!

Sigh. Now I have to entertain these kids. Again! Didn't I just have to take care of them for the two-and-a-half week Christmas break?! This was supposed to be my week of freedom!

Stupid ice-filled crystal dust.

Well, here's an entry I wrote back in 2000 that also talks about being an adult on Snow Days. It has a happy ending. But, then, again, I didn't have children then. Heh, heh.

Enjoy.



Snow Day!
December 20, 2000

It snowed in Atlanta yesterday. For residents of this city, this is a big 'ole winter deal. The Georgia DOT only owns two snow plows and one of them doesn't work, so a handful of flakes will completely shut this city down.

And I love it! As someone who grew up in the south, snow is a rare and blessed event. And along with the snow comes the most rare and blessed event of all -- the glorious Snow Day!

Ah, the childhood memories. The thrilling anticipation of waking up to snow (or ice or slush or whatever you want to call our version of a "wintery mix"), and being filled with the anxious excitement felt only by a child who is waiting to hear those three wonderful words...school is closed. Huddled half-dressed in front of the television watching the long list of school closings flash across the screen, praying with all your little child might that your county will be blessed by the benevolent Great Get Out of School Free God. You can almost hear the cry of joy rising up over the snow with each new announcement as the kids in that particular county celebrate in unison the glory that is a Snow Day. Knowing the counties are listed in alphabetical order, you hold your breath as your county approaches. Will it be there? Oh, God, please, please let it be there! The "Cs"....Cobb (all right, be calm -- they're pretty close to you, if they are out you may be as well)....The "Ds"....Dekalb (oooh, you hate it when they get out and you don't)....The "Fs"....Fulton (those lucky jerks)....and finally....your little kid heart provides the drum roll....The "Gs"....GWINNETT!! Oh, Hosanna!! The rest of the day will feel magical simply because, no matter what you do, you're not doing it at school!

That ritual is almost as exciting as the rest of the day playing in the snow. It was the memory of that which I found myself waking up to yesterday. For one brief moment I was overjoyed at the prospect that no matter what I did that day, I wouldn't be doing it at school. I raced to the television and turned on the local news. Scenes of snow-covered lawns, icy tree branches, flurries of white gold floating on the air filled the screen. And, in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen, the continuously updated list of school closings. As I saw all the counties I used to watch so closely flash across the screen I was filled with that same little kid rapture I felt so many years before. The Great Get Out of School Free God had blessed the entire city!

And then I remembered.

I do not go to school.

I live in the World of Adults now.

And this world does not honor Snow Days.

This world sucks monkeys.

So, I found myself standing in the parking lot of my apartment complex scraping ice and snow off my car's windshield with a spatula (because only adults have real ice scrapers) and cursing the fact that I had to be at work on a frickin' Snow Day! I tried to appreciate the beauty of this newly transformed winter wonderland, but all I could think about what the fact that no matter what I did that day I would be doing it at work.

Only one other person in my department had made it into the office when I arrived. The others had either called or emailed to say they wouldn't be coming in. Apparently the only working snow plow had not yet reached their area of town. I thought, well, hell. This is what I get for living so close to my office.

But then, just as I turned on my computer and prepared myself to face this wintery holiday imprisoned inside my cube, I received a Winter Miracle. The disembodied voice of the building's receptionist came over the intercom and, like the Angel of the Lord who announced to the shepherds that their savior had been born, announced that due to increasingly bad road conditions the office would be closing...and could we all please leave immediately.

I couldn't believe it. The Great Get Out of Work Free God had blessed me. I...an Adult...was given a Snow Day after all!

And then I realized something else. Not only was I an adult who was given a Snow Day, I was an adult with money who could also drive and was given a Snow Day. Ah ha! It never happened this way when I was in school!

So, I did what any other adult with money who could drive who was given a Snow Day would do. I went to Old Navy. And for the rest of the day, I celebrated the fact that no matter what I was doing, I wasn't doing it at work

Fun With Hypochondria

I got the lab results back from the blood-work I had done before the new year and there is nothing of consequence to report. There is nothing to indicate the presence of thyroid disease or pre-menapause -- nothing that would explain why I can go to the mailbox in 29-degree weather with only a t-shirt and shorts on and still complain about how balmy it is outside.

So, while my first reaction to the "good" news was one of relief, it was quickly followed by the thought that obviously I must have some terrible disease that science has yet to discover. Maybe they will even name this new as-yet-discovered disease after me!

I can picture it now...someday in the not-so-distant-future, people will be huddled around a tragically sickly person lying in a hospital bed speaking in the low tone you use when huddled around a tragically sickly person lying in a hospital bed.

"What did the doctor say?" Whispered so as not to bother the tragically sickly person.

"They said it was...(dramatic pause and even lower dip in the voice)...The Regina."

"Oh, no!" Gasp followed by sad shake of the head. "How tragic."

Well, until that happens, I thought I'd share some of my past adventures in the world of hypochondria. Enjoy...



The Heart Cancer
July 18, 2000

Are you a hypochondriac if you really are dying?

My heart has been behaving strangely lately. It’s skipping beats that I’m sure it shouldn’t miss, and occasionally adding in an extra one where I’m sure an extra one isn’t called for. And don’t go telling me it’s a panic attack or something wussy like that. I’ve had those before and I know what they are like. No, I’m pretty sure that this time it’s the heart cancer.

I suffer from a new ailment almost every week. That’s close to 52 ailments a year for anyone who’s counting. Sure, sometimes I just develop the same one over and over again. For instance, I have had TMJ (that’s lockjaw) on many different occasions and I am no stranger to rickets, lupus, consumption, and the general malaise that always signals the onset of something new and terrible. I have had various tumors pop up and then mysteriously disappear, unexplainable skin rashes, phantom aches and pains that seem to be coming from one or more major organs; not to mention the occasional blurred vision, shortness of breath, light headedness and racing and/or irregular heartbeat (which is totally unrelated to the present heart cancer).

In fact, I come close to dying on a regular basis. Not that this earns me any sympathy or extra attention, mind you. Judging by the way my friends and family react to each new malady, you’d think they were all used to their loved one contracting a fatal disease every month. Well, okay...maybe they are all used to it by now. But still, that shouldn’t lessen the severity of the situations.

Whenever someone pats me on the shoulder condescendingly and says, “I’m sure it’s all your head, dear.” I think, “Oh, yeah?! Well, you just wait. One of these days I really will be dying. Who’ll be sorry then, huh?”

I have searched countless web sites dealing with practically every disease a human is susceptible to, comparing my various symptoms with those listed. Sure, I may be dying on a daily basis, but at least I’m well-informed.

If you can’t quite understand what I’m talking about, let me try and explain. See, it’s a completely different mind-set. For instance, when your back hurts, you probably think, “Gee, I must have picked up something heavy and strained a muscle.” If my back hurts I immediately panic and think, “Kidney disease!” Who’s probably right? Well, you, of course. But, it only takes one time of me being right to prove that, while the hypochondriac lifestyle isn’t very relaxing, one day if might actually save your life.

You think I’m kidding? Let me ask you something: Did you even know that you can get cancer of the heart? No, probably not. And because of that, you’d just let that funny little twinge in your chest or those added beats go by without stopping to think, “Oh my God! Heart cancer!” and rush to your nearest doctor. The cancer would spread, and you would die.

While I, on the other hand, am carefully monitoring the strange behavior of my heart in an effort to catch this deadly disease before it is too late -- so that I may live to develop yet another deadly disease.

By the way, this phenomenon also expands to include an irrational fear of developing disorders of the mind. I’ll share all those with you another time. Well, one of my personalities will. I’m pretty sure I feel an attack of schizophrenia coming on.



If I Only Had a Heart
August 4, 2000

I had an interesting electrocardiogram experience this morning. Well, sure, anything involving monitoring the heart (or at least the necessity to do so) is “interesting,” but this morning’s was particularly so because it was my first time getting an EKG -- and because the machine said I was dead.

I will explain....

First of all, for those who don’t know, the process of an EKG evolves attaching electrode thingies all over your body, and those electrode thingies transfer electric signals from your heart to a big scary-looking machine, and then that machine prints out a jaggedy line on a long strip of white paper, and then the doctor looks at it, say's "Hmmmmm..." and then tells you if you are going to die.

I think I got all that right.

Anyway, an electrode thingie is strapped around each leg, down at the ankle, and then around each arm, just above the elbow. A sensor pad thingie is attached to your chest. All of these are then connected by wires to the machine. So, by the time you’re all hooked-up you resemble a Texas inmate.

As the nurse was plugging in the wires on the arm straps, she must have noticed my pensive look, because she tells me to “relax, there isn’t anything to worry about.” Which, I found ironically amusing seeing as how she was running an advanced medical test on my heart to search for abnormalities and/or defects. It seems only natural that one would be a bit worried by this, doesn’t it?

But, because I always use humor to cover for fear (or sincerity), I ask grimly, “Any chance for that last-minute pardon from the Governor, Warden?”

She laughs because, well, me so funny.

The nurse tells me to take deep breaths and (again) relax. She flips a switch, and the machine whirs and clicks....and then she makes a face. A frownie face! And I’m thinking, “Oh, my God -- WHAT?!”

She turns the machine off, moves the sensor pad thingie on my chest to another location, turns the machine back on, it whirs and clicks....and again I get The Face! Now I’m thinking, “Shouldn’t a person in the medical profession have a more carefully controlled reaction to disaster? It certainly would behoove her to maintain a poker face even though it is painfully obvious to her that I must have THE HEART CANCER!”

But she doesn’t inform me of the presence of the heart cancer -- I can only assume she wants to let the doctor do that. Instead, she proceeds to repeat this process three more times. Each time she switches the machine off, relocates the sensor pad, switches the machine back on, whir, click....the face.

Finally, she turns to me and asks, “Are you feeling all right?”

I say, “Well, I WAS. What’s wrong?”

She looks at me and says in a rather surprised tone, “All I’m getting is a flatline.”

Now, I’ve watched enough ER to understand that lovely bit of medical lingo. So, I’m thinking, “Great! I’m dead. And I didn’t even realize it. Wow, so this is what it’s like to be dead. Hmmm...seems about the same as when I was alive. My nose itches and I have to go to the bathroom. All normal, alive qualities. I see no bright lights, I hear no angles singing. Gee, what a let-down this death thing is.”

The nurse is still looking at me strangely as though she’s watching a real-life episode of The X-Files. So, I proceed to float up off the table and drift down the hall, passing through doors without having to open them.

Kidding.

Actually, she came to the conclusion that the machine was merely broken. Oh, and that I was, indeed, very much alive. The doctor confirmed this when he came back into the room. What a relief, eh?

But now I have an Echo-cardiogram scheduled for next week. I can’t wait......



And the Beat Goes On
August 16, 2000

Well, I had an echocardiogram today. Yes, I have a heart. (Collective sigh of relief.) In fact, the nurse in cardiology who ran the test was able to find it on the very first try. She didn’t see anything unusual or freaky. Or at least that’s what she said. “They” will look at the reading tonight and send the final results to my physician tomorrow. So, there’s still time for them to detect the dreaded heart cancer.

Nothing funny happened on my latest encounter with the medical world, however. It was all very routine. Very clinical. I have discovered that these people don’t joke around. I tried to engage the Echo-Woman in a lively conversation, but she kept telling me to be quiet because I was interfering with the sonogram waves. I told her my EKG flatline story and she didn’t even crack a smile. I was going to launch into the Goathead story but decided not to even bother.

But, you know how you can take your car into the shop to have its suspicious-sounding pings and knocks checked out, only to have it behave beautifully once the mechanic looks at it? Well my heart did that today. It performed just like a heart should. It didn’t skip a beat, it didn’t miss a beat, it didn’t flutter, it didn’t sputter....nothing. It just flub-dubbed itself right along, just like a normal heart is supposed to do. Maybe it is “all in my head.”

Nah. There’s something wrong with me, dagnabbit. It may take passing out cold and being rushed to the hospital to prove it, but, by God, if that’s what I have to do.....

Of course, I may have to face the fact that there is, indeed, nothing “wrong” with my heart. Then, I’m going to have to find something else to obsess over and worry about. I found a small knot in my leg last week. Could be a blood clot. I’ll keep you all posted.