Probably Ought Not Shave The Cat

Surely the Statute of Limitations Has Expired

2011-12-01T22:26:00.001-08:00

If you lived anywhere in the vicinity of Ruskin High School, memories like these might feel familiar to you. Oneof my favorite moments involving my dad takes me back to 1973, the summerright after 7th grade. Life could not have been any more perfect. My bestfriends lived next door and I'd just grown boobs.

An average evening on Bennington, circa 1973, looked a little like this: Aneighbor's dad would stand shirtless in his driveway, barbecuing hamburgers ona black Weber grill. Occasionally, his wife would stroll out to check on hisprogress, a baby clinging to her like a newborn gorilla, a Virginia Slimdangling from her lips. It never occurred to me that it might not be a goodthing to blow cigarette smoke directly into a child's face. I was justimpressed with her tall blonde bouffant.

As an aside, I'm scarred by the fact that my mother never wore a bouffant or mascara as I considered both to be the height of glamor.

Mostly though, on Bennington there were kids everywhere. We cameout to play as soon as the sun came up and only went back into the house atdusk on threat of dismemberment by our mothers.

Bennington was pretty evenly split when it came to boys and girls and itseems as though the battle of the sexes hit our little neighborhood just about the timewomen were marching on Washington for equal rights.

Four brothers lived in the house across the street from me. Overall, I'm surethey were nice boys, but the two youngest were near my age and had declaredthemselves "the enemy." One winter day, after watching a neighborgirl spend hours sculpting an elaborate snow animal, they drove their sledsright into that piece of art, delighting in how the artist cried out. They werealso known for throwing dirt clods and swinging wood planks at girls who got ontheir nerves. It just so happened that on a hot summer day, the girl they hitwas my best friend Sherri.

It seems that every day someone in the neighborhood was knocking on thefront door of these two hooligans to tell their mother what they had done. Nomatter what she heard, her pat response was, "Boys will be boys."

At least she was predictable.

I don't know what it was that late summer; maybe it had something to do withthe newly-emerged boobs, but it finally dawned on me that on our end of thestreet there were far more girls than boys and most of them hadbeen terrorized by one or both of these brothers.

I gathered all the girls I could find in my yard and told them my plan.Innocently, I called the oldest of the two monster-boys over (I was one of thefew girls he could stand at the time). Upon his arrival all of us swarmed him.We dragged him to the fence surrounding my family's backyard, where after much struggling,we were able to tie him securely. We spent much of that afternoon poking himwith sticks and reminding him of our superior numbers. His brother hadscampered away (presumably into a hole somewhere) and we had all the time inthe world to teach him a lesson.

Now, here's the trouble with taking a hostage. You eventually have to killhim or let him go.

Because none of us were actually murderers, we untied him and scattered indifferent directions. As though it's been tattooed on my mind, I can rememberthe fire in that boy's eyes as the final binding was removed. I knew, without adoubt, that he knew I'd instigated the entire thing.

I ran as fast as I could, but he was faster. This kid caught me between thescreen door and front door of our house. It had to have been a weekend becausemy father was home to hear me screaming as the neighbor boy pummeled me with his fists. He hit me like Muhammad Ali trainingfor a prize fight until I was pretty sure I was done for. Just as I thought I could see Jesus' face and hear him calling me home,the front door opened, my dad's beefy arm reached out, grabbed me roughly, andpulled me into the house.

I was expecting a tongue-lashing like I'd never received before. After all,I had just "unofficially"taken part in the kidnap and torture of a neighbor kid. I remember standing atthe bottom of the stairs, watching my father walk up them and into the livingroom. As he reached the top, he turned and looked down on me, an unmistakablegrin on his face. He shook his slowly from side to side as though he couldn'tquite grasp what I had just done, grinned again, and walked away.

We never spoke of that day, but over the distance of time I've come towonder if Dad was proud of me, if this man who had fought in three wars saw inme a sliver of soldier.

To this day I can't have a conversation with any of the girls from theneighborhood without one of us bringing up that glorious summer day of ‘73 whenwe taught the neighborhood bully a lesson he would not soon forget.

I Have an App for That

2011-11-28T22:05:00.001-08:00

Bob thinks he's a comedian. He's not. It doesn't how many times I look at him sideways, he laughs at his own jokes until he's convinved that he should be writing for Letterman. How do you tell a guy that he's just too darn German to be funny?

His latest involves my iPad. There are two things I'm not into: cars and technology. I could care less if the car I'm driving is ten years old, as long as I don't owe money on it. I could care less if I carry around a cell phone so honkin' big that people assume I bought it when "Saved by the Bell" was popular. In fact, I'm the only person I know who has walked into T-Mobile and said, "Really? I need a data plan on this? I can check my emails at home."

No, thank you, T-Mobile. I'm on to your schemes.

A few months ago I began to look longingly at the iPads around me. I was sitting in Panera with girlfriends, blissfully unaware of how behind the times I had become. It was time to leave when someone suggested we schedule our next get together. Suddenly, everyone reached into their luggage-size handbags and pulled out an iPad, intent upon "checking their calendars."

Lord knows, I still check the time by gaging the distance of the sun from the horizon, so using an electronic gizmo to keep me on schedule just blows my mind. Still, there was something about that thin black electronic tablet that made my heart beat a little faster. I can only compare it to the first time I saw Mel Gibson in "Brave Heart." As much as I tried, I couldn't get the sight out of my mind.

Fast forward 12 weeks and about 2,000 "well-placed hints" to Bob and I received a brand new iPad for our 33rd anniversary. I don't want to tear up as I say this, but it's a beautiful thing.

Like all iPad virgins, I spent the first few days going through the app store. There are so many applications available that I didn't know where to start (or, as it turned out, where to stop).

So, back to my non-comedic, German husband. Bobby thinks it's utterly hysterical to say, "I have an app for that" any time I make a simple statment. I'll give you a sample so you can gage the hilarity of it all.

Me: I'm really tired, but too wired to get to sleep.
Bob: I have an app for that.

Me: I'm bored. You wanna do something fun?
Bob: Sure. I have an app for that.

No, it doesn't get any funnier with time.

I've downloaded apps for Spanish and guitar lessons, Pilates, regular yoga, yoga-before-geting-out-of-bed, Tai Chi, and daily meditation. Last night, after snacking like a pregnant bear who'd just crawled out of hibernation, I downloaded an app that promised to hypnotise me so I'd give up mindless snacking.

Because I'm a girl who likes lying down while completing tasks (which helps explain the inordinate number of Pilates DVDs I own), I thought it would be nice to get into the habit of listening to it at night, right before nodding off to sleep.

Bobby can best be compared to a Golden Retreiver. He's so stinking hyperactive that you sometimes want to sedate him, but he's amiable enough to allow kids to crawl on him and to allow me to bug him.

Imagine my surprise when my husband (who claims to love me) was less that amused by my hypnosis app. I brushed my teeth, crawled into bed, iPad in hand, and asked. "Bob....Bob....Bobby! Are you awake?"

Now, here's the problem with waking a guy up after he's been asleep for a couple of hours. He's gonna think you're feeling friendly.

I let him down gently, "I have this new app. It's going to hypnotise me until I stop eating crap after you go to bed at night. Wanna do it with me? It'll be fun!"

Turns out, being hypnotised in his own bed, by the voice of a man I had just downloaded (even if the app DID have incredible user ratings) was not how he hoped to finish his day.Or any day, for that matter.

He didn't so much decline as grunt, turn over, and go back to sleep.

I ended up listening to my new weight-loss hypnosis app this afternoon. Of course, I spent most of the session thinking about how bad Bob's going to feel when I give up snacking and suddenly fit into a retro pair of 501 jeans. Won't he be sorry he rejected my late-night offer then?

I wonder if there are apps for dealing with jealously and regret. I'll check and get back with you.

Sticking My Toes Back in the Water

2011-11-27T21:16:00.000-08:00

I posted my last entry nearly two years ago. In spite of everything that has been going on, I've worried about having nothing to say. It's been two years of tremendous change, which tends to usher in tremendous growth.

Well, for most people.

For me, massive changes lead to months of reflection and teeny, tiny stabs at being more mature. I'm not quite sure how I can contemplate personal immaturity while asking around about Botox doctors, but that's the reality.

Looking back on the past 24 months is intimidating. Not because of one, specific thing, but because time has sped by at lightning speed. It seems as though the world turned dramatically while we were busy living. As I sat down to write this evening, I realized that life this Christmas season looks very different than it did two seasons ago.

First there's Gizmo -- the cat I originally shaved and named this blog after. Poor Gizmo has gone on to his greater reward. I would have suspected suicide if the vet hadn't declared it a tumor. He was the filthiest, most disgusting animal I have ever loved. He purred while rubbing up against us with feces-covered fur. Somehow the gross little beast managed to elicit warm emotion.

Oh, and this whole "Facebook" thing has taken off since my last post. Who woulda thunk? I'm in contact again with people I haven't seen or spoken to in over 30 years. Some of them have passed through to say "hi," while others have taken up permanent residence in my heart.

Facebook.

It's a love/hate thing for me. How can an instrument so powerful that it manages to bridge the decades also be so obnoxious? My friend Todd clued me in on blocking posts from people I'm tempted to roll my eyes at. For example, if you've ever posted on Facebook anything resembling the following, you can assume that you have been blocked:

"John and I just arrived back from Tahiti after 10 fun-filled days with the children. We just had to take a little break from our thriving business before Jessica enters medical school, Lincoln begins training for the Olympics, and Sarah-Beth decides between Harvard, Yale, or Brown. Everyone tells me that I've lost far too much weight for my own good, but what's a busy mother to do?"

Yes, you've been blocked. It was that or travel to your suburban McMansion and stick a fork in your eye.

We live in a new city. Not particularly surprising, given that I'm married to a man with the heart of a gypsy. I'm not sure why I bother unpacking, given his propensity for following his heart and my habit of following him. As an aside: if you've never been to San Diego, it lives up to the hype. It's warm, beautiful, and full of freakishly friendly people. I believe the geniality can be traced to an abundance of Vitamin D.

Or illicit drugs -- you make the call.

Anyway, I'm sorry for being away for so long. Once the brain healed I poured myself back into the "business" of writing. It seems as though I got into the habit of writing only that for which I would be paid.

That's no way for a girl to live. I know that now. I've missed our visits. I've missed having a place where I can toss unfiltered thoughts like live grenades and hear your responses.

I find that after a two year lull, there are things I MUST discuss. Reality TV, anti-aging procedures (do we or don't we?), empty-nest syndrome, reinventing ourselves, dealing with disappointment, watching parents fade away....

The list is pretty endless. Come back anytime you'd like. The door is always open. Leave your opinions, because I think it's all about learning from one another.

One final thought (question, actually). If Andy Cohen produced a show called "Real Housewives of Buckingham Palace," would they all be ghetto-fabulous, tacky, loud-mouthed, clueless bimbos? Just wondering.

You Ever Wonder?

2009-12-30T00:36:00.000-08:00

By the time he was 17 years old my father was fighting in World War II. He was a kid as he faced his own mortality on a daily basis. Dad was far younger than I am today when he was awarded his sixth Purple Heart.

By the time I was born my mother had been around the world, met ambassadors and dignitaries, performed important work for the C.I.A. She'd had close-calls with death that left her with tales of adventure.

How is then that I'm such a HBSC? I believe that's the scientific term for a "home-body-scaredy-cat." Genetically it has to be a recessive gene, right? How do two adventurers end up with a kid who loves nothing more than to hang around the house, stain a piece of furniture that probably doesn't need to be stained, and considers a trip to a movie a "wild weekend?"

And it's not as though I have company. My siblings, all three of them, seek adventure. My older brother travels the world, digging up relics and uncovering history. My older sister is afraid of nothing -- nothing, I tell you. That girl will spit in the eye of a tiger if it gets on her nerves. My younger brother is career military, a Lt. Col. in the U.S. Army. The very nature of his job requires strong nerves and a sense of adventure.

What must they think of me -- this family of mine? Am I the relative whose name is never whispered? Do they pass me off as the one who inherited the recessive yellow-belly gene? Am I a cautionary tale for their children -- the auntie who read too many scary books and watched too many episodes of The Twilight Zone as a child?

I'm afraid of everything. Life terrifies me. I'm always afraid of what's going to happen next. If I could go through life with a protective blankie pulled over my head I would. I'm afraid of my parents getting old and of Bob eating the wrong thing and having a heart attack. I'm afraid when my sons drive -- anywhere. They're grown men and I wish they would drive with pillows strapped to their bodies.

They wish I weren't neurotic.

I'm afraid of disappointing friends, of losing people I love, and of dying without telling people how much I love them.

My friend Shari deals with the challenges of sick son every day. That's what she gets up to each morning, a boy who is struggling to become strong again. Shari inspires me, not because of what she and her family are going through, but because of the way she handles it all. Shari remembers to breathe and she remembers to laugh. She asks about how other people are doing, and really listens to their stories. She has found this remarkable way to live -- truly live -- through her fear. Oh yes, and Shari tells me she prays. Really prays.

Shari shared with me tonight words from the book of Matthew that she clings to: Jesus looked at them and said, "With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible."

I think back a few months, of sitting here with a shaved head and tons of shiny staples in my scalp, and of the amazing sense of peace that I experienced knowing that God was in charge. Is it possible that I've forgotten that lesson already?

What do you think? What makes a person brave? How to you do something you're terrified to do? How do you remain cool as you face life with its inevitable challenges and losses?

My friend Abbie and I have talked about how great it would be to be someone who can just turn her mind off and stop thinking. Great, sure, but slightly terrifying. I'm not sure I'm going to become brave by running the brain on idle. I'm going to try this for a while: I'm going to attempt trusting God more and counting on myself less. I'm going to try to go to bed at a decent time each night and stop thinking I can "fix" the world by worrying about it. I'm going to.....

Oh, carp (as my friend Mel would say). I don't actually have a plan, outside of the whole trusting thing. I'll let you know how it goes.

Natural Balance

2009-11-08T19:47:00.000-08:00

I was reading about Eastern philosophy today. You know, Yin/Yang, Zen, Tao.

Don't get me wrong, I wasn't exactly studying. It was more like I was playing a game with myself, looking Eastern terms up online and trying to guess what they meant before I read their description. Don't judge me, I have a low threshold for boredom.

Anyway, according to The Complete Idiot's Guide to Eastern Philosophy (not kidding, that's what it's called), the school of thought behind Taoism is that, "Things can only change so far before they balance themselves out."

Which brings me to my world and how very balanced it's beginning to feel again. It's been a month since those brain tumors came out. There are a couple of reasons I haven't written much about the experience. For one, 6,500 people in the U.S. are diagnosed with meningiomas each year and each of those people has his or her own story. I can't imagine that my story is any more important, or terrifying, or dramatic than anyone else's. The bigger reason though -- the reason I haven't felt the urge to write about the surgery -- is that it's been one of the most profound experiences of my life and I simply don't have the talent to properly paint the picture.

I've spent the past month cocooned in the love of friends and family, protected by their fierce faith that everything is going to turn out okay. Even more intense for me has been how my relationship with God has changed from esoteric hopes to an absolute knowledge that He takes care of stuff; big worries, little concerns -- He's there for it all. The truth is, my writing is far too clumsy to do justice to what has been one of the most meaningful experiences of my life. And so I wait. Perhaps one day I'll be able to discuss the entire event without losing myself in a cluttered tangle of words. This is just too big and too raw for me right now.

In the meantime, I've found that what a person longs for after being hospitalized and during the recovery period is a sense of normalcy. Without my permission my world changed. No one asked how I'd feel about having my head shaved, someone playing around in my brain, spending weeks in pajamas because I'm too fatigued to take a walk. And I gotta admit, there have been moments as I lay under my blanket on the sofa, I just want my old life back.

Thank God for Bob. My dear, sweet, klutzy husband. For the past week or so I've been trying to put clothes on during some point in the day and work on getting those energy levels up. Sometimes it's nothing more than a walk to the mailbox with the dog, but on a really energetic day I'll hit the grocery store or Target (hey, that feels pretty normal). Anyway, Bob and I went to Target last weekend and one of the things I picked up was a set of three pastry brushes. You never know when you're going to need pastry brushes in various sizes.

The trio of brushes were attached by twisty-ties to a piece of cardboard. Pretty simple. You flip the cardboard over, untwist the two ties that hold each brush, and viola! Now, a normal human being (say you or I, or most of the inhabitants of the Continental U.S.A.) would take the two minutes it requires to untie those six twisty-ties and be done with it.

Not so my husband.

Bob pulls out a hunting knife (that's right kids, a hunting knife) and begins to saw at the cardboard, to slash at the ties. In the excitement Mr. Efficiency somehow manages to slice his hand between the thumb and forefinger, causing the kind of blood loss normally reserved for an episode of C.S.I.

"Dad hurt himself," I hear our oldest son say, in a tone that I immediately recognize as not being surprised. By the time I reach the kitchen Bobby is leaning over the sink, towels wrapped around the injury, face devoid of blood (which I believe has just leaked from his hand and down the sink), and stubbornly refusing to let me see the cut.

Well, I'm nothing if not stubborn as I force him to wash and sanitize the wound. More striking though is the one-sided conversation we're having at that moment.

Me: Are you nuts? What were you thinking? You did NOT use that hunting knife. Are you suicidal? This thing needs stitches. Butterfly bandage, my ass, you need to go to the Emergency Room. Honest to Pete, Bob, I can't believe you did this again. It would take me two minutes to get those brushes off!

And so it went until Bob wrapped the darn thing so tight no blood could escape. Of course, I noticed that he had to loosen it a short time later as he realized that he had inadvertantly cut off the blood flow to the rest of his hand. Lord love him.

After all the excitement I made my way back to the sofa, to the soft embrace of my favorite comforter, and something wonderful occurred to me.

The world had just righted itself. The moment I'm more concerned with whether Bobby is going to suffer great bodily harm while completing a simple household chore than I am with whether the incision on my skull is knitting back together properly, life is good. This is what passes for normal with us, and normal is very, very good.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker

2009-10-19T15:16:00.000-07:00

About those migraines...You know, the ones I've been whining about for years? Turns out they were brain tumors, big honking brain tumors. I named the obese, gelatin-like one Jabba The Hutt. Jabba had his yucky, corpulent body wrapped around another tumor, which I promptly named Luke Skywalker. I do not think my neurosurgeon thought I was especially clever or appreciated it at all when I insisted he refer to the tumors by their given names. By the way, I never could get him to call brain fluid by the much more colorful, brain guts. Who knew a neurosurgeon could be such a sober guy?

My surgery was two weeks ago tomorrow. I have a shaved head and lots of shiny staples, presumably holding my skull in place, but I honestly feel great. The absence of a headache is like a holiday. I keep thinking that when my energy returns I should do something wild -- like prepare for a marathon, or climb a mountain. I'll likely end up going to see a good movie, but my heart will be in the right place.

What I'm struck by is how I feel emotionally. Luke and Jabba The Hutt evidently took up a good portion of my right frontal lobe, the place where our emotions are processed. Now that my brain is able to move back into its proper place I'm feeling all kinds of things, most of them curious to me. I feel peace and a clarity I've never known. I know exactly who I love and I tell them all the time. I don't care if it was brought about by major surgery or by Luke Skywalker and Jabba The Hutt being carved out of my brain (I imagine them kicking and screaming all the way out, but that's my twist on it). It feels good to say "I love you" to the people I have all too often taken for granted.

And though I feel tentative about telling this story (go figure), I want to share with you something that happened as I awoke in the critical care unit two weeks ago. I've always said that Bob deserved a different wife. He is such a solid citizen that I can picture him with a sweet, gentle thing who cooks like Martha Stewart and sews ruffled curtains. I'm what the old folks would call a "pistol." I'm a lot of personality to take, particularly for a guy as reserved as Bobby.

I've just awaken from surgery, not quite sure if I'm in CCU or God's waiting room, high as that experimental balloon those 15-minutes-of-fame seekers in Colorado just released, and wouldn't you know it....I find the perfect wife for Bob. Her name is Gina and she's one of my CCU nurses. She's beautiful, she's compassionate, and get this: she's Italian (which immediately makes me think she's an incredible cook). Oh, and she's our age. So, I have the following conversation with Gina, which at the time made perfect sense:

Me: You have to marry my husband when I'm gone. You'll be perfect for him.

Gina: (With a laugh) Oh honey, you're not going anywhere. You'll be fine.

Me: No really. You're perfect for him.

Gina: But he has a wife. You're staying right here.

I fade out for a while, but when I awaken again I must have had what I thought was a fabulous idea. Gina later told me that I crooked my finger at her, bade her to my bedside, and announced to her that my husband is brilliant in bed and would surely make her very happy.

Fortunately, Gina has a sense of humor (Thank you God for this small gift). She laughs, pats my arm reassuringly, and continues on her professional way. I wake by inches that day, a little more alert, and with a bit of recollection as to what has transpired. For some reason, as Bob sits down next to my bed, the enormity of it hits me. I have to tell him that I've proposed to another woman on his behalf. But how? At first I'm somber, but the more I spill my guts, the more the hilarity of it hits me. The expression on his face is priceless, and for some reason, very funny. Gina walks in just in time for me to introduce them -- and again I'd like to take a moment to thank God for this -- they both laugh, awkwardness averted. Turns out, this happily married mother of two is not easily offended by a random marriage proposal.

It's a day later and I'm in a contemplative mood. I look at my husband and say, "I'm none of those Susie-homemaker things I wanted for you, I know that. But admit it, I've been entertaining."

He smiles and nods his head, "Yeah, DJ, you've been entertaining."

Now that's something, isn't it?

Get By With A Little Help From My Friends

2009-10-02T16:26:00.000-07:00

Received a call from a friend yesterday, a woman I became very close to while living in central Mexico. She's everything I'm not: confident, brave, athletic. Teri called to check on me, to see how I'm handling the migraine headaches that have been the bane of my existence for the past 20 months. Teri has been worried about me, about my inability to get out of bed on some days, about how easily I'm discouraged by the fact that I feel crummy.

And here's the kicker: One year ago this month Teri was diagnosed with cancer -- likely terminal. She has opted not to go the death route. She has opted to allow only positive thoughts to flow through her mind and only positive words to flow from her lips. She even thinks she quit cussing. While she's not quite sure about that last one, she can't recall the last time she cursed like a sailor with Tourette's Syndrome.

She's lost a great deal of her body weight and all of her beautiful blonde hair, but she called me. In the midst of her own struggle, she was worried about a friend.

How humbling is that?

Teri is my hero for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is her emotional tenacity, her ability to find glory in the darkest situations.

I wrote many of my friends last week, asking that they (you) help out with this particular blog entry. I want to know what you think a true friend is, how your life would be different without friends, and what you do to be a good friend yourself. Thank you for your responses!

My cousin Belinda summed her feelings up beautifully: "A friend is someone who answers the phone in the middle of the night and lies by saying 'no, I wasn't sleeping. What do you need?' A friend is the person you can't wait to tell the best and the worst news because you do not know who else in the f-n world would give a damn."

In the midst of my conversation this afternoon with Teri, during which we spoke of the side effects of radiation and chemotherapy, Teri and I laughed at an old memory. We'd just arrived home from one of our favorite restaraunts and I was standing next to her car, throwing up so violently that the puke was bouncing off the road and back up on my clothes. Teri sat calmly in her driver's seat, tsk tsking, and promising me that I would feel better very soon. She was right. A girl can only throw up for so long (regardless of how much tequila she just swigged) without feeling somewhat better. I'll never forget promising to never drink again -- EVER -- if only I lived through the night, then dragging my sorry butt out of bed the next morning. Who was there to see me bright and early? My friend Teri, worried that I might still be feeling bad. Determined to see with her own eyes that I was alive, Teri's smile lit up the living room as I emerged from my self-imposed exile, cursing the sun for shining so brightly.

That's a friend.

Linda and Wendi pray for my sorry soul every time I'm in crisis. Maria and Dyanne make me laugh, long after I think I've forgotten how. Marianne reminds me that she'd be happy to break kneecaps for me. Just point her in the right direction. Esther manages to overlook the ugliness in me. She sees me without seeming to recognize what a foul-mouthed, loud, selfish girl I can be. Mary distracts me. She climbs down from the pontoon to pee in the lake just as I begin to complain about motion sickness. She numbs her hand and slices a wart off her finger (right in front of me!) to take my mind off my first panic attack. She whispers loud and inappropriate remarks to me in the movie theater when I begin to cry at a tender scene.

And then there are friends who are also relatives.... My brother, David, tells me I'm right, even when we both know I'm not. Bobby comes home mid-day, every day, to help with the pets, check on my migraine, and tell me he loves me. I was especially gross today and said, "Look at my hair," as it stood up on end. I could see his mind spinning with potential responses, but all he said (quite quietly) was, "You do look a bit unwell." And then he smiled. A friend will soften a harsh message with a sweet smile.

Linda and I discussed what life would be like without our friends. What life?

I can't imagine ever smiling again without a friend in my life. I don't believe I would love music or movies or the wild fluctuations of the ocean waves without a friend to share them with. I can't imagine caring when something spectacular happens in my life if I didn't have a friend to share the news with. I can't bear to imagine the absolute aloneness of a world without friends.

That said, I'm not such a great friend myself. Just in case you were wondering (after all my blather about the importance of friendship). I'm sometimes critical, I'm a potty-mouth (ask anyone), I'm quick to terminate a friendship that is too much work, I'm competitive.....the list goes on.

And yet, God has allowed me to have these wonderful fiends in my life; male and female, related by blood and not related. What a gift.

This gets me to thinking about how one behaves as a good friend. Young, sweet, newlywed Brandlyn Byler told me that this is how she works toward being a good friend:

"I pray for my friends. I pray for their safety, their health and overall wellbeing. I tell them I love them. I call them when they are sick to see if they’re feeling better. I laugh when they laugh and cry when they cry. I feel their pain, joy, hurt, sorrow or sadness. I listen to them when they need it. I give candid advice when they ask for it."

Brandalyn sounds like the perfect amiga to me, and yet even she questions whether she's doing enough. Brandalyn added:

"I wonder though, are these the kinds of things a good friend does? I guess I never really asked my friend(s) what they expect, need, or even ‘consider’ a good friend. Instead, I’ve only treated them how I want to be treated. But, what if they don’t need to be treated the same way I do? I mean, we’re all going through different things, we’ve all had different life experiences. So, I guess, maybe a good friend would have ask “What do you need from me?” It is kind of like that book titled The Five Love Languages, though this book in particular is more geared toward the relationship with your spouse it could be applied to relationships in general.

"What if I am giving my friends what I think they need but not actually what they need? What if we are speaking different ‘love languages’, or more like, what if the friends I’ve lost speak a different ‘love language’ than I and I didn’t care enough to figure out what theirs was?"

How beautiful are those sentiments? She goes out of her way to treat other people the way she wants to be treated, then asks herself if she's done enough. Allow me to make a quick prediction about the young Brandalyn Byler: I'll bet you that she has the same friends when she's 70 as she has today in her 20's. Who wouldn't want to be part of such a gracious relationship?

What about you? What makes you a good friend? What constitutes a good friend in your own life?

Unlike golf or ballroom dancing, friendship is just one of those things I long to be good at. (Please imagine me shaking my fist toward the heavens right now). And as God is my witness, I WILL learn to be a good friend!

Men Are From Where????

2009-09-28T12:09:00.000-07:00

Some "I-would-sell-my-own-excrement-in-a-jar-if-someone-would-only-pay-me-for-it" author wrote a book built upon the premise that men and women are from different planets. According to Mr. Brilliant, Men are from Mars.

Mars, my ass. My man is from Missouri.

And as a Missourian, the guy is seriously easy to confuse.

Allow me to illustrate. We met for lunch today. Me, with a grilled cheese on sourdough; him, with something that had (hopefully) been dead for more than two hours. I didn't hear any animal sounds as he bit into it, so I guess that's a good sign.

I know that Bob has an engineer's mind. As in, "Does that come with an illustration and specs?"

I'm full of feelings these days. Just full of them. I want to talk about my feelings. More important -- I want to feel as though I'm being heard. Don't get me wrong. I don't expect him to turn the football game off while I share my innermost feelings, I just want to see him nod once in a while.

Now, the Missouri state animal is not the mule for nothing. You let me know if you've ever met a Missouri boy who doesn't have more than a little stubborn ass in him.

I've been sharing the same specific feeling with Bob for oh......a month. I woke him up last night to tell him again how I was feeling. Here, I've discovered, is my problem: I haven't provided him with the proper documentation. No illustrations of my sad heart. No specifications as to what he can do to make me feel better.

In other words, just saying "I feel...." doesn't tell him a darn thing.

So, over my cheese sandwich and the daily road kill he was munching down on, we tried to have a conversation. Unfortunately, it went the way of most of our conversations.

Me: I know you're trying really hard to help me out right now, but I'm feeling blah...blah...blah.

Bob: I'm trying really hard to help you out right now (did he just parrot back my words!?). But I need to know specifically what to do to help.

Me: Well, Bob, I can't tell you what to do because I don't know myself.

Bob: You're making me feel bad.

Me: (Okay, at this point I'm stumped)

Bob: I'm trying to help you.

Me: Yes, I heard you say that. Actually, I heard me say that and I heard you repeat it back to me.

Bob: What can I do?

Me: Would it be helpful if I gave you step-by-step instructions?

Bob: Yes.

And there you have it folks. We men and women aren't from different planets. We're from the same planet, but it's a magical place where women are supposed to make the smart decisions, pass their thoughts on to the menfolk, and then sit back while the men pat themselves on the back for being such brilliant problem solvers.

It's called Earth and I swear to Pete, Heaven better be different. All this thinking is exhausting me.

Me And My Pal Paulie

2009-09-23T19:50:00.000-07:00

I recently reached a truce of sorts with a guy who's been on my last nerve for years. Yep, it was time I finally decided to come to peace with the Apostle Paul. That's right, THE Apostle Paul -- writer of 13 books in the New Testament, former murderer of Christians.

Now, I kind of get where Paul was coming from during his murdering days. I have those days myself. He was called Saul back then, and Saul was one angry guy. In fact, he was not only present when a mob stoned St. Stephen to death but he watched over their clothes! Wouldn't want anyone getting sprayed by Stephen's blood. Argh!

As many of us have learned, Saul thought it might be a good idea to make his way to Damascus to root out more Christians and give them what-for. It was during this trip that he was stopped in the middle of the road, and the voice of Christ spoke to him (while also blinding him -- Yeah God!). Saul realized what a giant jerk he had been and turned to become a follower of Jesus. Oh, and he was now known as Paul.

Before I tell you about my giant falling out with Saul/Paul, allow me to give you a little insight. Remember that movie "The Jerk" with Steve Martin, where he was raised by an African-American family, only to learn when he was an adult that he was, in fact, a white man? I can feel his pain and confusion.

I was raised by a conservative Southern-Baptist family, where women were taught their place and how to be subservient in the home (there I go, throwing up a little again). And I think for a while I thought that was who I was. It wasn't until I was an adult that I realized what a rebel I am, a feminist even! Not sure how it happened, but it suddenly occurred to me that God really does not love men more than he loves women and I am not a second-class citizen!

Which sets up the battlefield between the Apostle Paul and me.

Not that I'm calling Paul an misogynist (although I've called him worse over the years), but as I read his writings to the early church I realize how many times he tells women that they really ought to learn their place. He once advises them to "keep silent in church." He obviously never met me. Or maybe he met someone a lot like me and therefore wrote the letter!

I've tried to cut Paul a break, I really have. The moment he decided to follow Christ on that road to Damascus, brother picked a tough path for himself. But many a time I've been innocently reading along when my mind became snagged on words like these:

"Wives, be subject to your husbands" Ephesians 5:2

or how about:

1 Timothy 2:12 "I permit no woman to teach or to have authority over men; she is to keep silent".

I used to imagine walking through the pearly gates, thanking the Good Lord for letting my sorry butt in, and punching Paul square in the jaw. Or maybe (like a dream I once had) heaven is a lot like a Southern-Baptist picnic and I can just wait for my turn at bat, hit the ball, and chuck the bat right into Paul's stomach (like I did to that poor girl who played catcher in my high school gym class).

I was so mad at Paul a few years ago that I called my father to complain. Not my heavenly father. I figured he was busy with wars and famine and such, but my dad in Kansas City. I explained my problem:

"He makes me sick, Dad. What kind of sexist pig says things like that?"

It was very quiet for a few moments as my father ingested my rage. And then he laughed.....and laughed.....and laughed some more.

I recall standing there, on the back porch of my house, cordless phone to my furious ear, wondering if my dad has just lost his ever-loving mind.

My dad, actually a pretty sensible guy when I give him the chance to finish a sentence, explained to me that Paul had to be tough. He was a leader in this new Christian faith, a religion that at the time was little more than a flickering cult. He had to have firm control of the reigns. Dad went on to explain that the Bible verses I was complaining about where actually part of personal letters Paul had written to early followers, talking about specific problems they were having in their congregations, intended to get them to work together to build a strong church family.

Oh....well that took a little wind out of my self-righteous sail. I no longer dreamed of breaking Paul's jaw, but thought I might challenge him to thumb-wrestling or a windmill fight. I just wanted to hear him cry, "Uncle!" Just once.

Now, I realize that many of you feel that you know too much about me: I'm having hot flashes during which I pass out, I get a little nutty now and then and shave the cat, I dream of clobbering a saint.....that's a lot to absorb. Allow me to add one more thing to my pathetic list. I have tremendous migraines. Migraines that send me to bed for days, make me cry and feel sorry for myself, make me rage at the world (and possibly shave the cat?). I actually called Bob home from work this afternoon, just so he could sit at my bedside while I apologized for being disabled and such a burden on him. If he had chuckled I might have thrown myself out of the bedroom window, although I would have felt even more disabled if I only managed to break a bone.

So imagine my surprise when I got out of bed yesterday morning, thinking about my arch nemesis: Paul. When I could get past seeing red, I remember reading that Paul talked about asking God to remove the "thorn in his flesh." Now, he hadn't met me yet, so he had to be referring to something else. But what? Was it a physical problem.

And that's when the similarities struck me (who woulda' thunk?). I've always seen Paul as a bit crabby. Headaches will do that. He dictated the early letters, but someone else wrote them down (having trouble with his eyesight perhaps?). Migraines or not, Paul pushed forward. Whatever that thorn in his flesh was, he kept on moving.

I started trying to learn more about him, this friendamy of mine. These words rang in my head all day yesterday (particularly when my brain felt as though it was going to leave my head without my permission):

Paul wrote it in a letter to the Corinthians:

But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me.

Even Paul knew how obnoxious he could be? He viewed his problem (physical or otherwise) as something he had to trust to the Lord and God's way of keeping him humble?

Not sure how it happened, folks, but I suddenly felt a kinship with the guy. Yes, the same guy I wanted to thumb-wrestle into submission. Maybe one day I'll ask him about the migraines and he'll look at me like I just shaved a cat, or maybe he'll laugh and say, "Wow, those were tough, weren't they?"

In either case, I plan on speaking rather than slugging. And it's possible that I even owe him a little apology.

Shall We Dance?

2009-09-20T23:53:00.000-07:00

An amazing thing happened one evening a number of years ago: Bob and I were contemplative at the same time. We decided, practically simultaneously, that if we were going to thrive as a couple we had to share more common interests. The boys were both away at college and there were times when we just twiddled our thumbs, waiting for the "good" television shows to come on.

We struck a deal. Bob would take ballroom dance classes with me and I would hire a golf pro, learn how to golf, and (according to Bob's insane fantasies) spend countless hours on the golf course with him. Let me tell ya -- as much as I complain about the way he drives a car, I can't even begin to imagine what I'd be like going over hills in an open-death machine with no seat belts.

So we signed up for ballroom dance classes. I had no intention of ever signing up for golf lessons. You heard me right. I fibbed to get my own way. Bob was so excited that he bought me a new set of golf clubs and a fancy pink bag to carry them in (after me calling golf a "butch" sport about a thousand times). Before you feel too sorry for my husband, let me finish the story.

We were introduced to our lead dance instructor, a very fit fellow by the name of Mikal. I did not mean to type "Michael." His name was Mikal and he had that lean, hungry look of a Russian ballet dancer. He also had a keen eye for talent. Oops, did I say talent? I believe I meant to say "man meat." Bob was his star pupil. Bob could do no wrong. There were a number of times when Mikal, in an apparent fit of pity for Bob, would send his young assistant Olga (or Helga, or something like that) over to take my place dancing with Bob. Bob was a natural. "Oh look everyone," Mikal would cry as he clapped his hands together. "Bob already has the steps!"

Argh.

The more classes we attended, the more obnoxious Bob became. "Who knew I was a natural?" he would ask on our way out of the building -- each and every week. He wanted to practice at home. He insisted upon "helping" me with my steps. I wanted nothing more than to run over his foot with the lawnmower.

Lord love him.

Maybe it's because his people are primarily of German decent that Bob enjoys rules, regulations, and a particularly stiff way of doing things. Perhaps because my mother's people have roamed the earth since the time of Moses, I tend to be a little less inclined to obey rules, a little looser -- a little more apt to cut loose and break into a joyful jig.

Mikal did not like it when I broke into a joyful jig.

While I doubt he had spent much of his life with his hands on ladies' backsides, Mikal made it a practice to walk up behind me, grab my hips, and say, "Stop with moving the hips. Follow your leader!"

My leader? Was he talking about Bob?

So, here's where we stand. Bob is a fabulous dancer. Who knew? And I have yet to learn how to golf. Really, when they make women's golf clothes as cute as ballroom dresses I'll be the first one to sign up.

Outta Gas -- Again

2009-09-19T22:52:00.000-07:00

I ran out of gas the other day. Well, not me precisely. My VW Beetle ran out of gas. The girl did warn me. But like me, my Beetle is passive-aggressive. She beeps to let me know that gas is running low. What she doesn't do is tell me the truth, "Hey dimwit, you have approximately 30 seconds or three city blocks to find some gas because I'm stalling right..........here."

I've had this car for a little over a year. I've (she) has run out of gas four times, the last time Thursday morning. Now, according to my Rainbow Skittle pooping husband, every situation has a golden lining.

Sorry, I just threw up a little in my mouth.

The "golden lining," in this situation is that I no longer panic when the Beetle stops running. My fingers automatically reach for my cell phone, dial Rainbow Brite's number (that would be Bob), and I sit back and wait, hazard lights blinking like a hillbilly disco. Honest to Pete, it seemed as though Bob pulled up behind me before I was done telling him that the car was out of gas. Granted, he only works a few blocks away, but he was getting out of his car with a gas can before I could hang up the phone.

He doesn't even bother to preach at me anymore. I mean, what good would it do? In fact, he took me to lunch. Fine lesson he taught me. Now, every time I want a grilled cheese sandwich I'll be running that Beetle Bug on fumes. Just don't tell Rainbow Brite.

Your Momma Said What?

2009-09-15T23:42:00.000-07:00

If there's one thing I can't seem to forgive myself for, it's being an imperfect mother. Of all the things I really should be good at, parenting these children I adore should have come naturally. But dang, was it ever hard. I remember crying when one of my sons came home with a C in math. Crying. Not whining. I cried and said, "You'll never get into a decent college." He was in 6th grade.

I remember the weekend one of my sons came home from college (the one I never thought he'd get into), hoping that I would go shopping with him to purchase a shirt and tie for some semi-formal event. Actually, he knew I had a credit card and hoped I would use it, but I digress. Although it's been about 12 years, I remember the afternoon vividly. After what seemed like hours of mind-numbing shirt-hunting, he picked up a beautiful blue, long-sleeved button up that was perfect for him. Unfortunately, he did not agree. He moved on, looking at every other shirt in the Elder-Beerman Department Store as I seethed. Did he have no respect for the opinion of his well dressed mother? Did he honestly think I would pay for just any old thing? Rather than confront him directly, I fell back into my lifelong custom of communicating through passive-agression.

It looked like this:

"You really don't want that blue shirt?"

"I really don't"

"But it looks so good on you."

"I don't like it, Mom."

After a deep, drawn-out sigh, I conceeded, "You go ahead and buy whatever you like. Someone has to look average. I mean, afterall, if the majority of people there aren't average-looking, how will they know who looks really great?"

He bought the blue shirt and curses the thing to this day. Not sure how this happened, but he somehow associates the purchase with being manipulated.

Manipulative? Me?

Okay, maybe a wee bit. There was a little kid throwing a temper tantrum in the grocery store the other day and it took me back to when my own (youngest) son would do the same. I mean, he would scream like he was hoping Jesus would come down and snatch him up out of my mean, cold grasp. And this was usually after I told him that he could not have another box of Fruit Roll-Ups. I could be cruel that way. I can't tell you how many times I looked down on one of my boys, embarrassing the daylights out of me in a public place, and whispered the following into their little ears:

"I know you're upset. I know how mad you feel. I know how good it feels for you to throw a temper tantrum. But you know what? We'll be back in car in less than five minutes, and Mommy is the boss of the car. You can scream as loud as you want in there and no one will hear you! I actually feel a little bad for you, but you go ahead and enjoy acting however you want for the next five minutes because I'm pretty sure you're going to be sorry you did."

I discovered that this quiet message to my children was so much more effective if I kept my voice low and steady, and smiled as I delivered it.

Which brings me to my original concern. How can I love two people so much and be such a thorn in their sides? How, after years of hearing my own mother offer horrid advice, could I offer the same advice to them?

"Don't run with that pencil; you'll surely poke your eye out."
"Wait an hour after you eat to swim; you'll sink like a stone."
"Find all the exits on the school bus the moment you get on; you know your bus driver is probably a drunk."

You understand, the regular stuff.....But there are "extra" rules that I have felt compelled to share with my children because they are male.

"There's a reason they make football helmets; wear the damn thing. If you eventually want a date to prom, that is."
"Go ahead and date that easy girl; but you can be sure that your doctor is eventually going to have to report your condition to the CDC."
"Don't run through the house with no clothes on; you'll surely poke your eye out."

Do we all do this? Do we all offer advice to children who don't act as though they're listening? Has every mother since Eve taken every opportunity available to her to impart words of wisdom?

I'm not sure. I've actually been thinking about this a lot lately and have decided that surely some mothers weren't so hands-on. Either that, or their advice was so dead wrong that it didn't make the history books. My main question though is this: Has there been any mother in history who has offered worse advice than me?

For example, do you suppose any of the following conversations actually took place?

"Don't you worry Little Man. People don't actually dislike you. They're jealous of your superior intellect. Don't let anything those little Goldberg kids say bother you."

-- Adolph Hitler's mother?

"What are you concerned about son? The little people will never, ever stand up to you. They're nothing more than sheep. Eat, drink and enjoy your life."

-- The mother of Czar Nicholas II?

"All young men like to be spoiled. It's important for a good teacher to go out of her way to make a boy feel special."

-- Mary K. Latourno's mom?

"Always make sure you have clean underwear on. Do you have any idea how humiliating it would be to be hung upside down in the piazza with a pair of dirty drawers on?"

-- Mother of Benito Mussolini?

Now if any of you -- my dear, dear friends -- are true historians and know for a fact that none of these conversations ever took place, please -- for the love of all that is good -- do not enlighten me. I cling to the hope that I have not offered the worst maternal advice in the history of mankind. You know a true friend will help me keep this illusion alive.

Where Will Bob Be When I Buy The Farm?

2009-09-14T11:50:00.001-07:00

I mentioned in one of my earlier posts that I recently had my first hot flash. What I failed to mention was that I promptly passed out during said hot flash. Who knew?

I've never fainted before (although once in a grocery store, right after Bob ran into my heel with the shopping cart, I thought I might pass out). I've seen people on television faint and I've never seen anyone land the way I did that morning. There was nothing pretty about the way I landed on the floor. But here's the lesson I learned: As much as my dog, Montana, loves me, she's useless in a crisis. I happened to be on the first floor when the "incident" occurred. Montana must have heard my feather-like landing and come downstairs to investigate. I woke up as she was kissing my face. Montana kissed me three times, waited for a moment to see if I had a snack for her (not sure where I might have been hiding that!), and promptly walked away. So much for Montana ever being compared to Lassie. Not only would Montana not save me from a well, but she won't even stay near me unless she believes there's something in it for her.

That's okay. Montana is a dog. I understand that. As least I have a small group of people who love me and would never abandon me in my hour of need. Right? Not so fast.

I've been a bit fragile lately. I readily admit that. I'll also cop to being a bit dramatic.

So, it's 11:30 last night when I'm hit with the perfect trifecta. Rather than just wait it out, I decided that I was likely dying. And I didn't want to die alone.

I did the logical thing. I woke Bobby up from a dead sleep (coma possibly).

The conversation was lovely. I'm not bragging, but I'd like to share it with you.

"Bobby?"

"Huh?"

"I'm in trouble."

One blue eye opens as he asks, "What's wrong?"

"I just had another hot flash, I'm having a panic attack, and I have a belly ache."

"I'm sorry. Lie down."

"No, you don't understand," I whine. "I think I'm dying and you don't even care."

He buried his head in his pillow, but wasn't nearly fast enough. I heard a chuckle. Was he laughing at me?

"Are you laughing at me? You'd better not be laughing at me!"

"I'm not laughing, DJ. Can I just go back to sleep?"

"No! I'm not going to die alone."

"You're not dying."

"How do you know? I could be dying and you would never find my cold, dead body until tomorrow morning."

Bob, ever the sensible one, says, "Then die up here. Don't go downstairs to do it. I'll find you sooner."

Ugh!

I didn't die. The hot flash, panic attack and belly ache all passed, but I learned an important lesson. Next time I think I'm dying I'm going to place my body strategically where Bob will either have to step on me or trip over me to get ready for work. That'll teach him.

My Aching Neck

2009-09-12T23:28:00.000-07:00

I spend so much time looking over my shoulder, wondering if there is some past mistake I can repair, that I believe I have actually strained my neck. What if I'd waited to get married or gone to a different college or chosen a more lucrative career path? "What ifs" roll around my head like marbles in an empty squirrel cage. I am so traumatized by tough times that I actually look back to see what I might have done differently, how I might have avoided making any mistakes. We all have tough times....I know that like I know shaving my cat was just bat-shit crazy. But still, I imagine that I have more power than I actually do and that my choices have been the pedestal upon which my world spins.

Here, I've decided, is the crux of the problem: I can't see the future. I don't know for sure where we'll be in five years; don't know for certain that my sons will adore their jobs, be married to great women, have healthy children; don't know if Bob and I are ever going to be able to retire......I don't know nothin'. Nothin' I tell ya.

And that lack of certainty causes me anxiety. I know I'm supposed to have faith. If you were telling me that you're an anxious person I would search my brain for some pithy saying about the power of faith. I would then totally understand if you punched me in the mouth. What we know and what we can put into practice are two different things.

I know with an absolute certainty that worrying doesn't add one moment to my life and it sure makes the moments I'm here less attractive. Yet I do worry -- about flying, elderly parent, the future of my children, illness, job security, moving...again, rip tides, pimples and wrinkles on the same sorry face, hemorrhoids (although this one baffles me as they have never been a problem), global warming (particularly that commercial with the momma and baby polar bear on an ice cap and the mother is too weak to hunt for the baby), the black plague, you name it......I suffer with worry over it.

Now, as I am wont to do, I have given God some advice on this issue. If He were to allow me to see the future I wouldn't have to freak out so much about it. Thus far I have not been granted the gift. Perhaps He's thinking it over.

Just as Jack Sprat and his wife were polar opposites (if you'll recall, Jack could eat no fat and his wife could eat no lean), Bob and I are polar opposites. The guy sees the sun emerging in the middle of a storm, believes the best in life is just around the corner, and truly believes that things work out for the best. I recently told him that I believe that he poops Rainbow Skittles. He did not take it as an insult. So my Rainbow Skittle-pooping husband and I have this continuous conversation about the future. I paint it as a bleak place with little happiness and no hope. He, on the other hand, hears choir music and imagines us romping through the land of milk and honey. Because I'm so neurotic about past mistakes I often grill Bob on what he would do differently if given the option. Nothin'. Nope, he's happy with his decisions. In fact, he wouldn't want to change anything because that would ultimately alter the lives we're living today.

Lord have mercy.

I actually had the nerve to leave a message on my niece Holly's phone today. My girl has been a little uptight about some things going on in her life and I woke up this morning, compelled to tell her that she has a choice: She can focus on the few things she's not happy with, OR she can focus on the myriad of wonderful gifts in her life.

Perhaps I should have left the same message on my phone.

I can crane my neck, looking back at my mistakes. I can stress my brain, trying to predict the future. OR, I can focus on today -- on what's sweet and wonderful -- and I can give my aching neck (and soul) a rest.

What do you think? How do you forgive yourself for the mistakes of the past? How do you relax and watch the future unfold? If you're one of those people who can enjoy the heck out of today without stressing yourself, what's your trick? Seriously, we all want to know.

aSHAMEd

2009-09-09T21:31:00.001-07:00

My father, the man I respect most in the world, recently told me that he is ashamed of me. Although he said the words over a month ago, they echo through my brain on a daily basis. I've given my dad a thousand reasons to be ashamed of me over the years. I've snuck out of the house in the middle of the night, been in half a dozen car accidents, had too much to drink, dated the wrong people......any number of misdeeds that might have caused him to be ashamed of me. And yet, this is the first time I've ever heard my dad say that I have brought him shame.

The moment is tattooed on my mind. It was a steamy, sticky, hot Kansas City afternoon. I was just walking through the dining room of my parent's house, headed for the sun room. Dad walked out of the kitchen and called for my attention. "I'm ashamed," he said simply. "You let the bad guy win. You never let the bad guy win."

And that's my dad. Life is black and white. There are good guys and bad guys. Right and wrong are not simply some esoteric theory. He believes in doing the right thing -- every time.

Here's the thing: I agree with the old man. I did let the bad guy win. I did the wrong thing. I had spent the previous months working with a group of women, many of whom were bullies. I watched them make fun of another co-worker, I stood by and said nothing as, in an attempt to feel better about their sorry lives, they tore her down. I observed this woman who was being bullied, watched as she wilted from an outgoing, confident professional into a nervous, scattered employee. She was everything the bullies didn't like -- pretty, creative, capable, and incredibly likable. I knew that their behavior toward this woman was abusive. I knew that I had a responsibility to stand up for her. Yet I did nothing. As long as they focused on her I could skate in and out of work, practically unnoticed. It was like 7th grade gym class all over again. My adult life had become a giant game of killer ball, knowing that the girl next to me was likely to get hit (hard) in order for me to be safe.

So my father and I are on the same page here. I should have stood up to those bullies, should never have let the bad guys win. I should have marched in, told them to cut it out, threatened to file a complaint -- anything to get them to back off. This beautiful woman who has been bullied is now my friend, someone I speak with on a regular basis. Why she would choose to be my friend is beyond me. I can apologize every day for being a coward, for leaving her fully exposed to those mean girls, but I can't erase that time, that pain and embarrassment, from her life.

What about you, my friend? Can we make a pact? Can we promise one another that we'll be brave, that we won't curl into the fetal position next time we see the wrong thing happening? Bullies don't expect that. They believe that we'll all behave in precisely the same manner we've behaved before. They believe that they can say and do anything they like and that our 7th grade killer ball flashbacks will be enough to keep us in line.

Well I, for one, am finally willing to take a dodge ball to the face, if it means the girl next to me won't have to. Although it took my dad nearly half a century to tell me that he is ashamed of me, I don't ever want to give him cause to feel that way again. I don't ever want to feel this way again.

It Wasn't Me!

2009-09-08T21:58:00.001-07:00

I've often told Bob, my husband of 30 years, that if he finds me dead when he wakes in the morning, look first at Gizmo, the homely little cat I recently shaved. Oh, Gizzie's not mad at me -- just the opposite. Every since that fateful shaving Gizmo has decided that I'm his best friend, the human being he loves most in the world. I can't lie down to sleep at night without Gizmo's little paw covering my nose (to see if I'm breathing?) or the same stinky foot reaching into my mouth. I have no idea what he's looking for. My suspicion is that he just wants attention, a kiss on the head, and a little extra blanket to curl up in.

Whatever.....if you hear that I've died suddenly in my sleep, it was the cat. I've come to peace with the idea. I shave him/he kills me. Tit for tat, you know?

On the other hand, should Bob pass from this earth in some unexpected and dramatic way, I don't want anyone looking in my direction. I am married to a klutz. I can assume no responsibility for Bob's self-inflicted injuries.

Allow me to illustrate:

We're living in Spencer, Iowa, circa 1992. There is a blizzard that covers the entire northwest corner of the state. The miles and miles of snow are blinding, but the trees look like they are covered in crystal lights, housing magical fairies. Bob does not appreciate the crystal lights look. Perhaps he hates fairies. I honestly don't know. He immediately decides that all frozen branches must be cut down from the trees in the yard. Snow and ice be damned. He takes an electric-powered chain saw out with the purpose of systematically murdering each of the offending branches. How dare they bend down like that, taunting him with their ice-laden weight?

It's just a medium-height ladder, electric-powered chain saw and Sir Bob in his finest winter regalia. Man against tree. Blue eyes flashing, Bob is determined to get the best of this tree. He climbs to the highest branch, pulls his chain saw out and promptly attacks the tree with a frustration normally reserved for the Oakland Raiders. It likely takes his mind a fraction of a second to realize that he is in the process of falling. And like any good woodsman, Bob tucks the chain saw between his thighs, just to make sure it doesn't hit the ground and break. That's the day my husband rode a moving chain saw to the ground. It is also the day the emergency room doctors tell him how incredibly lucky he is to walk away with his bits and pieces still attached. He manages to survive the severe burns to his thighs.

That was a fun day, but a fluke, right? Not so fast. We quickly realize that I possess the building talent in the family. Need a hardwood floor or new tiling laid? I'm your girl.

It's approximately 1995, Concord, Michigan. I'm just finishing laying a wood floor in the den. Bob is keeping himself busy in the garage, ostensibly rearranging sports equipment. For a reason that will only be understood by God, Bob runs his hand along the metal garage door frame prior to closing the door. "Hey, that thing is sharp!" I can just imagine his pain-filled mind thinking. By the time he enters the den he has slashed the top of his hand, slicing the tendons along the way. We spends the evening in the Albion Hospital emergency room and the next day in the surgery where doctors worked hard to sew Mr. Fix-It back together. Miracle of miracles, the guy can actually move that hand now. And to think, it only took a year or so for him to recover.

By now we have fully accepted our talents and limitations. I can't cook worth a darn and Bob evidently cannot make a simple home repair without risking life and limb. It's two years later and I'm laying ceramic tile in the master bathroom.

Bob walks in as I finish. "What can I do?" he asks? Grateful for his offer I tell him that I'm going to put a carpet runner down and would appreciate it if he would cut off any stray strings. I even hand him a pair of scissors. I walk away, thrilled to be so near the finish line of a project that has taken me two days. Bob follows me moments later, a sheepish look on his face, and a huge towel wrapped around his arm. He refuses to answer when I ask him what he's done.

Turns out, the scissors were not to his liking. Rather than simply cut the strings off the carpet runner, Bob spies a shiny new Exacto Knife, with a blade sharp enough to satisfy Sweeney Todd. As he holds an offending string in the air, he dramatically slashes at it with the Exacto Knife. Oops. Who knew a slit wrist would bleed like that?

Less than 30 minutes later we're rushing into the Albion Hospital emergency room. "Oh, hello Bob," the staff says as they see his face, devoid of color. I'm not even sure they asked me to provide insurance information. That emergency room knows Bob like a good friend. In fact, they're thinking of naming a wing of the hospital after him.

Lord love 'em, they evaluate my klutzy husband in a matter of minutes and rush him into surgery. For a reason I will never fully understand, I follow the bed they're pushing Bob on, running behind a clutch of excited medical personnel. As we move through a crowded waiting room one of the nurses begins to chant like the town crier to anyone who will listen, "You need to move! We have a cutter here!"

A cutter? Does this woman believe that my fool of a man has purposely slit his own wrist? Good gravy.

Again, for a reason I will never fully understand, I feel judged by the faces we pass in the waiting room. For a moment, I am the wife of a man who would rather bleed out in Albion Hospital than live another day with me. As quickly (and loudly) as the nurse announces, "We have a cutter!" I follow up with, "He's not a cutter! He's a klutz!" I'm pretty sure that my protestations did not accomplish a thing but make me feel better for a moment.

After hours of micro-surgery doctors are hopeful that Bob will one day regain use of that wrist.

It's 2007 and we've just moved into a beautiful loft in downtown San Jose, California. With its exposed brick and high ceilings, this place is just my cup of tea. Bob arrives home from work one evening, determined that this be the night he strings cable wire into the kitchen. In what I'm sure was a Eureka moment for him, Bob decides that the wire will be less conspicuous if he tacks it high, right where the wall meets the ceiling. As any sane man would do, Bob pulls out a 6-foot step ladder, balances it on the counter top, and climbs it like a monkey on ecstasy. Just as quickly as he goes up, Bob is on his way down, hitting the floor with a thud I'm sure the neighbors mistook for an earthquake. His leg is bent behind him like a G.I. Joe owned by a sadistic 7-year-old.

Before you can say, "One more accident and I'm leaving you on the side of the road," we're at the emergency room, introducing ourselves to a brand new group of doctors and nurses. I shrug mentally, pretty sure that they'll get to know Bob well over the next few years. Surgery was scheduled for the next morning.

It's two years later and Bob now has one normal foot and one foot we lovingly refer to as "Frankenfoot." I have no idea how many pins, needles, paper clips and wads of bubble gum are holding that ugly thing together, but at least he can walk on it.

In review: Should I die suddenly of unknown causes -- look at Gizmo. Should poor, sweet Bobby die suddenly of unknown causes -- well, lets just assume it was self-inflicted.

The Advantages of a Discount Shrink

2009-09-04T17:05:00.000-07:00

It's been a tough summer, a really tough summer. It seems that each new week has ushered in a new problem to contend with. Oh, and I had my first hot flash.

By the end of June I was pretty sure that I was working on my last nerve. I hadn't written significantly for months, I missed everything that was once in my life, and didn't know if I had it in me to start over again. July brushed by like a rude Wal-Mart shopper and I still couldn't find my peace.

So I shaved the cat.

Gizmo is an unattractive little beast. Cute face, but his long, skinny body and ridiculously long tail look as though they belong in National Geographic, not on my sofa. He's a hyper little guy with hideous grooming habits. What cat doesn't know how to cover his own poo? Giz manages to leave the litter box with bits and pieces of it clinging to his long black coat. He smells like an open sewer. Unfortunately, Giz is also the personification of love. He can't pass by without stopping for a kiss or to rub our faces with his putrid smelling paws.

It's late July, I've just "celebrated" another birthday, and I don't feel like anyone in the world hears or understands me. It's the perfect storm. Gizmo walks by, fur full of poo and litter, and for the 1,000th time I think to myself, "Wow, he has an uneven coat," as though that's Gizzie's biggest problem. Now, this is perfect. My husband happens to shave his head every morning with an electric razor and I'm sure Gizmo would enjoy a shaving. It's just the two of us sitting on the bathoom floor -- Me, with my Albert Einstein-inspired hair sticking out all over my head and Gizmo, purring like he's never been petted before.

It is about the time that half of Gizmo's skinny little body is devoid of fur that I realize that I might be a little nutty, might have gone around the proverbial curve. Whatever balance normally keeps me walking upright and speaking in complete sentences has leaked out along the way and I feel like I'm barely holding it together. One could fairly argue that a chick who shaves her cat is not holding it together, but I digress.....I wonder if I should check into a hospital, get on some meds, find out where my brain landed when it leaked out.

My youngest son, a 27-year-old with a tendancy to want to save people, insists that I get on a flight the next morning and stay with him in Chicago. Run away? Why, I haven't threatened to run away since I was 13 and the idea seems brilliant. I spend less than a week with my son, but hours of that time is spent sitting on his sofa, pouring my heart out, listening to his sage 27-year-old advice. I decide at some point that I feel better, good enough in fact, to head back to California.

Oops. A little premature on that back-to-California thing. Turns out, I'm still a little nuts. Now, if you've never enjoyed the trip to crazyville, let me describe the destination: Your thoughts are muddled, your emotions raw, and everything you do wrong is somehow (magically) someone else's fault. You know you've crossed the border into coo-coo village, but can't remember the path you followed in so that you might backtrack your way out.

I don't want to talk to anyone at this point, to have them feel sorry for my sick soul, but I can't stop checking in with the few friends I know love and accept me (nutty or not). It is at this time that I really, truly begin to understand the value of good counsel. For the cost of a phone call I gain invaluable knowledge from the wisest people I know. I think of them as my discount shrinks. There's nothing Dollar Store Fabulous about any of these friends; they're worth more than I could ever repay them. Like the early settlers after surviving their first harsh New England winter, I feel compelled to share what I've learned:

From Linda: Pray and let go. Trust God to love me enough to take over when I'm sick to the soul with exhaustion.

From Marianne: Lean on me, friend. Trust my friends enough to stay around, even after it's become crystal clear than I'm a bit bat-shit crazy.

From Ty: When all else fails, apply logic to the situation. Put my emotions aside long enough to determine whether or not what I'm feeling is logical.

From Wendi: Keep moving. Don't lock myself away until I feel better. Act like I'm already on my way to wellness and live my life.

From my mother: Learn to detach. Let go of the notion that I can and must make everyone else happy, even when I'm hanging on by my nails.

From Maria (who is actually a family therapist, although she did not go to school for all those years just so she could counsel me!): Boundaries are a good thing. Be very clear as I tell people what I will and will not accept in my life, then stick to my guns.

From Bob: Slow down. The idea today is to feel a tiny bit better than I did yesterday. I don't have to get well all at once.

From Dyanne: Laugh! I'd forgotten how. I was afraid I'd never remember. Dy reminded me.

I don't think I've spent more than the cost of lunch or a birthday card for most of these people and yet they've each provided me with a wealth of wisdom at a value I could never caculate.

Although I likely should have visited an honest-to-goodness doctor who could help me through this tough summer, I have discovered the real advantages of these "discount" shrinks. They know me. They're tough with me. They're here for the long-haul.

It's been a lucky summer -- a summer full of emotion, a summer full of blessing, a summer full of friends. Honestly, what was I so upset about?

Oh, and Gizmo loves his cool new hairstyle.