Heads nor Tails

Memories Stolen

2012-03-06T08:27:00.000-08:00

Something I haven't posted about, strangely. Something that happened when we first arrived in Manassas. We'd driven over 2,000 miles in a gigantic, 26 foot Penske truck pulling an auto-transport trailer. The truck was a monstrosity, sat as tall as many of the 18 wheeler cabs--we could look straight over and into the truckers' lairs. Don't mistake me, it was a great truck, and we were really happy with the service we got from Penske.

Until we turned in the truck, that is.

When we rolled into Manassas on September 7th, we were still in possession of our Fuji digital camera. It was in its nice case, with spare rechargeable batteries, a few memory cards, and a micro-SD card that goes with Sean's fancy RC airplaine camera. These cards were loaded with photos from Sean's first ghost town visit (Metropolis, in Nevada), his airshow shots and videos (from Wendover Air Show), and hundreds of pictures of the drive cross country.

We were busy. We were unloading the truck, cleaning it, and getting it turned in all on the same day we arrived at our new home. Oh, this was during the huge tropical storm, of course, so the rain was amazing. Breathtaking. And a little scary.

It took us a couple of days to realize that the camera was missing. We turned the new place upside down, searching for it. When we finally reached the sad conclusion that the camera was gone, we headed over to Home Depot, which is where we turned in the truck. The "gentleman" there was dismissive and almost disdainful, seemed supremely uninterested in our loss. Glanced under the counter, said "it's not here," and that was it. No offer of a claim form, no questions, not an iota of sympathy.

We don't know if the camera was in the truck. We don't even necessarily want the camera back--we replaced it with a better camera. But those pictures? Those memories? Who steals those? It's like stealing photo albums or yearbooks. Who does that?

If you know anyone in the Prince William County area who suddenly popped up with a nice new Fuji digital with zoom and a bunch of filled-up memory cards? Send us the cards, wouldja? Keep the camera, but give us back our memories.

Please.

Plant a Garden

2012-03-03T15:33:00.000-08:00

I'm struggling. I screwed up today, rooted around up there and found the mass. It's big. It's so much bigger and more substantial and REAL than I imagined. I cried and cried. Then I got angry. How on EARTH does a NATIONALLY RENOWNED urogynecologist, a fucking FACOG, for hell's sake, MISS that? It's UNMISSABLE. It is so absolutely obvious, and that silly creature dug around up there and proclaimed me MASS-FREE.

I'm scared. Terrified. I'm worried about my arrhythmia and the general anesthesia. I'm worried about my metoprolol and general, too. Apparently, there's some controversy over whether or not metoprolol should be withheld when administering general. My doctor seems to think it's not a problem. And hey, according to the hospital, he's "very, very good."

As good as my FACOG urogynecologist? She's famous, she's been on TV! He's famous, too--he's been voted one of the top ten docs in DC for a few years running.

I don't feel reassured.

I find myself feeling, suddenly, that time is moving VERY fast, and that I'm not going to get things done. Things I promised Sean, things I wanted to tell him or show him or write down for him. Pictures I haven't labeled, family portraits we've never had done. I've flipped into short-time, and I'm scared to death. But one thing I did tell him? To plant flowers every year. If I'm here, if I'm not, either way, plant flowers for me. Because there isn't much that makes me happier, both in practice and in my heart.

My insurance broke my arm

2012-03-02T15:05:00.000-08:00

My arm hurts. It hurts a lot. See, my insurance will only cover bloodwork from a place called LabCorp. So, instead of having the pre-operative CBC and BMP performed at the hospital that will be hosting my upcoming surgery (more on that later), I had to slog into some piss-smelling barnyard of a lab (think your average urban plasma donation center), where I was snapped at, forced to hand over credit card information, and then had my arm so fucking mangled by the lab tech that I fear the vein won't be usable come the 13th.

Speaking of the 13th, that's the day the surgery is set for. We did the MRI five days ago, and it showed exactly squat. No mass. My surgeon's office called to tell me that in a chipper, upbeat voice, but what, are we three? Does it matter if it shows on the MRI or no when we can FEEL it? When it shows on the ultrasound? That's not GOOD news, it's CRAP news, because any answers I'd hoped to get from the MRI weren't realized. So I blew 45 minutes of my life jammed in a drainpipe with my poor back screaming so they could find . . . bupkiss.

Had an EKG today, too. That's good. A ten second sample--like that tells them a damned thing about my heart. My heart didn't choose that particular ten seconds to start throwing out the frequent PVCs, so what? Like the MRI, does that mean they're not there?

We got a puppy. I don't know if I posted about that, I'm having a tough time keeping things straight in my head. We've had him for a week and a day now. He's a little Cairn Terrier (think Toto), and we got him from a backwoods breeder up in Maryland. Nice folks, seemed kindly, but with an edge. A lot of "praise the lords" and "Jesus sent you" stuff. Messianic Jews, doncha know? We didn't mention that, if the lord sent us, he's got a twisted sense of humor, considering our atheism. Nah--why fuck about with folks' faith? If it makes them happy and isn't in my legislation, why bother? That they almost certainly wouldn't have given us the puppy was another consideration. We named our little guy Charlie, and, for as drooly, pukey, trembly, and pissy he was when we got him home, he's blossomed into a great little dog. Sean is very happy, and so is Tommy. Me? He's a great puppy, but I agreed to this because I made a promise to Sean, and, if things go to hell, I need to have at least come through on that front.

Forgive the typos. I'll read through later and correct. I'm tired, and it's grocery shopping time. Wish us luck on the housebreaking front, huh?

A Memory Restored

2012-02-20T07:23:00.000-08:00

I've told you about Frank Whittemore. Guy saved my life, and I'm not just saying that. I've been thinking a lot lately. About mortality. About the effect we have on people, and how seemingly small things mean a lot. See, when I got Frank in my life, I also got his family. His sister, Janith, and her kids Brian, Susan, Randy, and David. His daughter, Jana.

I also got his other sister, Doris.

Doris was a wonderful old lady (and she was old, even then) who lived on the corner of 7th and Harrison Blvd, right across the street from the Ben Lomond High School track. She lived with her husband. I always thought his name was Roy (because he owned a car lot called "Roy's Cars & RVs"), but it turns out it was Bruce. Bruce Haun. Bruce and Doris Haun.

All these years, and I've been unable to come up with their last name. I finally posted about it to Facebook because--well, because I'm scared, and all those little things I've thought to put off because I can do it some other time? Maybe I need to do them now. Anyway, I posted an appeal of sorts, and Stacie came through! She said, "Doris was my Grandma's best friend!" Stacie wasn't sure, but she thought the last name was something like "Haan" or "Hawn."

She was so close!

I wandered out to the Ogden City Cemetery site (a great, searchable site--all graveyard sites should be like that! The only thing that would make it perfect is images of each stone!) and found that you can search for a grave by the decedent's FATHER'S last name! I searched "Whittemore," and there was Doris HAUN!

Doris has been dead for 32 years, give or take. I can't thank her now. I can't thank her or Bruce (dead 22 years) for opening their home and hearts to me. For never objecting when I would just show up, unannounced, and take over their lives. Doris would make snacks, she'd bake, she'd have sodas and sweets for me. Sometimes they'd drive me to Arctic Circle or Kosmos for a burger. They'd let me (and sometimes Shawn, Frank's grandson who, tragically, died a few years ago himself) trample through their amazing vegetable garden (it took up an entire home-sized lot) in search of edibles. They even invited Shawn and me on an RV road trip to Grand Teton, Yellowstone, and Glacier. My mother nixed the idea, and it was years before I forgave that. As an adult, I understand not wanting your nine or ten year old hitting the road with old folks you don't know. Of course, if my mom had put any effort into knowing anyone, all of our lives might have been different.

Doris and Bruce embraced me, welcomed me, and accepted me for no reason other than they were kind and I was needy. I look back now and realize just how incredibly rare that is. In these awful times, it would seem almost suspect. But I never questioned it.

And I never thanked them. Sure, I said, "Thanks!" on my way out the door, but I never really thanked them. And never had the chance--Doris died while I was in high school--the very school their home faced across 7th Street. I never let them know just how wonderful they were to me.

Let them know, huh? People who've done for you, people who've really made a difference. Tell them. Because "too late" comes a damned sight faster than you ever expect. Promise.

Cancer, Cancer Everywhere

2012-02-17T12:01:00.000-08:00

No, I don't have an answer here. Saw the Urologist yesterday, one of the Washingtonian's "TOP DOCTORS" for a few years now. A bit chilly, not particularly friendly. Of course, my urogynocologist was quite personable, and she totally missed the mass, so maybe personality isn't as important as skill. This guy found the mass with no effort and didn't even have to root around or make me hurt for it.

He says he feels confident it's not a diverticulum. That's in keeping with what my gynecologist (not urogynecologist) said, but he's in a better position to make that determination--he's a urologist, and he's seen the ultrasound results. He seemed lukewarm to the MRI idea, whereas my gyno and GP both want it done. So do I. He wants to do a cystoscopy (I was hoping he'd do it yesterday), and he wants to do it at the hospital so he can do general anesthesia AND do an excision of the mass, too. Get it out and get it to pathology.

That scares the shit out of me.

On the one hand, my brain cries that I want an oncological gynocologist, even though we don't know if this is cancer! On the other hand, this mass, whatever it is, is in the anterior vaginal wall, which means it's right up there with the urethra and bladder. One of the concerns my gyno had was not screwing up and damaging the urinary tract, so the uroligist is my guy, right?

Right?

He's got a gang of oncology experience, so he knows how to look for clean margins and keep track of what and where, and that was my concern with my gyno-that she'd be out of her league. So this is a good choice, isn't it?

Is it?

Shit.

I can't even express how terrified I am, how utterly tharn I've gone. I read and read and read, and nothing makes me feel any calmer or more optimistic. This feels bad, and I am scared half to death.

For now, I guess I hurry up and wait. My GP should be calling tonight so I can discuss this with her--I'm outta my league, maybe she'll have some insight about this approach, right? And then I wait on the insurance, make sure things are covered before the disaster hits. I'm already three grand into this, and that's before the gyno and urologist bills hit. Call it four grand. Add the MRI, surgery, and cystoscopy. IF those are clear, we can probably call it an even ten grand.

Oh, please.

But it's not just me. My beautiful Noodle-niece goes in for surgery next week for a recurrence of her thyroid cancer. She's 14 years old, and this is her second cancer surgery. If, at 46, I feel too young to be dealing with this, how's she got to be feeling? I'm scared for her, and I'm scared that, between the two of us, we're not ever going to get to see each other again.

How fucked up is that, folks?

Another Doc-saster

2012-02-07T13:09:00.000-08:00

So, before we left Utah, I went to see my gynecologist, get a clean bill of health so I wouldn't be looking for a new gyno right off the bat.

Or not.

The Nurse Practitioner, a nice lady named Mary, found a "mass in the anterior vaginal wall." 7 mm, give or take, possibly a urethral diverticulum. She described it as "firm, but not hard." My Gyno came in, rooted around, echoed Mary's opinion. Said it wasn't an emergency, but that, once I got settled and got my new insurance squared away, I'd want to see a urogynecologist. Not to be confused with a Eurogynecologist, who would likely charge less and serve wine and cheese.

Well, it turns out my new insurance plan only has one urogynecology office covered, and they were backlogged for months. So it was four months between Utah gyno and urogyno. I did make one attempt to see a local onco-gyno back in October, but he wouldn't see me because the letter from FEHB declaring me insured wasn't enough. He wanted a big wad of cash. Needless to say, I was utterly panic-stricken by the time December and my uro-gyno appointment rolled around.

Met my urogynocologist and fell in love. Well, not like that. But she was personable, warm, funny, and seemed absolutely competent. She got up there, rooted around, and declared me mass-free. Nothing there. Sure, we could do a cystoscopy to make sure there was no diverticulum, but she felt confident there wasn't--it was obviously a cyst that had drained or reabsorbed. No worries! I made the appointment for the cystoscopy (for a month down the road), and felt a weight off my shoulders.

I got an inkling that weight was just hovering rather than gone when I had a menstrual cycle that lasted only 13 days. Yes, at 46, I am almost certainly perimenopausal, but that mantra has always stuck in my head--late periods aren't a problem, but earlier periods? See a doctor. So I wound up cancelling my cystoscopy appointment in favor of an appointment with my new GP to discuss my early period and possible fibroids. She did a pelvic (yes, that was something new and oogy), and concurred with my urogynecologist's proclamation that there was no mass in the anterior vaginal wall. Again, whew, right? She recommended I get a transvaginal ultrasound to take a look at the possible fibroids, and told me to get myself to a gynecologist.

Which I did. Today. And boy, was I right about the hovering weight. It's come crashing down in a big, big way, and I fear its many, crushing friends aren't far behind.

You see, there is a mass. Not only is there a mass, but my new gyno describes it as larger (1 cm) and very hard. If you've spent any time with gynecologists (or oncologists), you know those are bad things. You know that the moment she said (and she said it repeatedly) "VERY hard," she swept almost all of the more benign possibilities right off the table.

I don't blame my GP--she's not a gyno, and that made no difference, time-wise. But my urogynecologist? It's been a month-and-a-half since she told me there was no mass. I'd already know what's going on and be taking care of it (or coming to terms with it), had she been on the ball. But she wasn't. And maybe she would have done a better job of finding it if my Utah gyno's office had actually included NOTES about it in my FILE. But, according to the urogynocologist, there are NO notes in my file concerning a 7 mm mass in the anterior vaginal wall. Which is now, of course, a 1 centimeter mass, accompanied by uterine bleeding.

We won't even talk about the asshole who refused to see me because I couldn't cough up a bundle of money. That was almost four months ago. Four months this thing has had time to thrive.

Sunday, I have a pelvic CT scan plus an ultrasound scheduled. From there? Possible D&C for endometrial biopsy, visit to a urologist to make sure that any vaginal biopsy isn't going to screw up my urethra. And then who the fuck knows, really? The treatments for vaginal cancer tend to be extreme, horrifying, life-altering, and often not particularly effective in the long term. So let's cross our fingers and clench our knees and hope it's not that, huh?

I love it here, you know. I was born here. I don't want to die here.

Susan G. Komen, Politics, Planned Parenthood, My Body, and My Pennies

2012-02-03T04:59:00.000-08:00

I don't have a lot to give to charity these days. A cross-country move, plus a year of unexpected medical costs have left the well near-dry. But when I do give, as I did last year, I usually give to Susan G. Komen for the Cure. A seemingly noble cause, and, until quite recently, a group that seemed to keep itself apart from the rising tide of anti-woman politics. A good thing--last thing we need is a breast cancer charity that kicks women in the ass and fails to defend their rights and stand up for their physical integrity.

Ooops.

I can't even describe my horror at SGK's recent turn against Planned Parenthood. No organization in the world stands up for women like Planned Parenthood. No other organization can compare when it comes to providing for women and empowering them. Planned Parenthood is the single most important and effective barrier between ME and those who would take away my right to determine my own reproductive fate. We take birth control for granted these days, but just a couple generations back, a woman had no say. A woman was trapped, wasn't able to determine her own family size. Not even if her life depended on it.

Don't think it can't happen again--there are presidential candidates RIGHT NOW talking about doing away with birth control. The past few years have taught me that NO right is a "given," NO right, no matter how obvious, how "self-evident," is safe. If we don't guard them, someone will take them away.

See, the one-eyed, freakishly narrow right will squeal and cry that this is about "murdering babies!" No it's not--it's about not enslaving women. If you're a woman and you think it's about "helpless babies," you've been utterly fooled. Planned Parenthood makes for FEWER abortions because they provide free and low-cost BIRTH CONTROL and SEX EDUCATION; two things PROVEN to prevent unplanned pregnancies. Reduce unplanned pregnancies and you LOWER the call for abortions. You stupid, stupid people, you're attacking the one organization that does more than any other to prevent abortion. And if you're a woman, you're making war against your own because you've had the right-wing wool pulled over your sheeply eyes.

Susan G. Komen's foundation can whine that they didn't really pull funding, that it's about rules and regulations, but that's a crock of shit and we all know it. It's ass-covering and double-speak that even their own people don't believe. Their own administrators are jumping ship, resigning over the politically motivated defunding of Planned Parenthood.

Come on, kids--what happens when you place a famously anti-choice, anti-Planned Parenthood figure in a position of authority at SGK? Well, THIS happens. Duh.

Like I said, I don't have a lot to give, but this year my spare change goes straight to Planned Parenthood. Planned Parenthood, who saw me for free back in my poverty-stricken college days and found those changes in my cervix before they could threaten my life or my ability to have children. Yeah, that's right--I have a child because Planned Parenthood came through for me. Chew on that.

Thank you to everyone who came through for Planned Parenthood after Susan G. Komen for the Cure threw them (and us) under the bus. And to those at SGK responsible for this?

Shame. Oh, shame on you.

Die, Junkie Parents, Die!

2012-01-24T20:53:00.000-08:00

Okay, so the title here is a bit harsh. The sentiment maybe a little strongly stated. But the emotion behind it?

Dead sincere.

I'm watching my poor niece post again and again on her asswipe junkie father's Facebook page. Sad, desperate missives declaring undying love and crying that she misses him so. Posts blaming his drunkenness on some girlfriend he may have had, tissue-worthy, rambling sprigs of Eminem lyrics.

His response?

Well, there hasn't BEEN one. Duh. He's in jail, and he has been for months. What's he in jail FOR, you ask?

Trying to sell meth to a cop. At Home Depot. Loser.

And this hapless, helpless moron isn't the worst parent my niece has. No, that prize goes to his scuzzbucket wife, who has dragged those poor kids through squalor and filth, exposed them to horrors I can only imagine. Exposed them to drugs, too. Frequently.

Enough that the children tested positive for exposure to multiple drugs. Damnable creature cooked meth in the same house where her children were sleeping, poisoned them with it. Cops found drugs splayed across the cheap coffee table in an apartment so toxic they wouldn't even allow family to fetch the children's belongings. Those belongings had to be dealt with by a Hazmat crew.

These kids are forever scarred. The younger two are stunted, both in stature and developmentally. But the worst of it? The worst is listening to them spout their parents' lies. Listening to them demonize landlords, social workers, police officers, and family members who have refused to facilitate their parents' addictions. Their parents--especially their mother--has ground into them a belief that all the world is to blame for their situation. Evicted for months of not paying rent and tearing places to bits? It's the landlord's fault, he's a "Bad Man." Family struggles to step in, to help the kids? We're "Bad" and "Trying to Steal Them." Cops and social workers try to intervene, to save these kids? They're "Asshole Cops" and "Bitch Social Workers."

These kids seemed dumbfounded when I explained that we don't get Foodstamps. That, in fact, most families don't. I don't think they quite believed me.

The very worst is seeing my niece beg those two scumsuckers to love her. Reading her posts and just wanting to scream, "Sweetie, you are BETTER than that, you deserve MORE than that, you are ABOVE these slugs!" But you know how kids are--if I tried to explain to her that she needs to value herself more highly, that she needs to stop admiring them and realize that they don't deserve her, she would shut down. She would be heartbroken. And yet, if she doesn't learn that, then she's going to go out into life believing that the sort of abusive, neglectful, utterly poisonous upbringing she received is what she deserves and should expect.

If you're a junkie, give your kids over to someone who cares, who loves them and isn't a loser, low-life fucknard. No, that doesn't mean shove them off to your welfare buddy so she can get more foodstamps and you can then freeload off her for as long as she'll tolerate you. It certainly doesn't mean ditch your kids with relatives for months on end while you keep cashing the welfare checks and selling your foodstamps to support your addictions. If you're a junkie? Just back away. Sign whatever needs to be signed, cooperate with those who can and will care for you kids, and move on. I'm not asking you to clean up--I don't care if you do or not. Go ahead, be a junkie, waste your life on crappy drugs, give blow jobs in alleys to pay for your heroin or meth. But get your kids the hell away from you so you can self-destruct without splattering them with your gore.

Just because you suck doesn't mean you have to suck them down with you. If you don't care enough to get your shit together, then make a clean break and take your shit somewhere away from your kids. It's their only hope.

WEIGHT LOSS MIRACLE!!! LOSE WEIGHT LIKE MAGIC!!!

2012-01-19T16:47:00.000-08:00

So I came across a post on Facebook today, and I just couldn’t help myself. The post read, “I lost 2 pounds in three days using HCG! It really works!” My response?

“I’ve lost over 150 pounds in 12 months, and I didn’t have to shell out for pills, go under the knife, break the bank on prepackaged meals or liquid diets, starvation plans, or any urine from any sort of pregnant creature. In fact, I didn’t have to buy anything at all. It’s called ‘diet and exercise,’ and it really works!”

No, I’m not a bitch. What I am is someone who is sick to fucking death of having people approach me with, “What are you using? How are you doing that?” only to walk away shaking their heads in dejection when I tell them the truth. I am sick of hearing, “Oh, you’re just stronger than I am” or “I could never do that.” There IS NO MAGIC PILL, KIDDIES. There is no wand to be waved, no surgery to do it for you. There is work, and if a pasta loving, cookie munching, veggie-shunning woman like me can learn how to do this, so can you.

Now, it would be a lie if I said I had no “miracle” to aid me. I do. It’s called “keeping track of everything.” I use a free website called “My Fitness Pal.” There are others. The site also has an android app, so I also run it on my phone and my Galaxy Tab. With this program, I keep track of every scrap of food that passes my lips and every bit of exercise I do. I plan out my meals, usually a day or so in advance. It’s a numbers game, and sometimes I don’t get to have that freshly grated parmesan and asiago with my pasta because I just don’t have the calories for it. Sometimes I decide to pop on the exercise bike or go walking in order to earn those calories. Sometimes I trade off and decide that I’ll skip the smoothie for dessert so I can have the sausage with dinner. It works, and it didn’t take long for me to figure out how to maximize those calories.

Maximize them? You bet—instead of a heaping pile of 2-3 servings of spaghetti, I have ONE two ounce serving plus julienned carrots and squash. Bulks up the serving size, gives me a nice serving of veggies, and makes that meal filling without being gluttonous. I used to have two pieces of butter and garlic-slathered bread with pasta. Now? I have a salad with spring mix, dark green leafies, zesty sprouts, tomatoes, cucumbers, and black olives, topped with a serving (carefully measured) of light dressing. If I want chicken strips, my husband breads the boneless, skinless breast strips with homemade breading and we bake them rather than fry. Same with fish. Cuts the calories in LESS than half, nukes the fat, and our son calls them “Epic.” Not bad for “health food.” Other favorites? Toasted ham and gruyere, toasted roast beef and fontina, rotisserie chicken with veggies, homemade 3 bean chili, grilled steaks with onions, mushrooms, and cheese, tuna roll-ups in lavash bread, homemade tyropita and sambusa, and good, old-fashioned hot dogs. And hot chocolate with melted peppermint and dark chocolate. Yummmmmy.

Now, I do have another inspiration, something that helps keep me in line. My diabetes. See, I ate myself into Type 2 diabetes. Yes, there’s a hell of a family history (mom, grandpa, uncle, sister, etc.), but fact is, it likely never would have appeared in me, had I not been morbidly obese. But watching that blood sugar and those carbs has made all the difference. I’m unmedicated, and in just a few months managed to pull my A1c down into normal range. Hey, I’m still heavy—I could lose another 75 pounds and still be called “fat.” Another hundred, and folks might refer to me as “the chubby one.” But that’s not my goal anymore—this isn’t about fitting into “skinny” jeans or hitting a particular size. No, this is about not ever needing to be on insulin. It’s about no taking medication for blood pressure. It’s about living to see as much of my son’s life as I possibly can. My “pretty” days are long over, and that’s fine—when did our society forget that people get old, and that old has a place, too? Who wants a silicone grandma with rock hard abs and plunging necklines?

Not me.

Am I “not diabetic” now? Of course not—if I eat a half a loaf of bread (or forget and pair stuffed clam shells with potatoes), my blood sugar shoots up into the 180s and 190s. That’s not cured. But it’s controlled. And before you think, “Oh, God, she never gets to have anything goooooood,” hush. Yes I do. Tonight, I’m having a cheeseburger 5 ounces of beef) on toasted oat bread (it’s not dry, it’s moist) with two slices of 2% cheese, ketchup, mustard, and dill chips, with a salad (see above), spinach, and slow-braised carrots with caramelized onions. Oh, and a strawberry-banana smoothie for after. My blood sugar will come in around 120, and all will be well with the world.

Don’t fall for the fads. Don’t buy into the gimmicks. And do NOT tell yourself that, short of a miracle, it’s “too late” for you to lose weight, that you’re “too fat” to get healthier. It’s not true—I could barely walk from car to apartment door, I could only do museums in wheelchairs and shopping in electric carts, and now I’m walking miles and spending hours on my feet. In just a year. So don’t—don’t look back a year from now and wonder sadly what you might have done. Do what I did—just DO it, then look back a year into it and say, “Wow, look what I did!” You can, you know. Promise.

Doctors, redux

2012-01-04T08:00:00.000-08:00

So I had my appointment up in Rockville, Maryland. We weren't sure how long the drive would take, so we left early. TOO early. Wound up arriving an hour before my appointment. The Doctor? Agreed to see me an hour early. Boy, that's one way to score points with me. I like her--she's very personable, chatty, calm, and very, very liberal, politically-speaking. She did a great job of putting me at ease. My blood pressure was shockingly normal for a doctor's office visit--I usually "white coat" pretty severely. Maybe I'm just happier here, huh?

The only problem with my new doctor? She says she cannot feel the bump in question. She insists it's not there, it must have been a cyst that drained. Except that's not the case, because it is still there--the moment we got home, I had Tommy check. It's still there, same size, same spot. I have a follow-up appointment end of this month for a cystoscopy, and I'll ask her again then.

This means one of two things--either the thing that Tommy's feeling is supposed to be there and isn't the thing my old doc's office found OR my new doc is a dipshit. Obviously, I'm hoping for the former.

So I'm not sure what to feel here. Relief? Deeper concern because I didn't really get an answer and time is ticking on by?

Blah.

I'm still losing weight, though the pace has slowed. I ONLY weigh 60 lbs more than my husband. I know, most women would be horrified, but not me--see, I've ALWAYS weighed more than my husband, even when we first met and I was in size 7 jeans. But I used to weigh a good 200+ lbs more, so only 60? That's positively slim!

We walked the Occoquan Bay Wildlife Refuge on New Year's day--it's so amazing, being able to put in 4 miles or so without feeling like I'm dying. Oh, hell, who am I kidding? Last year this time, walking to the CAR from the APARTMENT left me winded and in agony. Like I keep saying, I'm not going to ever do that looking back over a year and wondering where I might have been, had I only started a year ago. This time, I'm going to look back and see 180 lbs GONE. I'm going to KNOW what I could have done because, gawdammit, I DID it.

You can, too. Get on it.

A Buffalo Springfield Kind of Day, For What it's Worth . . .

2011-12-27T10:07:00.000-08:00

Tommy and I were talking the other day, and he mentioned a meeting where his then-boss said something about positions opening in D.C., and how he remembered thinking, “This is important. This is where it starts.” I knew exactly what he meant because, back on August 28th of 2011, I experienced the very same sensation. But not in a good way.

You see, I was flat on my back on an examining table, legs up in the stirrups, with someone’s hand inside me when it happened. It went from a happy “let’s get all these routine exams out of the way so we’re going into our insurance-less stretch with a clean bill of health” to “oh, shit, I’m in trouble and I won’t have insurance!” That quick—from all-clear to formerly-comforting voice saying “Hello—hang on. What’s this? Has this always been here?”

“This” is a 7 mm “mass” in the anterior vaginal wall. 7 mm. The size of a pencil eraser, give or take. But that was four months ago, almost to the day. Four months with no follow-up, no further care because we were caught in the limbo of “between insurance” and the new insurance, which took almost three months to kick in, only has one urogynecology office (the other plans had NONE), and that office couldn’t see me until tomorrow. Four months, and I can only hope that it’s still “only” a 7 mm lump. Yes, yes, I did try to see a run-of-the-mill gyno at the mid-way point. You saw how that turned out. Money talks. Broke gets shuffled out of the office sans care in a haze of shame and sadness.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'm a step closer to finding out if this is a urethral diverticulum, cancer, or both. Yes, it can be both—a malignancy could be found within a diverticulum, it’s not uncommon. And up there, where the vaginal wall and the urethra are in such close quarters? Even a small cancer can be a disaster. A life-altering, piss-into-a-bag-for-whatever-time-you-have-left kind of disaster. Could it be something totally benign in the truest sense of the word? It could, but I have urinary symptoms. A feeling of pressure, a sensation of something impinging. And that, my friends, takes “oh, it’s nothing” right off the table. It’s absolutely something.

In addition to the terror of what they might find (and it is terror, no matter how cool I might play it), there’s the competing horror of what they’re going to do to me to find out what this is. This is going to be beyond humiliating. Devastating is a more accurate term.

And then there’s the money. Copays, deductibles, the mad scrambling, trying to figure out what labs are covered and what procedures require prior approval in order to protect us from a massive, "we won't cover that" hit from the insurance. Stuff I never had to worry about with the old insurance. And we are so broke, this is not what we need right now. We need for this to be nothing. As stupid as this sounds, I find myself wishing that my old doc’s office had missed this “mass.” Because then I would have written the symptoms off to a touch of cystitis. Then I wouldn’t be worried until my next exam, which wouldn’t have been until next fall. Next fall, when the money starts flowing a little easier and we can better afford for me to be a disaster.

I’m 46 years old. I’ve pretty much lost hope that some Secret Santa-type is going to drop ten grand on our heads and save us. Even the 500 dollar pet deposit isn’t happening, and that breaks my heart. I want Sean to have a puppy. And more, I want to see Sean with a puppy. And I am very afraid of what’s going on with me, afraid that maybe I’m not going to get to see that. I’m fat, diabetic, and on heart meds for an arrhythmia—the almost certain surgery I’m facing is a terrifying prospect with potential to go very wrong for me.

That sensation that something small actually signifies the beginning of something very big, that a certain moment will prove to be the start of something life-altering? Yeah, I know that sensation. Too well.

Doctors, Doctors Everywhere . . .

2011-10-29T07:15:00.000-07:00

So the move to Virginia has been colored a bit by two things-the fact that we almost bankrupted ourselves to do it and the fact that I had a routine exam go south on me just days before we moved. The money thing, which is scary on so many fronts (including the "if this is cancer, will we have any money at all for any sort of copays or scripts?" angle) is proving difficult to solve because my desire for a year of frugality in order to bail us isn't going over well. It seems to me that, when you're only barely making the bills, it's time to live like you're as poor as you are until things are paid down rather than spend through the last dime, then hope nothing else goes wrong. Better short-term impulse control than long-term poverty.

And the medical thing?

Well, by the time I'll see a doc about it, 16 weeks will have passed since it was discovered. Four months. Have you heard the one about Steve Jobs lately? Decided to sit on his pancreatic cancer for 9 months, trying alternative therapies? Yeah. So I decided to take our fancy letter from the feds that states that, while we have no insurance cards, we are, in fact, insured, and visit a gynecological oncologist early, before my December appointment with the urogynocologist. So I shave my legs and arm pits, gird my trembling loins, and head into the office of a Dr. Edmund. P., a local physician. First, of course, I speak with his billing department to ensure that my letter from FEHB is adequate. I was assured it was.

At the doctor's office? The front desk staff was ridiculing and ugly. You know, with the sidelong glances at each other and repeating back what you've said in sing-songy, disdainful voices. A lot of raised eyebrows and snickering. You know the types--they were the popular, gossipy-girls in high school and never moved beyond that. And then came the wait. An hour and a half, almost, I waited. And watched, as woman after woman limped gingerly through the waiting area and out the doors. Not good. When they called me back, the (much nicer) young lady asked if I needed to go to the bathroom. I said that I had actually intentionally made sure I did, just in case they needed a sample. She smiled, said they wouldn't need a sample from me today, and then led me to the bathroom. I should have known then we had a problem.

When I was led into the amazing Dr. P's office, he shook my hand, and then made a show of shuffling through my records. Then he said that they couldn't accept the FEHB letter and asked if I could fork over cash. Which, of course, would be refunded, should my insurance come through at a later date. I was mortified. Devastated. I asked how much cash. He said that his time was worth 300 dollars for an initial exam/consult. I goggled. He backpedaled and said that $150 was what insurance would usually pay, and he would accept that. He actually told me that, with the economy the way it is, things are "rough all over." I wonder, are things really as rough from behind the wheel of a brand new Mercedes as they are from a piece of shit, near-10 year old Sonata? As you've read the bit above about the money, you know we don't have $150. Viciously humiliated (and on the verge of tears), I told this doctor so. His response? Maybe I should ask my husband! Yeah, because I wouldn't know if we had the money, silly, scatterbrained female that I am. And hey, maybe hubby's holding out, right? I told him I was certain of our financial situation, but then asked to use his phone to call my husband.

He refused. He refused to let me use his phone. Like I'm some 12 year old in the principal's office or some boulevard rat at Village Inn. Bastard. As I stood to leave, he shuffled my file again and said he was very concerned about my heavy periods. I was taken aback, said, "My periods aren't even in the top ten of gynecological concerns I have right now--besides, they've lightened considerably since I began losing weight." He said, "That may be (?), but they're still a concern." I considered him for a moment, and then said, "Not of yours." He tried to hand me a business card so I could "come back with money or when my insurance problems were worked out." I looked at the card, looked at him, and said, "I won't be needing that."

Understand, I wasn't asking this man for charity. I wasn't asking him for payments. I was asking him to accept a letter from the federal government stating that I do, indeed, have medical benefits through my husband's employer, and that any treatment I receive will be paid for. How fucking tough is that?

I didn't cry until I got to the car. Not so much because of humiliation (though I was humiliated). No, I cried because I am scared to death about this thing, and I had worked up the guts to walk into the office of someone who might well give me devastating news or propose a horrifying and potentially maiming or life-altering solution, and I was turned away. All that courage screwed up and nothing.

It's no surprise that I've got almost constant stomach pain now. Since that day, in fact. I am stressed beyond my ability to communicate it. I am so tired. Tired of being afraid, tired of worrying and considering the possibilities. I wish I could express my feelings fully, but I can't. But I am not unreasonable. I am not paranoid. I am not obsessing any more than any reasonable person in my position would be. Fact is, I get through most days without crying. I get through most days without freaking or lapsing into depressed states. I am sad, though. And I am scared. Think about it--two doctor's appointment co-pays and two more scripts and there goes our "disposable" income. For a month. If that possibility isn't something to fear, I don't know what is.

A small note--I found this asshat physician on Facebook. Turns out he's a deep-sea fishing, yacht loving TEA BAGGER. Suddenly it ALL makes sense.

Twat.

Half Life

2011-10-05T08:23:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I've written, and things have changed.

Drastically.

The dream of escaping that dinky-assed dustbowl slum? Has come true in a big way. We left Utah on September 3rd, arriving in Prince William County, Virginia September 7th. Just in time for Tropical Storm Lee to kick the east coast's ass. I wish I could say without doubt that it wasn't my fault. But I can't--disaster seems to follow me, precede me, and otherwise all-around associate itself with me. Just a short time before we moved, I was talking to my Utah insurance agent about moving here. She said, "But you've got a hurricane coming!" I laughed and said, "Sure, we may have to dodge the occasional hurricane, but at least we won't have to worry about EARTHQUAKES anymore." Ten minutes later, a major quake hit Virginia.

Me and my big mouth.

So here we are, finally on the east coast. We have cardinals partaking of the feeders out back. We have a flowering dogwood, which I've wanted since I was a girl, right out our front door. It'll spend its fall blazing scarlet, its winter covered with bright berries, and its spring awash in riotous bloom. We have a brilliantly magenta fall-blooming Crepe Myrtle right outside the back gate. We have mourning doves, jays (REAL jays!), sparrows, finches, a squirrel or two, and a SKUNK!

I have a flower garden, already laden with mums and a profusion of tulip, daffodil, and alium bulbs (some a gift from the lovely lady next door).

It's amazing. Been here a month, and we've already taken Sean to the Udvar-Hazy Air and Space in Chantilly, the National Museum of the American Indian, the Air and Space Museum in DC, and to an airshow and the beach in Virginia Beach. What an amazing place, how much happier I am!

There are people I miss in Utah, but I don't long to be there with them. I long for them to be here. Because here?

It's better.

Cheech Doesn't Live Here Anymore

2011-07-17T08:47:00.000-07:00

Back in the bad ol' days, before my name was ever on a lease or my feet had ever walked a college campus, I was a bit of a stoner. A wastrel, you could say. Not someone who indulged daily or who lazed about on a stained sofa, giggling stupidly at the TV screen while cramming munchies into my slacker mouth, but someone who was known to partake when the occasion arose.

Those days are so far gone. My stoner life ended 27 years ago, and, while it was certainly fun (or at least funny), I don't miss it a bit. Chemically-induced stupidity is only entertaining for a while before it either becomes second nature or lands your ass in jail. Neither of those were on my top ten list, you know?

So, imagine my surprise when, yesterday afternoon, I find an envelope tucked in my door. From our apartment complex property manager, no less. The letter enclosed came exactly one nut hair shy of openly accusing us of smoking pot in our apartment.

Us. Smoking pot. If you knew us, even a little, you'd know just how utterly ridiculous the idea is. Our faces positively ache with how clean our noses are, and not only do we not smoke weed, we don't hang out with people who smoke weed. The strongest substance in this house, since the Vicodin for my back poofed without a trace last month (and wasn't replaced--I haven't taken anything stronger than Advil for the back in a year) is--well, Advil. Oh, and Nyquil. That pretty much covers our cache of "hard-core drugs" in the place. I know, how boringly domestic of us.

Anyway, letter. I call the office, no one home. I leave a scathing message that I delete before "making permanent." Glad I did. Brushed my teeth, changed out of the super-baggy sweats, and headed to the office. No one there. Wound up waiting a half-hour for the manager to return. I was sure the report had come from the loud-assed, wife-beating drunkards who just moved in behind us, but no. It turns out it was a general "I smelled pot smoke in my bathroom" complaint that, according to the manager, did not come from the loud-assed, wife-beating drunkards who just moved in behind us. In fact, it turns out she handed out multiple copies of the letter--one to each unit that in any way shares a border/wall/floor with the bathroom in question. It was a friendly meeting, throughout which I stressed that we do not smoke pot, we do not entertain folks who smoke pot, and that our goal in apartment life is to be invisible. We want to be the folks known as "The nice, friendly, quiet folks in 101 who don't make trouble and always pay their rent on time."

While I can laugh now, I'd be lying if I said that the letter didn't initially knock the wind out of me. See, on the 3rd of July, those loud-assed, wife-beating drunkards had a heck of a party. One that became increasingly loud until, at quarter to midnight or so, it hit an unbearable pitch of angry shouting and wrenching sobs to accompany the blaring music. Understand, the town we live in has a 10 pm noise ordinance. Rather than call the landlord or call the police, I rapped on the wall. Not hard, not with plaster-cracking force, just a light rap. The noise stopped immediately. I hopped in the tub, and, about ten minutes later, was stunned when someone began banging and kicking on our front door. Know that this is a quiet complex, stuff like that doesn't happen. I crept to the bathroom door and opened it, and could hear the very same drunkards yelling and laughing ON MY DOORSTEP.

I was scared to death. But, being the peace-loving girl I am, I didn't call the cops. I thought, "Okay, fine, you got yours, we're even, now it stops." When the letter turned up, I felt certain it was the result of a "spite" tip. You know, your neighbors piss you off so you narc them out on a fabricated drug complaint? But the manager insists that's not the case.

I sure hope not. I don't need that kind of drama in my life. Somewhere along the line, I got old. I grew up and discovered that peace and quiet beats out drama any day.

If I die, blame the baggers

2011-07-16T06:10:00.000-07:00

As the debt ceiling approaches and the idiot bagger Congress makes more and more "ride the bitch over the cliff" noises, the more utterly and completely stressed I get. The more I fear what's to come for us. The more I fear that the mythic east coast job will never materialize because these assclowns are too busy with their political posturing and masturbatory self-satisfaction to do anything more than try to bring down the Presidency. Obama is holding "the elderly and soldiers hostage as human shields?" What do you bastards think you're doing with federal employees and the poor?

This isn't political for me--this is PERSONAL. If they decide to carry their agenda to its sickening climax, not only does the new job go away, but my husband also winds up working for free indefinitely in his current position. Oh, yeah, that's what that means--he still has to go to work every day (because he's non-bargaining), but he doesn't get paid until and unless these freaks get back on track. It would only take us five months to eat through every dime of savings and available credit, and that's if we lived beyond frugally.

Yeah, that's moving money.

I look back to the last days of President Clinton. Back to when Alan Greenspan was "concerned that the United States was paying its debt back too quickly." And I want to cry. Those hopeful, positive, constructive days of fiscal responsibility are gone. I remember when former President G.W. Bush offered "tax rebates." My husband and I goggled, said to each other, "Oh, NO--and people are going to fall for this, they're going to allow themselves to be bought for a measly 400 bucks!" Indeed. And he tanked our economy, gave us this spectacular debt we have, and, as predicted, most Americans have forgotten that, have magically transferred blame from President Bush to President Obama. Make no mistake--I'm far from happy with our current President. But let's be fair and realistic here--he inherited an economic and political cesspool from the clown who preceded him. I'm not sure what could have been done. While I supported the health care reform (and still do--"you're too poor to deserve treatment" sucks no matter where or who you are), perhaps addressing the economy first would have been a better approach. Or perhaps manning up, having some stones in the face of the baggers would have helped some.

And hey, teabaggers? Remember how it was all about "jobs, jobs, jobs?" Yeah, my husband has one of those jobs. Yes, he is actually an American and a human being, despite your sickeningly disingenuous attempts to paint federal employees as overpaid, corrupt thieves. Well, unless you count Congresspeople as federal employees. Then, I suppose, you might just have a point.

Happy Birthday, or "Why is Kris so Pissed?"

2011-06-21T20:23:00.000-07:00

Yes, I said "pissed." You'll get it, read on.

Sunday night, I got a vicious burn/itch/pain in the ol' urinary tract. While I've never had a UTI, as a diabetic I didn't want to mess with it, so I made an appointment with my PA-C. Urine test, blood work. Woman told me I was wrong when I told her how much weight I'd lost ("that's not possible, you couldn't have lost that much"). When I asked her to weigh me, she said she didn't need to--no way I’d lost that much weight. I actually said, "No, really, WEIGH ME." She wouldn't. So I said, "Well, you won't mind if I weigh myself, right?" I weighed myself, and my scale is spot on with hers. Which means I've lost the weight I said I've lost. Anyway, that's not the issue. She looked at my urine lab work and said, "No bacteria, no leukocytes, you don't have an infection." She literally sings the praises of my wonder-urine. Sends me home with a worthless script for phenazopyrid, which didn't do a damned thing about the burn, but did turn my urine a lovely color.

Today, I manage to reach her office to fetch the results of my blood work (after six tries--they don't believe in answering phones or returning calls). She won't talk to me (though she's sitting right there, telling the assistant what to say), but her assistant lets me know that my A1c is down from 6.9 to 5.7. In two months. But no, I’m lying about the weight loss.

After hanging up, I take a nap because I haven't been sleeping well. I wake up with a wowser pain, starting in my lower back toward the hips and radiating up and forward, settling viciously right over my lower abdomen and bladder. I call my PA-C's office, only to discover she's already left for the day. Early. So I make an appointment with another PA-C, and, with an agonized shuffle, head to the clinic. The first thing I'm told? I'm someone else's patient, so they're probably going to refuse to see me. I goggled, I was stunned. Then the receptionist leans forward and says, "Don't you let them turn you away. You MAKE them see you." My fear, of course, is that I have kidney stones, and I am in agony--even if you can't fix the stones, fix the pain, please! They tell me to wait, and I walk away, actually start to cry. I sit down, Tommy and Sean with me, and Tommy says, “Don’t sweat it, we’ll just go to the damned hospital if they won’t see you here.”

Nurse/assistant for someone else (not the promised PA-C) comes out, and she starts telling me that, while there’s nothing they can actually DO for me, they’ll certainly SEE me if I insist. I insisted. I expressed my concern that it might be kidney stones. This woman says that it can’t be a kidney stone because my urinalysis the day before didn’t show a bacterial infection. I say, “Are you sure there has to be a bacterial infection?” I asked because I know that’s not true—you can have a kidney stone with no infection whatsoever. She insists, and I’m too damned tired and hurting to argue, figure she went to the same school as the “fifty test strips, testing twice a day, should last you 45 days” creature. They grow ‘em stupid out here. So I give a bright orange urine sample to the lab (same tech as yesterday, she actually said, rather sardonically, “Oh, wow. Happy day after birthday, huh?”) Indeed. So then I see the doc (a REAL DOCTOR!) and he sends me down for a CT scan to look for kidney stones after giving me a shot of Toradol. I come back upstairs post-CT, and the Doc comes in and says, “No kidney stones.” Understand, that doesn’t rule out having already passed one. Then he looks at my urine numbers and says, “Well, your PA-C doesn’t seem to have finished her notes here, so I don’t know what antibiotic she’s put you on, but your bacteria numbers are even higher today than we saw yesterday –“

WHAT? According my to PA-C, my “bacteria numbers” were ZERO yesterday, so I was sent home without a script for abx.

So here I am, a week’s worth of Cipro on the desk in front of me, feeling like utter crap while Tommy and Sean have popcorn and sodas at the “Two Towers” showing. If that silly bint had just given me the damned antibiotics YESTERDAY, I would already be 3-4 doses into it and likely feeling a whole lot better than I am right now. I would also not have had to pay ANOTHER co-pay because I wouldn’t have required another visit!

I have never had a UTI in my life. I’ve had the itchy-burnies, but I’ve never had urinary-related radiating, dull, unbearable pain while just sitting (and utter agony on urinating). Two things—first, next time someone says they have a UTI, they have got ALL my sympathy, and second, I am done with my PA-C. All done. Had hoped to hold off until after the move, but I just can’t trust myself to that careless git any longer. Tomorrow morning, I call and ask for my file to be transferred across the hall to my new doctor.

**UPDATE**

That Cipro? From hell, folks. Each dose left me feeling increasingly awful, until, by three days, I truly felt I was poisoning myself with each pill. Nausea, grinding waves of pain the back, sides, and belly, and a shaky unsteadiness that left me fearing I was going to go down any minute. This is all on the day we were heading out of town for a few days to catch the airshow. I called the new doctor's office (he's actually at the clinic until late afternoon AND his office answers the phone!), and in 20 minutes they had a new script (for Macrobid) waiting at the pharmacy for me. While the 3 hour drive was still rough, I felt mostly fine by the next day. Thanks, Doc!

Hope Springs Infernal

2011-06-17T21:37:00.000-07:00

I've always been the hopeful type. Many don't realize it, because I'm also a realist. What does that mean? It means I hope my hardest for the best, but I'm rarely suprised when it doesn't happen. That's not to say I'm not devastated by hope's failure--believe me, I am. But I put on a stoic face and, hey, at least I'm not surprised.

Except I am. Even though I fully comprehend and even expect the worst, my secret heart of hearts truly believes that good will come.

How stupid is that?

When I was 15, my mother announced, while we were vacationing in Pennsylvania, that we were moving back to the east coast. Back to Hallstead, our hometown. Back to beloved family, my Aunt and Uncle's Arabian horse farm, and the lazy, sweet, firefly-lit place of my childhood. I was so excited, so eager to return to where my heart had always been.

And then she reneged. She just blah. No reason, no explanation, she just kept putting off and making excuses until finally I realized that it wasn't happening. It had never been a plan, it had been a tale to entertain and impress. This wasn't the first time my Mom had made up a story to enlarge herself or made a big promise with no real intention of living up to her word. No, no--in fact, that's something of a hallmark. It was, however, the first time I was ever devastated by her bullshit. Not the last time, though. Not by any means.

Why am I rambling on about my Mother and her fanciful but faithless tales of wish fulfillment and dreams come true? Because I am so afraid that I'm doing the same thing to Sean--or at least that he will come to perceive it as so. He wants so badly to move back east, to be near the Franklin Institute, the Air and Space Museum, and the ocean. He wants it so deeply that he, like me, like his Daddy, breathes it, eats it, lives the dream of it. But each job that comes up, each opportunity to escape this place and be where we want to be, has fallen through. Hopes dashed time and again. I feel like I'm 15 again, and worse, I feel like my mother, too.

What if it doesn't happen? It's already been three years. What if another three pass and we're still stuck in this dry, dull place? What if five pass? What if we never, ever escape this desolate patch of dust? Poor Sean.

Poor us.

And those beloved relatives my mother promised we'd reunite with? Dead. Bob since 2007 and Helen Jean since March of this year. The Arabian horse farm long gone, the horses dead. But the fireflies are still there . . . for now. Their numbers are reported to be dwindling, though.

You want to hear something shamefully pathetic? For as pessimistic and down as this entry sounds, I am, sadly, brimming with hope. It's scary, how hopeful I am. Why scary? Because the more hopeful I am, the more devastating the fall. Good thing I bounce.

Life's Funny

2011-06-06T00:06:00.000-07:00

A year-and-a-half ago, I posted about how my degree, which I had come so close to attaining, had wound up splattered across the dashboard of my '71 Mustang. I had spent so many years accepting that I would never be granted my degree, and then decided to go for it. Sure I had been thwarted, I posted a blog entry detailing my misery.

Well, I got my degree.

That's right--after scrounging about for records verifying my "story," I submitted a formal appeal and was granted my degree. My wonderful husband threw a party for me, and my degree is now hanging on the wall in a nice frame. I am degreed. I are, in fact, edumacated.

I forget that. Often. I'll be sitting in bed, being carried along on a wave of disappointment and despair over my lack of degree when, suddenly, I'll remember! Hey, I DID succeed there!

And now to do something about it.

I'm in the process of losing weight. A lot of weight. My hope? That I'll lose enough that my vicious social phobia will ease and I'll maybe even get myself a part-time job. Don't call me silly for being afraid--read the news, read the research. Heavy women are routinely denied employment, and when they are hired, they're paid less and fired first. Anyone who says different has never been an overweight woman.

In a totally different direction, our months-long quest for new furniture we can't really afford is finally approaching its end. The amazing, wowser, super-chair and ottoman from the Land of Fancitude has come, and it truly is a wonder to behold. It wasn't the chair/ottoman set we'd wanted--that chair, after months of hope and BS, never did come. So we ordered from someone else. More money, but hey, they actually GOT the furniture to us. The sofa and second chair are en route (that's on rooooot, not IN ROWT), and should be here in a week or so. Sleeper sofa, here we come!

Of course, the new furniture has us panicked--my Mother's got to come over SOME time, right? And what are we going to do when she decides she wants to sit on our nice, new furniture? Her running sores and total lack of hygeine completely destroyed her new furniture in the space of a few weeks. What do we do? There's no good way for that to turn out. I guess we drape blankets over the whole mess and hope?

Or maybe we move? That's what I'm hoping for. Tommy's got applications in for positions in DC, and gosh, wouldn't that be amazing? No, it's not Pennsylvania, but it's mighty close, and it will certainly do in a pinch. Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please!

Oh, and hey! See that link? The one that reads, "My Reviews?" Click on it and read some of my product reviews! Come on, give a girl a hand, why doncha?

Free Association

2011-03-02T21:18:00.001-08:00

This and that, this and that. My heart's being a punk, what else is new? Rode the recumbent for 40 minutes anyway. Even though doing so scares the daylights out of me, I don't think it makes much of a difference. If I die, I'll die naked, sprawled out on the floor next to my fancy-assed murder machine. Jim Fixx indeed.

I feel so wrong lately. Edgy, nervous, sad. I buy myself one new outfit in three years, and I feel guilty for it. No, don't look around me for the answer. It's not there. It's inside me. In that thwacking, idiot heart of mine. The words "I don't deserve it" actually passed my lips. What the fuck is that all about?

I want. I want a tablet-geegaw. You know, something to fiddle with while I ride the recumbent that may slay me. I use my cell phone, but the display is small and my eyes are worsening. Makes for a whopper headache. Now all I have to do is figure out how to justify a 300 dollar toy when I can't find it in me to feel I deserve new clothes. Dunno.

Planned Parenthood wants to feature me in some advertising thing. Not going to be easy, considering I'm a photo-phobe with one decent outfit that hasn't arrived yet and may not fit. Blah. Seems there's pressure from all sides, doesn't it? Shut up, PP, stop stressing me. I gave you a photo, I gave you my words, you can't have any more of me. I know, that makes me a selfish pile of something, but you know, I can't. That's all. I can barely make my way to a dinner party without collapsing from sheer nervousness. Don't ask me to go on national television. Not happening.

Thinking maybe working out when the heart's messing up does make a difference. Hate this, so sick of it. Seems to get a little worse every month, a little more intense, a little longer lasting, a little less time between bouts. Not good.

I wonder how much the current political climate has to do with my heart being such a disaster? I'm stressed and angry all the time. So tired of rude, stupid people who don't care about other human beings. Who think poor people deserve it, that women should be chaste until marriage, and then stay home playing baby-making machine. People who glorify oppressive, occupying governments and vilify entire races based on the desperate actions of a few. People who think that the answer to all our problems is smacking immigrants and cutting funding to aid programs.

Oh, and the environmental causes. Let's not forget to slash the programs meant to keep our air and water safe and clean.

I'll proof-read this later. I don't feel like it right now. I need out of this state, out of this mindset, and maybe, just maybe, out of this world. No, not like that.

The World Eats Children

2010-11-13T11:41:00.000-08:00

I was reading the local paper yesterday morning (the online version to save the trees, of course). As per usual, I hit the obits second (front page comes first). I’ve always been drawn to the obituaries, just as I’ve always felt myself attracted to cemeteries. The last, usually loving tributes to folks who aren’t anymore. It’s beautiful, but beyond that, it often brings with it a wave of “what ifs.” You know—“what if I died, what would Tom put in my obit?” and “What if that was my mother, what would I say about her?”

Yesterday, it was “What if my 12 year old child who loved playing guitar and dreamed of traveling had committed suicide?”

Oh, damn. What if? What if it was my beautiful child, my heart, his life tapped out in a few dozen lines on an obit page? What if the world chewed up my boy and spat him out broken?

I look back on all the things my parents didn’t discuss with me. Suicide, drugs, alcohol, sex, violence, bullying, peer pressure, devastating depression—all of which were a big part of my growing up. I shambled through my childhood, completely lost. I was lucky in that most of my friends were good ones. Maybe not moral compasses, but certainly not wells of depravity, either. I was lucky that, with one notable exception, they all cared about my welfare, even if the stick they used to measure good from bad wasn’t quite in keeping with society’s norms. Or “nerms,” as we used to say.

They say the world is what we make it. If that’s true, we’re breathtakingly broken. I sit down and I talk about suicide, meth, and teen pregnancy with my 12 year old and my brain screams, “WHY? Why does he have to know this stuff at 12 years old? What is WRONG with us, that we’ve created a world where 12 year olds are getting other 12 year olds pregnant and 13 year olds are bullying their classmates to DEATH?”

Why do I have to explain to my child that poking at people who are different, whether it be skin color or sexual orientation, is a bad thing? Shouldn’t we, as a society, already know that? Shouldn’t that be a given? It’s 2010—how can racism or bigotry still be an issue? Aren’t we smarter than that?

And am I part of the problem because I’m making my child aware? I told him about auto-erotic asphyxiation and “huffing” when he was NINE, because other NINE year olds were doing it—and DYING. How fucked up is that? How terrible?

And if you think all THAT'S bad, imagine being a child in Gaza? Haiti? Thailand?

I don’t have a point here. I’m railing against a messed up world that eats people. That eats children. And my heart is thrumming and mind is buzzing with fear because maybe our love and our lectures and our watchful eyes just aren’t enough. That child in yesterday’s paper? Her parents loved her, too. She was their heart. They watched and guided and adored.

And the world got her anyway.

Just Me and Mine

2010-07-14T18:07:00.000-07:00

My husband was driving home today when he passed an accident near the train tracks on 12th Street. He said (on his hands-free!), “Oh, God—motorcycle, looks like bodies, ambulance coming in silent.” And I said, “I hope it’s not anyone we know.”

“I hope it’s not anyone we know.”

What a crappy thought! I’m serious, what is wrong with me? Why would I even think that? What I SHOULD have thought (and said) was, “I hope you’re wrong. I hope no one is dead or badly hurt. I hope the ambulance is coming in silent because no one is injured.”

Please don’t let me become that person. You know, the person who looks out after her own and to hell with the rest? I remember, years back, a teenage girl getting hit by a truck on a Friday night on 12th Street. Tommy, Sean and I were at the drive-through at Burger King, and I saw the girl get nailed. Only two people got out into that road to render aid—me and the driver of the truck. A couple other people stopped once we had her off the asphalt and onto the grass, but, for the most part, everyone drove right by. No one offered to call an ambulance (luckily, Tommy had done so), no seemed to CARE, unless gawking somehow indicates deep concern.

They probably zipped by, saying to themselves, “Gosh, glad that isn’t anyone I know.”

No cute, photo-shoppy picture this time out. Hardly seems appropriate, considering.

Guilt by Association

2010-07-09T21:14:00.000-07:00

I have spent most of my life trying to be a “good” girl. I was the girl who quit drinking at the parties when it became obvious her friends weren’t going to be sober enough to drive. I was the girl who made sure parents’ cars got home before sunrise. I was the girl who walked away rather than take part in the shop-lifting fests thrown by a friend or two. I was the girl who said “no” to every boy who ever asked, yet hauled my friends to Planned Parenthood to make sure that, when they said “yes,” they were protected.

Was I an angel? Certainly not—I drank, I smoked, I did drugs. I was a truant, a bad influence, and a breaker of many traffic laws.

And once—just once—I was a fuel thief. A “gasser and goer.”

It’s an embarrassing story. I was out with two friends, cruising about in the gigantic boat of a car owned and driven by one I’ll call Robyn. Robyn’s tank of a vehicle ate through fuel like my 12 year old tears through chips and salsa. No surprise that half-way through the evening we were low on gas. I was broke—utterly. So was Robyn. Thank goodness the third member of our party—let’s call her Blue—stepped up and said she could fill the tank. Whew!

We pulled into the convenience store/gas station on 12th Street. Hopping out of the car, Blue said she’d fill the tank and pay. Half-way through the fill, I stepped out of the car and walked around to talk to her while she pumped. I noticed she had draped a rag over the rear plate. I asked why, and she arched her brows and sneered. Was I stupid? It was so the clerk couldn’t see the plate, of course!

I guess I was stupid. It took me half a minute to figure out what she meant. Once I did grasp her meaning, I shook my head and said, “No way—bullshit.” She rolled her eyes and asked if *I* had the money to cover the 20 gallons of gas she’d just pumped. I didn’t. She smiled and said, “Then I guess we’re done talking—might want to get in the car . . . and fasten your seatbelt.”

I’m 45 now. If someone pulled a stunt like that on me today, I’d be the one calling the cops—the convenience store clerk wouldn’t have to. But I was a kid, and all my brain could come up with went something like this:

Damn. I don’t have the money for this. I don’t have ANY money. If the cops come, I’m going to jail.

With that thought in mind, I hopped into the car, put on my seatbelt, and tried to avert my face.

We tore out of the parking lot in an explosion of scorched rubber and burnt oil. We screamed through the labyrinthine neighborhoods around Lorin Farr Park. We hid out in a church parking lot, headlights off, for 20 minutes. Finally, after a half-hour, we figured we’d ditched any pursuit. With an angry sigh of relief, I looked at Blue and told her I wanted to go home. I bore her ridicule in silence, fearing I might put her teeth down her throat if I allowed myself to respond.

We cruised down 17th Street and slid out onto Washington Boulevard, heading north toward my home. Almost instantly, the honking and light flashing started. Craning about, I realized that the clerk from the convenience store had snagged us. He whipped up, around, and pulled up next to us. I looked over, he looked over, and it was instant recognition—I knew him. He wasn’t “just” the clerk—his family owned the convenience store. I’d known him since elementary school. I’d had classes with him. He’d always been very nice to me. I liked him. Maybe even crushed on him just a little bit. His eyes widened, his lip curled, and his expression told me all I needed to know. He knew me. He was disgusted with me. And he wasn’t going to turn me in.

And he didn’t. Mine was a distinctive last name—only one in the book, in fact. If he’d wanted, he could have caused me a spectacular load of grief. But he didn’t. He shook his head, hit his brakes, and peeled away up a side street.

I don’t know if he even still remembers. He probably does—would he forget something like that? And I sure haven’t forgotten. All these years later, and I still blush just a little when I remember the look on his face when he recognized me.

I’m sorry, man. I am. I hope you forgive me.

Because "Fruitless" is my Middle Name.

2010-07-04T19:00:00.000-07:00

Years and years and years ago, when I was just a little girl, I fell utterly in love with a locket I found in my mother’s jewelry box. It was an amazing thing—an 1800s “mourning locket” that was substantial, heavy, and strangely masculine. It may have been gold, it may have been pinchbeck. It possessed a commanding, emerald-cut rectangular stone centered in a bed of smooth, intricate, muscular scroll work. I always believed it to be onyx, but it could have been jet, obsidian, or even black glass. The interior was a pale, robin’s-egg blue—perhaps enamel, I don’t know. At around two inches long, it was BIG, weighty, and it stole my heart. It dangled with authority from a long, heavy, box-linked chain, and I spent many a day in my mother’s bedroom, admiring the locket, which had been a gift to her from a woman who had received it from her mother, and she from hers before.

As a teen, I showed the locket to my friends, all of whom were convinced it was a dark, malevolent relic of the occult. We used to pass it around and groove on the wicked “vibe.” Yeah, insert spooky organ music here.

When I was just shy of 17 and preparing to marry, my mother held out her jewelry box and told me to pick something for myself. Something to wear under my frilly dress. My something “old.”

I chose the locket. I don’t think she was too happy about that, but, to her credit, she did not renege. To my utter mortification, she did, years and years later, deny having offered it. But that’s my family, and that’s another story.

The last clear memory I have of possessing the locket is (I think?) living in Provo, Utah with a very nice man who happened to be having sex with my husband. Yeah. That, too, is another story. It all ended badly, and I wound up moving out QUICKLY while no one was home. It wasn’t until much later that I had the time to dig through everything and come to the realization that the locket was gone. I actually got a court order (and a police escort) to dig through stored things at my pending-ex’s grandmother’s house, but no joy. The locket was gone. The ex, of course, denied any knowledge of the locket or its whereabouts. This is the same guy who made off with HALF my stereo (left the turntable and one speaker), the BOXSPRINGS to my bed, much of my paltry jewelry collection, and most of my vinyl records. Oh, and half my wardrobe. The red always did look better on you, darlin’.

For years, I have pined for my locket. I have cursed my ex, cried, and, since the advent of “all you can eat” internet access, cruised hundreds of auction and estate sale sites. I have chewed through ebay time and time again, leaving a highway of messages and board posts and pleas.

Please.

It wasn’t until recently that I began to wonder—did my ex-husband steal it? Did he? Or was it already gone by another’s hand? I look around now, suspicious. What about Lou? That girl stole my grandmother’s pearls from me--not once but TWICE. Each time, being the wonderful, kind, caring, stupid, ass-headed person I was, I quietly secreted them back without confronting her because I didn’t want HER to feel bad about stealing from ME. Did SHE take the locket? She sure liked it, and she had been down to visit not long before I left Provo. What about BJ? She was a thief, no question about it. But she was also completely insane, and when she flipped from one “her” to another, she almost always confessed her crimes. So probably not. But what about those others who've made locket-coveting noises over the years? Is that where my locket went? Have I been wrongly vilifying my ex all these years?

No. He deserves the downing, whether he took the locket or not.

I don’t have a picture. I can’t draw one. But if I SAW it, I would absolutely know it. I would know it because it is indelibly imprinted in my mind’s eye. I’ve spent a good five hours just in the past two days once again poring over auction and antique sites. Hoping. I know. I know I’m likely not ever going to see it again, and that breaks my heart. I know it’s “just a thing,” but come on—can we all admit that some things are very special to us? This locket is very special to me. I see it in my mind almost every day. If you see it in your journeys, snap it up for me—I may have to make payments, but I swear I’m good for it.

Strippers and Fractures and BILLS, Oh, MY!

2010-02-10T19:07:00.000-08:00

Back in the day, I was a tender of bars. I’d been doing it on and off for a couple of years when I wound up at a particularly oogy dive. I’ll call it “The 4th Concerto” to protect the not-so-innocent. This place was a cesspool in all senses of the word—no phone (owner hadn’t paid the Bill), no beer distributor (owner hadn’t paid the Bill, which left us buying beer at the grocery store to stock the coolers), no heat or hot water (owner hadn’t paid the Bill), and an inch of ice-cold standing water behind the bar due to a broken drain pipe from the sinks. The only thing that redeemed this job was that my best friend and roommate was also my co-bartender. She could make just about any crap situation better.

One of the classier forms of entertainment offered at “The 4th Concerto?” Strippers, of course! Not just the pasty-twirling type, either! Oh, goodness no! We had “male exotic dancers,” too. Three, in fact (if you don’t count the psychopath who came in one night wearing a banana g-string and scared all the customers into the bathroom). One was a tall, aloof, oh-so-cool Nordic type. I’ll call him Ringo. Johnny Ringo. The second was an amazingly handsome Asian man who doubled as a martial arts expert. I'll dub him Lee. Bryce Lee. Yes, Bryce—come on, how obvious do I need to be? And the third mythic “dancer?”

An impossibly built, long, smooth, lean black man I’ll call Brian. If we switched two letters in his name, it’d be “brain.” But those letters will forever remain unreversed. Believe me.

It was a typical night at the ol’ Concerto. Cold, wet, loud, with a rowdy crowd of women working themselves up for the strippers. As something of a safety measure, we had women accompanied by their boyfriends or husbands in the very back to reduce clashes between our male strippers and our male customers. In addition to our usual gaggle of customers, we had a very special group of guests—a friend, whom I shall call Petra, had brought her older mother in to celebrate her 65th birthday with some “exotic dancing.” Her mother spoke almost no English. Let’s say she was from Azerbaijan. She wasn't, but let's say she was. Not a lot of male strippers in Azerbaijan, so she was in for a surprisingly good time.

Or not.

It took only a short time for disaster, in the form of a particularly coke-and-steroid intoxicated Brian, to strike. Rather than grinding it for the girls up near the stage, Brian decided to head to the absolute back of the club and press his junk right into the face of a very married, very accompanied-by-her-husband woman. The husband asked Brian to back off, and the fight was on. It was like watching a 6'5" badger with fists.

It made a Tiger Shark feeding frenzy look positively kind.

Understand this man had no chance against Brian. Even if Brian weren’t 6 inches taller and a good 70 lbs of testosterone-laden muscle heavier, he was also full of enough coke to chew a hole in God’s Holy Septum.

I began to shout for my “male” (I use that term SO loosely) coworkers to charge in and save the customer. To no avail. So I grabbed my keys, locked up my cash register, and flew over the bar with my co-bartender/roommate/best friend to break things up. With no shoes on (try tending bar for 8+ hours in spiked heels ), the first casualty was my feet—broken glass from the brawl. The second casualty?

Petra’s 65 year old mother’s face. They may not have male strippers in Azerbaijan, but taking a table to the face has pretty much the same effect everywhere.

Blood flew, and not just from our poor Azerbaijani woman. Our wife-defending husband was, by the time we arrived, on the floor, curled up, and in danger of being beaten to death. I looked around—every male in the place had backed off ten paces and was watching warily (or eagerly, depending upon how kind you want to be). I looked to the other dancers, but neither was willing to get in Brian’s way—Johnny Ringo because he knew he’d get dead, and Bryce Lee because he didn’t want to kill anyone. My roomie and I took a deep breath and jumped in, placing ourselves between the flying fists of coke and the victim. Brian threw me a smile that involved ALL the teeth, then cocked his fist to take me out next.

And then came the holy hand of Wayne, saving the day.

I’m not changing Wayne’s name. He probably saved my life that night, and credit where credit is due, you know?

Wayne, who was a good 10 inches shorter than Brian, grabbed Brian’s wrist and shook his head. He said, in a surprisingly quiet voice, “Dude, you know I love you, but I’ll kill your ass if you hit her.”

Turns out Brian and Wayne were lifting buddies. Also turns out Wayne and I had been pals in high school, though I hadn’t seen him in four years. Fortuitous, huh?

Brian stalked off, somewhat deflated, while Wayne smiled at me and said, “Boy, you’re still too stupid for your own good, aren’t you?” My co-bartender/roommate and I coddled Petra’s mom, cleaned up the mess, and encouraged Mr. Pulpy-Husband to leave. I bought Wayne a beer, and we spent some time getting reacquainted while the bar crowd staggered to find its rhythm again. Wayne wandered off to shoot some pool, and all was as well as could be expected in my world.

For a minute.

It was only a few minutes later that my roomie came dashing toward the bar, shouting that Brian had our earlier victim out on the sidewalk and was killing him. I shouted for her to call the cops (from the pay phone--no bar phone, remember?), and I dashed outside with no clear idea of what I was going to do, other than not let someone die if I could help it. I burst out the front door to find a crowd of men in a circle around the killing action. None making any move to break things up, many of them CHEERING. Yeah, I still remember your stupid faces. Brian had the man by the hair and was slamming his head against the curb. I did the only thing I could think of doing.

I launched myself at Brian’s back, grabbed him under the arms, and threw myself backwards. I was a skinny girl back then, but there was enough of me to drag him away. We wound up in a pile on the sidewalk, me on my ass and Brian on me. I remember very clearly thinking, “Okay, now what?” But, of course, there was no “now what.” I was going to die.

Please remember that Brian was a stripper. He was oiled, and wearing only a g-string. Oh, and sparklies in his hair. How’s that mental picture for you? I have some Tums here if you need.

Just as Brian, a deep, rumbling growl growing in his chest, managed to slip-slide out of my grasp and whirl around for the kill, Wayne appeared again. Like an angel, he scooped me up and scooted me behind him. Brian, choosing to not tangle with his lifting buddy, stormed inside. Screaming at the Concerto’s owner, he cried that I was all sorts of awful things and demanded I be dead or fired by the next Wednesday, else he’d be shaking his well-oiled booty somewhere else, thank you VERY much!

Interesting stories almost make crap jobs in crap places working for crap people worth it.

Almost.

Oh, for the record? I was almost fired that night--for pissing off a dancer and, more importantly, committing the sin of telling my partner to call the police. Guess saving someone's life just isn't a good enough excuse when there are Bills to pay.

My Education on the Dashboard

2010-01-27T10:01:00.000-08:00

I’m having a terribly sad day. Terribly sad of the “sit in front of the computer and cry my stupid eyes out” variety. It’s made all the worse because I should have known. You’d think I was stupid er sumpthin’.

Back in the summer of '93, I was all set to graduate from Weber. I had my generals filled, my major filled, thought I owed one class on my minor. Took the National CLEP to fill my English requirements, and life was good.

But. Always one of those, right?

Because I was planning to register for that one course come fall quarter, I decided to wait on filing my CLEP certificate with the Records Office.

Stupid me.

Two weeks after receiving my CLEP certificate in the mail, I was in a wowser car accident. The kind of accident where the police don’t put a neat little “x” on the damage sticker, but rather scribble off the entire front end of the car. I suffered substantial facial fractures, deep tissue bleeding in the hips and belly (seat belt), a lasting back injury, and, most importantly, a traumatic brain injury.

At the same time, my then-husband left the country, leaving me buried under an avalanche of unpaid debts I hadn’t even known existed. Oh, and my boss fired me—apparently the Frankenstein-like black stitching all over my face was “scaring the customers.”

So there I was. Dain bramaged, maimed, jobless, spouseless, and being sued from all sides by my then-estranged husband’s creditors.

By the time the mental fog cleared (somewhat—those who know me well know I never was the same), I was in serious arrears with UHEAA. Yes, I filed a deferment. Who knows to whom I actually MAILED the request? Considering I sent Columbia House my five hundred dollar Citgo payment, the deferment request could have gone just about anywhere. "Addled" doesn't even begin to describe what a mess I was in the months after the accident.

Obviously, no student aid meant no tuition at that point. No tuition meant no degree. At some point I tucked my bright pink CLEP certificate into an envelope and slid it into a folder. A folder marked, apparently, “Space this off for a decade or more, Dain Bramage Girl.”

Fast forward to 2010. I’m moving out of state. I’m 44 years old. There are things I would like to do someday that can only be done with that degree. So I’ve spent the past few days on the phone. Turns out that one class I thought I needed? I didn’t. In fact, all I needed to do was check off with my advisors and file that CLEP certificate and I had graduation sussed. I earned my degree in FULL.

But.

Weber State’s Records Office tells me they won’t recognize my CLEP certificate. They’ve changed the crediting system, and the certificate isn’t worth the paper it’s written on. Never mind I paid for the test AND took it TWICE as part of a study focused on the implementation of computers in CLEP administration. That’s right—I took it twice. Once in pencil, once on computer. And it means nothing. I suppose I could retake the CLEP for English, but these days you can’t clear your English Requirement with a CLEP. I know, I asked.

I’m still making calls. I’m still dropping emails. Arts and Humanities, Child and Family, Psychology, English, Records, Graduation, Academic Advisement—I’ve had all of them on the phone over the past couple of days, and the wonderful folks I’ve spoken to have been as helpful as they can be. But I’m so discouraged, and so angry at myself for being stupid enough to get my hopes up. Had I not let a friend wrap me and my car around a tree at 60 mph en route to Arby's, I’d have that degree.

To sum it up? I appear to have traded a BS for a roast beef sandwich from Arby’s. What really sucks? I didn't even get to EAT the sandwich; I found it festering under the driver's seat a few weeks post-accident. Maybe if it had been a really good sandwich, the very BEST sandwich I'd ever had, it wouldn't sting so much.

Boy, don’t I feel utterly stupid?

All I Want for New Year's is a Shiny New Home

2010-01-01T08:26:00.000-08:00

Well, here it is again. Came frighteningly fast this time, didn't it? When Stephen King spoke of “short time” for the grownups, he sure as spit knew what he was talking about. Time moves so fast anymore it brings me to tears. If it only took this few blinks to get from bright-eyed 18 to here then here to dead must only be a flash away, you know?

Weee! How very positive of me!

I’m really not that negative a person. In fact, I am brimming with hope for this new year. Sure, I have the usual hopes: be more patient with our son, lose weight, write more, write better, exercise more, get healthier. But I have one more hope, one very special desire this year. One resolution that I can’t imagine surviving failure.

What is it?

Gettin’ the hell outta Dodge. That’s right—after spending the better part of 38 years here in Utah, I am OUTTA here with the people I love the very most! Back to where I came from, back whence my family came, back to where the world is green and the air is alive with possibility.

I won’t lie—I’m not just running to something, I’m running away from something. Away from dysfunctional relationships that have sucked the joy from me for years. Away from the dry and the yellow, brown, and grey. Away from being forever the outsider, the one who must join fringe groups and minority cliques in order to be not alone. Away from almost everything Utah is for me.

I know I seem to be “dissing” Utah. What can I say? I actively dislike this place. I know some say, “Well, if you only KNEW Utah!” I do—and familiarity has bred just a bit of contempt. From Grafton to Logan, from Vernal to Vernon, I’ve driven, hiked, backpacked, camped, and all-around explored this place. And I’m all done with it. I’ve been here. I don’t want to be here anymore.

Let me say from my heart that I’m not “dissing” the people who DO love this place. Great! Seriously! I am absolutely sincere when I say that I am very glad that you love Utah, that Ogden (or Salt Lake City) rocks your world! I think it would be terribly sad if that weren’t the case! The way you feel about Utah? That’s how I feel about the East Coast. The warm pride that rises up in you when you think of Snow Basin, Ben Lomond, the Union Station, or the Pie Pizzeria? That’s how I feel about the Franklin Institute, Sturbridge Village, the beach at Wells, Maine, and Pat’s King of Steaks. They’re mine, and that’s where I want to be. Where I need to be.

I’m not saying that Utah has nothing to offer. I’m not saying that there’s nothing beautiful or worthwhile here. Of course there is! What I’m saying is that I’ve done that, and I don’t want to do it anymore. My heart isn’t here, and I need something else. I need my home.

Be happy for me. Please. Don’t wrinkle your nose and declare that I’m “missing out.” Instead, understand that we’re all different, and what works for you is killing me. Love your Utah, make it everything you can, and spare a hope or a prayer that my dreams for the east coast come to pass and are everything I wish for. Will you do that for me? I don’t want a whole lot. Just new home with my wonderful husband and magical boy. Please, cross your fingers and wish me luck!

And then they're gone

2009-12-20T20:11:00.000-08:00

I think a lot about death. I think it may be because I don’t believe in an afterlife. Lacking that belief does seem to make the whole DEAD thing seem a lot more immediate.

When my beloved Frank died, I missed the funeral. I missed it because I didn’t take the paper at the time, and no one called me to tell me he had died. On a whim, I went online and pulled up the free obits for a glance, and there was Frank. It was the day of his funeral, and it was already over. Yes, I cried a whole big bunch over that one.

A few months later, someone came to my door. My mother answered, and, not recognizing the 6 foot tall, cowboy hat wearing, exceedingly intoxicated man on the porch, lied about where I lived. She was scared. He seemed scary to her. I can understand why. She told me when I got home that some scary drunken person had asked for me, stammered something about Frank, and then wandered off. I knew immediately.

I took a deep breath, girded myself, and went next door, my brave and wonderful husband in tow. See, I knew it was Shawn. Shawn, Frank’s grandson and my one-time best childhood friend. And I knew he would be impossibly inebriated. Why? Because Shawn had been impossibly inebriated for most of his days since his early teens. Shawn’s childhood didn’t give him much of a chance at being anything but that.

Shawn and I hadn’t really spoken to each other in over twenty years. But he knew me instantly, and I knew him. He grabbed onto me like a man drowning and hugged me, sobbing. He was so wasted, had that scary, thrumming mixture of booze and meth going on. He just wanted to touch, to talk, to rail against the unfairness of Frank’s death. He paced, punched the air, staggered, sometimes doubled over with the pain of his loss and his terrible addictions. He bawled openly while telling me that he had been too inebriated to make Frank’s funeral, and how terrible he felt about that. Even sadder? I found out later that he HAD made it to Frank’s funeral, but had been so intoxicated that he didn’t remember being there. Isn’t that awful?

A neighbor came over after an hour or so, lied and said that Shawn’s Aunt (Frank’s daughter) had demanded we leave immediately or she was going to call the police. Yeah, I know you lied. I asked Frank’s daughter later on down the road, told her what you'd said and done in her name. You heartless creep. I started to argue with this neighbor, asked him for Frank’s daughter’s number so I could call her, explain things, but Shawn cut me off. He mumbled that it was all perfectly okay, and started to get into his car. I argued that he was too messed up to drive, while yon neighbor pushed for him to do it, arguing that it wasn’t very far (30 blocks), and it would be fine. I offered to drive Shawn, but he refused. He took out his keys, placed them in my hand, hugged me again, then ran off into the night. Heartless neighbor was joined by the father of the registered sex offender who lives across the street (with his sex offender child); they both began pushing me HARD to get the car out of Frank’s driveway before Shawn came back. Had it not been Shawn, had Shawn not been Frank’s grandson, I’d have told them to do their own damned dirty work.

Yes, both these men think they’re good guys. But that wasn't compassion going on, it wasn't goodness--it was a big, fat case of NIMBY . . . like the father of a sex offender has any right to whine about what goes on in ANYONE else's back yard.

I drove Shawn’s car (used to be Frank’s) back to the house where Shawn and I had played so many years before. The house had been his mother’s when she had been married to the mean bastard Shawn called a step-dad through most of his childhood. His mother had married “up” and left the place to Shawn while she kept herself in much nicer digs. I parked the car in the driveway, locked the doors (it’s not a great neighborhood), and hung the keys on the inside handle of the screen door. My husband had followed in our car, and he drove me home.

I never saw Shawn again. He came by my house a couple more times (once at 10 pm, once at midnight, both times completely intoxicated), but I was on vacation when he came, and, to be brutally honest, I was glad. I have a husband, our son was seven years old then, and I just didn’t have a place in my world for a wildly unstable drug addicted alcoholic who shows up at all hours of the day and night needing to be rescued. I couldn’t be someone to answer his cries for help, I couldn’t be the person who would drop everything, family and home included, to be his savior. And the guilt has gnawed at me all this time. Because I wanted to be the person who could “save” Shawn. I wanted to be that hero, that wonderful, selfless saint. But I wasn’t, and I’m not. I am selfish, I put my husband, my child, and myself before the Shawns of the world.

Shawn died just ten days shy of Christmas this year. The obituary said he died of head injuries sustained in a fall. That he died in the loving arms of his mother and sister. The obituary didn't say what all of us who loved Shawn knew. It didn't have to.

Could I have saved Shawn? I don’t think so. I mean, we all want to think we’re somehow magical, that we can reach people who’ve been far beyond the reach of others. But realistically? No, I don’t think I could have made a difference. Many others tried, including a number of professionals. No one could save Shawn, and Shawn couldn’t save himself. He was unarmed and ill-prepared for this life. And so he ended.

I don’t believe in an afterlife. But if I did, I’d put Shawn, clear eyed and peaceful, riding horses along a stream up over Monte with his Grandpa Frank. Maybe riding SiSi and Zen. Cindy trotting alongside, fetching sticks and chasing squirrels. Saddle bags loaded with Vienna sausages, Snack-Pack puddings, and a few cans of Fanta Red Cream Soda. A blanket, a beaver dam, and a forever full of laughter and love.

I’m so sorry, Shawn. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you. I’m sorry you couldn’t help yourself. If there is something else, something beyond this, I hope you’re finally happy.

Because we've all got to have a talent . . .

2009-12-12T20:20:00.000-08:00

I slaughter song lyrics. Other people do constructive things, artistic things, perhaps even create their own beautiful music. Me? I do the Weird Al thing and mangle the works of others for my own entertainment. It’s not because I don’t like their songs. It’s not because I think I’m somehow improving upon their work or lack respect for them as artists. It’s not because I’m trying to pass off anyone’s work as my own.

Nope, I do it because it’s ingrained in me. Much like compulsive spoonerizing, I MUST mangle song lyrics. It quite literally hurts when I don’t. If I cannot change them, then I must make them utterly nonsensical. “Twenty-one Guns” becomes “Benny-bum Dungs.” “Spaceman” becomes “Facespam.” I can’t help it. Really. No doubt there’s a name for that out in the psychobabbl-y world. There’s a name for everything, isn’t there?

No, I don't think the name is "schizophrenia." Yes, I heard that.

I remember driving down the road (or passengering, actually), Scritch behind the wheel of her sorry little poop-brown Toyota Celica. It was a Celica, right? The year was 1986, and our boyfriends were stashed in the back seat . . . that’s telling, I know. I guess I just really didn’t want to be stuck in the back seat of a 1978 (?) Celica with some slacker git when I could be up front with my best friend, who was far better company. A song came on the radio, and she and I began to belt it out at the tops of our smoky lungs.

You remember the song—sing along! It went something like this:

And though I treated you like a child
I’m going to miss you for the rest of my life
All I need is a miracle
All I HAVE is YOU!

No, we actually didn’t notice the silence from the back seat. It was too quiet a silence to capture our collective attention, I guess.

Next song up? Another favorite of the day, and once again we opened our throats and let loose. Let’s see if you remember this beaut:

Oh, I—I just died in your arms tonight!
It must have been something you ATE!

The silence from behind became so deafening that we heard it over the flapping of the torn sidewall. Even Scritch, locked in a life-and-death struggle against a steering wheel determined to wrest control and send us careening into a river, noticed. We tried to explain that we’d made up those lyrics long, LONG before we’d met them. What? Oh, God, he's not CRYING, is he?

I think it comes from my Father, who taught me to say grace like so:

Rub-a-dub-dub, thank God for the grub
Yay, Christ!

and

Two! Four! Six! Eight!
Who do we appreciate?
Goooooo GOD!

My Father, who set me up for utter humiliation at YMCA Camp by teaching me the following lyrics to “Amazing Grace”:

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound
A bulldog ran my Grandma down . . .

Yeah, I think I can blame Dad (though credit is due Scritch, who both indulged and conspired). I remember turning “I am Woman” into “I am Obese.” “It’s a Heartache” into “It’s a Hard-on.” “Uptown Girl” into “Uptown Squirrel.” And “Rock Me, Amadeus?” Well, that became either “Eat Me, I’m a Danish,” or “____ me, I’m a Dentist.”

You know:

I’m a Danish, I’m a Danish!
Eat me, I’m a Danish!

My crowning glory? Sorry, I can’t say here. This is a PG rated blog.

I wish I could say that I put effort into this. I wish I could I could say it takes a ton of work. But I don’t, and it doesn’t. This stuff rolls off my tongue with zero forethought. The song comes on, I open my mouth, and WHAMMO! New lyrics. Just like that. I couldn’t stop it if I tried.

My husband has become a fair hand at this, and we’ve dragged our son into this twisted compulsion. He loves it when we do it, and he’s trying his hand at a few himself. I’m not sure if I’m proud of him or horrified at myself for perpetuating this particular family tradition. We’ll see where it takes him. It’ll probably wind up in his book.

Be Still My Heart

2009-12-11T21:13:00.000-08:00

Yes, I’ve been letting the blog slide. I’ve been cranking out a couple thousand words a day since December 2nd, and writing for recreation has taken a back seat.

I’ve jotted down a gaggle of ideas for my blog, but right now the only thing going through my head is my miserable heart. More specifically, this damnable irregular heart beat that has me so freaked it’s hard to think of anything else.

The whole arrhythmia thing started back in 2001 or so. I was exercising a lot, and had lost around 70 pounds (don’t worry, I gained it all back and ten of its friends). I smoked a LOT back then, and ingested rather astounding quantities of caffeine. When the “palpitations” started, I was a bit floored. See, I was born with a congenital heart problem, so to have my heart suddenly go nuts on me was a scary proposition. Being me, I tried to ignore it, but after four days (yes, DAYS) of increasing discomfort, panic, and pain, I wound up in the emergency room. The INSTANT I hit that ER, the problem resolved itself. No kidding. I threw exactly ONE PVC in the four hours I was hooked up.

Do I have to tell you how embarrassed I was, what with all those ER docs and nurses raising their brows and blinking in my direction? One doctor muttered something about taking magnesium supplements, and that was that.

I had zero problems for over six months, and then came another bout of PVCs. Those are “Premature Ventricular Contractions” for anyone wanting to know. It means a little part of my heart is jumping the gun and contracting before it should, which leaves it playing a little game of catch up. It’s an incredibly unnerving sensation. My new bout found me staying home, steadfastly refusing to go to the ER again. I cut back on the smokes, ditched the caffeine (a ditching that became permanent), and after two days, things mellowed out again. For about six months.

The next swarm? Astounding! I lasted five days before I was finally so terrified that I went to the ER again. And again, the instant I walked in, the PVCs STOPPED. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry—on the one hand, GOOD! I’m glad they stopped! On the other? Well, once again I look like a contender for Miss Hypochondria. Isn’t my insurance company going to start raising a stink? After all, these hospital visits ain’t cheap.

My third ER visit came yet one more year later. I’d been suffering through the PVCs every few months, but once again, they hit a fever pitch that couldn’t be ignored. And once again, they jumped ship as I walked into the ER. Try, for just a moment, to imagine how incredibly humiliating and frustrating this was.

After two more years of three or four times a year patches, I had another beaut (about six months after quitting smoking, in fact). But instead of going to the ER, I went to the local clinic. They hooked me up to a portable EKG, and the tech said, “Wow, that can’t be fun!”

What? Someone can SEE this? Hallelujah!

The clinic physician came in, watched the EKG readout for a few minutes, whistled, and told me that we’d talk after they unhooked me. He handed me a folder with my EKG readout, and told me he’d made an appointment with a cardiologist for the next afternoon. That, of course, panicked me worse than anything else—I must be terminal if I scored a NEXT DAY appointment with a cardiologist!

Next day found me still heart-skippy and miserable, sitting in the cardiologist’s office being rigged up to a Holter monitor. Yes, it is HOLTER, not halter. Named after Dr. Norman J. Holter. No, I’m not making that up. I was given a little notebook and a pencil, and told to push the button on the monitor every time I felt a THWACK in my chest, then write down what I was doing and what time it was. I had to wear this thing for 48 hours. I was then to return to the office, let them remove it, and they’d let me know where we would go from there.

That’s 48 hours without bathing. Nasty.

I did everything I normally do (except bathe). I even rode my incumbent stationary bike for 45 minutes each day. The only problem I had was the whole “push the button/make the note” thing—see, I was having palpitations so frequently that I’d have five more while I was writing about the first one.

The day I dropped off my Holter monitor, they did an echocardiogram. That’s an ultrasound, minus all the cooing and blushing. The echo looked great, they said. What a pretty heart!

Two days later, they called back—all the information had been sent back to the clinic, and I was to call them and make an appointment for a follow-up. Hmmm. What does that mean? I don’t need help, or they can’t help?

Made my appointment and staggered in. The doctor said that, according to the Holter results, I was tossing out around 3500 PVCs a day. A few PACs (those are Premature Atrial Contractions) thrown in to keep things interesting. Almost none while sleeping, which I thought (and still think) was supremely unfair. I was horrorstruck, but the doctor smiled and said, “3,500 isn’t really anything to be concerned about—we don’t really start to worry until you top 10,000, and we’ve got some folks who pop with 35,000 a day.”

What does that MEAN?

Well, in a nutshell it means “idiopathic arrhythmia.” No underlying pathology, everything looks lovely, so sorry, sucks to be me. When I asked what could be done about it, the doctor shrugged and said, “Well, that depends. The aggressiveness of treatment really depends upon your ability to put up with it.”

Huh?

Turns out that some PVCs respond pretty well to Beta Blockers. Some don’t. Some respond fairly okay to Calcium Channel Blockers. Some don’t. Some can be eradicated via ablation. Some can’t. And some freak out when faced with Beta Blockers or Calcium Channel Blockers and create the emergence of a second, competing arrhythmia, a condition called a "proarrhythmia." This is more common in women. It’s more likely to occur in someone like me with PVCs and PACs. It can be fatal, and it's not something I’m eager to flirt with.

And it turns out that my irregular heartbeat isn’t likely to kill me any time soon. Go online and search the hundreds of cardio forums. Millions of people live with this, millions deal with it on a daily basis. As time has passed and the frequency of spates has gradually increased, I’ve become one of those millions of daily sufferers. If I get a two week break, I count myself lucky these days.

So I opted to let it do its thing. And it does, pretty frequently and sometimes, like tonight, pretty scarily. I’ve had the old ticker looked at since, including shambling through 20 hours of continuous in-hospital monitoring, a “Cardiolite” stress test, and two 64 slice CT scans (Is that you, Cancer? Hi! How are you? Yep, yep, see you in a few years!). My heart looks perfect.

Utterly flawless.

So why am I’m sitting here with pains in my chest and shoulder blade? Why am I suffering PVCs so intense it feels like I’ve got no normal beats going on at all? My heart feels as though it’s squirming in my chest, and I can feel myself ramping up to a full blown panic attack. What's that you say? Get to the hospital? I don’t think so—felt like this four nights ago, felt like it a week ago, felt like it three weeks ago, too. When that BIG ONE comes, I’ll totally miss all the warning signs, because I experience them half the time, anyway.

Wow, look at me whine! I know, I need to learn to relax. I need to meditate, take up yoga, and learn to let go what I can't fix. I'm a "stresser," and stress makes this worse. So does focusing on it. But you try having your heart dancing a tango in your chest and then take a shot at relaxing. Go ahead, try to ignore it. It’s a lot easier said than done.

This Won't Hurt a BIT

2009-11-29T09:54:00.000-08:00

I don’t trust doctors. Not even a teensy bit. No, no, not in some hermit-like, never seek medical care, chant in the moonlight, die-of-a-simple-pimple-gone-wrong sort of way. I still seek medical care, usually in a pretty timely fashion, but I don’t trust the men and women in the crisp white coats. I don’t trust them to actually pay attention, I don’t trust them to care about me, and I don’t assume that they’re particularly competent or any more intelligent than I am.

This mistrust has actually saved my life a time or two. We’ll get to that.

Where does this utter lack of faith come from? This discomfort verging on terror?

Well, it probably started in childhood. I was born with a congenital heart disaster which left me on a doctor’s exam table daily, getting injections. No, I don’t remember this at all, but the fear of needles held on for decades. The fear of white coats, too. No kidding, my mother had to change at work (she was a nurse) before coming home because I had come to associate people in white with pain. It wasn’t until my mid-teens that I was able to allow an IV or injection, and that was because the only alternative was allowing my gall bladder to continue wreaking stony havoc until I eventually died from it.

My feelings about doctors began to coalesce young. They were solidified by our move to Utah, which landed me with the meanest, rudest, drunkest old man there ever was for a GP. His name wasn’t Gus Spurland, but it might as well have been.

Doc Spurland was short, fat, thick-fingered, bespectacled, with one of those noses that proclaims a lifelong affair with drunkenness. Think W.C. Fields or Gimli from Fellowship of the Rings (the movie). He had a perpetual sneer and a way of making a child feel awfully stupid. I never liked him, I dreaded visiting him, and my pleas for a new doctor were met with round rebuke. My Mom has a bad case of “Omnipotent Physician Syndrome,” you see. It comes from being a nursing student in the 50s. All doctors are right and good and should always be respected and obeyed. End of lesson.

I stuck with Doc Spurland into young adulthood because—well, because he was the only game in town. No one else took payments, and I didn’t have health insurance. So I suffered through the “Cadillac of birth control pills” (made me gain enough weight I looked like a luxury car), the ridicule about the subsequent weight gain (“have you considered buying new pants if you’re going to be the fat pig again?”), and the perpetual drunken confusion about who I actually WAS (“You have any new social diseases?”). I used the campus doc whenever I could, but sometimes there was no avoiding the drunken old man.

1990 was a bad year for me, medically speaking. No insurance, precious little money. I went to Planned Parenthood for my annual pelvic, and got some slightly wonky results back. They tossed me on some drug or another and told me to come back in six months. Six months later, even wonkier results come back. They handed me another scrip and told me to come back in six WEEKS. Just before coming back, I started suffering sublingual pain. Lo and behold, I had a large LUMP under my tongue! As a long-time smoker, I was rather concerned. As I was prepping to have that looked at (by another rude, self-impressed, ugly, mean-spirited ex-Army doc who fancied himself an oral surgeon and also took payments), I found a lump in my breast.

Two, in fact. Found them on the day that my Mother’s gynecologist shredded ten chunks from my cervix in hopes of figuring out why my paps were coming back bad. No anesthesia because, and this is a direct quote, “Women don’t have any nerve endings there, so they can’t feel anything.” The pain was pretty astounding. Almost as intense as my deep and undying dislike for that man.

What do you do when you find lumps in your breast? Well, you call your doctor, right? That’s what I did. I called Doc Spurland and asked him to schedule a mammogram for me at the local hospital. He was quite reluctant, but I persisted. See, I DON’T suffer from Omnipotent Physician Syndrome. He finally agreed, but then insisted I come into his office immediately afterwards. I agreed.

I got to the hospital and, right off, the rad techs and nurses could feel those lumps. Just as Marquis de Gynecologist had been able to. Just as my then-husband could. After an inconclusive mammogram, the radiologist came in—he could feel the lumps, too. He performed an ultrasound. Still inconclusive. So he did a fine needle biopsy and sent me on my way. To Doc Spurland’s office.

Spurland barked me into an exam room (sans attending nurse—he didn’t do things that way), told me to lay back, hiked up my shirt and did the most cursory of breast exams. He then glared at me with unmistakable disdain and muttered “There's nothing there--pull down your shirt and get in my office.”

Oh. Okay. I went into his office (think big, mahogany desk, red leather furniture, smoldering ashtrays--Great White Hunter-type stuff) and sat down. My mother was already there. And then he started.

I’m worthless. I’m a piece of dung. I’m a manipulative, cruel, hateful pile of garbage. I’m just clever enough to take advantage of everyone around me. I’m incapable of love and deserve no love from others. I’m a whore, I’m nothing better than a Petri dish for venereal diseases. I don’t have any lumps in my breast (I just made them up to scare my mom and torture my family), but he wishes I did have lumps, because the world would be a better place if I died. Look at my poor mother, look what I do to her. I’m tearing her heart out, the poor woman, and I should be ashamed. I’m scum.

I struggled to defend myself, but was so floored that just walking out didn’t even occur to me. My mother was sitting on the big leather loveseat with an insipid grin on her face, squirming like a child needing to pee. No, she made no effort to defend me. It was me versus the Omnipotent Physician--of course she wasn’t going to step up. I finally (to my shame) began to cry. I might have breast cancer, I might cervical cancer, I have a big lump under my tongue, and this guy’s shouting that everyone hates me and wishes I would just get on with the dying? Yeah, I cried.

And then it stopped. Spurland looked at me, looked at my squirming, useless mother, then back at me. And he said, “Oh, Christ, I’ve got the wrong one, don’t I?” My mother nodded stupidly.

That’s right. He thought I was my older sister.

He then cleared his throat, stood up from behind his gigantic rainforest-nuking desk, and walked over to me. He said, “Let’s go take a look at those lumps.”

Oh, yes. Please, take a moment to digest that. When I was my sister, there were no lumps. But now that I was myself again, there were lumps, and they were something to be concerned about. You see it, don’t you? If I were my sister, he was prepared to pretend nothing was wrong in hopes that I might DIE.

I hope you’re as horrified as I was.

He placed a hand on my shoulder and I went from sobbing helplessly to shouting berserkly . I swore. A lot. The gist? “Touch me again and I’ll plow you under in the parking lot like a stray shopping bag.”

I dashed from his office, grabbing my poor-then husband and pulling him along with me. I left my mother there to find her own way home. I didn’t want her in my car.

I’d been home for perhaps twenty minutes when the phone rang. It was Doc Spurland himself, calling to tell me that I’d forgotten my coat in his waiting room. Would I like him to bring it over personally? I told him that my husband would pick it up. He then asked what he could do about what had happened that day.

And I told him.

I told him that I was calling an attorney the next morning, but that I would hold off on taking any action against him for three months. During that three months, I expected to hear news that he was pulling down his shingle and retiring. If he didn’t, I was going to own his sorry ass. Yes, I could have sued. Yes, I probably would have made a little—enough to clear my student aid debts, anyway. But it wasn’t about that. It was about keeping him away from any other potential victim that might stagger into his den of torture.

The letters transferring his patients to new doctors arrived two weeks later.

Doc Spurland died a few years later. I wish I could say I felt awful, or that I deeply regretted blah, blah. Blah. But I didn’t. I felt no sorrow at his passing. I still don’t. One less mean, incompetent ass in the world. Bummer.

Now Doc Spurland wasn’t the only doctor to inspire mistrust or bad feelings, but he certainly takes that blue ribbon. But props must be given to the “hospitalist” who insisted that my ekg read-out indicated “unmistakable evidence of a heart attack” (the CARDIOLOGISTS disagreed rather angrily); the other “hospitalist” who attempted to threaten me (“I’ll tell your insurance company you refused recommended treatment!”) into taking a beta blocker for an irregular heartbeat even though my variety of irregular heartbeat can go bad—fatal, even—with the introduction of a beta blocker (good thing ONE of us knew that, huh?); the oral surgeon who ignored every call I made about the obviously infected wisdom-tooth socket (and then tore me up one side and down the other for not letting him know I “really” meant infected); the clinic doc who steadfastly insisted I didn’t have an eye infection (even though there were long, stringy GLOBS of pus coming out of my eyes); and the on-call OB who told me that my c-section incision had “lost a couple of staples” and would “be fine until next week” when my regular doc got back (in fact, my incision had ruptured all the way down to uterus due to a gigantic hematoma—it took 7 ½ weeks to get that closed) all leap to mind as close runners-up.

I don’t trust doctors. I’m sorry, I am. Obviously, I still GO to doctors when I’m ill, but I don’t walk in full of confidence that I’m going to receive the correct treatment from someone who respects and gives two spits about me. No. I walk in expecting to be dismissed and rushed through if I allow it to happen. I feel fearful, uncomfortable, and embarrassed to be there. I hope someday I find myself a doctor in shining stethoscope on his prancing white exam table to restore my faith in the medical community.

I can hardly wait. I mean that most sincerely.

Train Now Leaving on Track Five!

2009-11-26T19:08:00.000-08:00

My first escape from Ogden, Utah came in the form of a car accident. Or the proceeds of a car accident, anyway. When the insurance adjuster handed me that big (ish), bad (ish) check, I made the (insane) decision to grab my then boyfriend (now husband), our too many cats, and pack it all up for California.

That’s Cal-ee-four-ny-ay!

Not really understanding that there were other truck rental choices out there, we went with that orange and white disaster we all know and despise, U-Haul.

Because we were moving, in effect, two households, we snagged a 26 foot monstrosity of a truck that handled like—well, like a 26 foot truck. Tacked onto the tail-end was a 17 foot auto transport for my newly put-back-together and freshly painted 1973 Mustang.

My joy.

According to U-Haul, a move from Ogden, Utah to Los Angeles, California should take, load to unload, five days. In some universes, that may actually be possible. Not so much in ours. In fact, by the time we hit the road, we were three days into that five day rental. No, we didn’t have an apartment lined up or any sort of employment planned. Ah, yes, those heady days before parenthood. I get all reflux-y just thinking about it today.

Aside from a back-and-fill disaster in a really bad part of Vegas, our U-Haul experience was surprisingly trouble-free . . . until that famous killer of moving trucks, Cajon Pass. It was there our truck decided that gears are for wimps. In fact, it decided it had only two gears—reverse, and a rather sad first gear that topped out at a whining 15 mph. Yes, even downhill on Cajon, 15 mph was our maximum speed.

Have you ever driven rush hour freeway in SoCal at 15 mph? We didn’t dare establish eye contact with our fellow highway-mates for fear of being shot. No, I’m not joking. Californians take their freeway speed very seriously.

Not wanting to be stuck on the side of a busy interstate, we decided to take the first likely exit to come our way. It only took us about an HOUR to get there (at 15 mph): Rancho Cucamonga.

Rancho Cucamonga, did I say?

Yes. Yes I did. And until that very moment, I had spent my life believing that Rancho Cucamonga was a creation of Looney Toons. You remember, don’t you? “All aboard! Train now leaving on track five for Anaheim, Azusa, and Cuc... amonga!" Almost immediately, I realized that the make-believe Rancho Cucamonga was bisected by the equally mythic Route 66. I had that momentary, “Oh, hell, I’ve wound up in another David Lynch movie” feeling as Tommy hung that right turn and put us smack in the middle of . . . not a lot.

No, not a lot. In fact, it took us half an hour (at 15 miles per) to find a gas station. Apparently, Rancho Cucamonga doesn’t believe in gas stations. They also, we discovered, don’t believe in pay phones with return numbers. I guess that’s to discourage the bangers and drug dealers. Unfortunately, it also discourages U-Haul’s customer service folks, who refuse to deal with anyone who can’t provide a return number. We wound up having to call someone back in Ogden to act as go-between for us. No, the gas station basta—uh—clerk (ahem) wouldn’t let us use his phone, either. But we managed to bypass the hassles and wheedle a third-person promise from U-Haul that someone would be “right there.”

Four hours? Yeah, that sounds about right. Four hours stewing on the grass, dying for a bathroom (yes, that same phone-denying "clerk" wouldn't let us use the restrooms, either). And when the magical tow truck from U-Haul DID show up, it was . . . itsy? We had a 26 foot truck with a 17 foot auto transport, and they sent a converted Ford Bronco to tow it? Hello?

Hello?

More wrangling, more hassling third-person, and we’re told, once again, that they’ll be “right there.” Mmm. We weren’t nearly so impatient this time around—we knew what to expect, wait-wise. We walked over to a Jiffy Lube and used THEIR restrooms. About an hour into our new wait, as it became dark, there was a shout from the gas station and a teenage boy ran out at top speed, right toward . . . my CAR. My freshly painted, gorgeous Mustang up on her auto transport trailer. The kid leaped up on the trailer, planted a hand in the middle of the hood, and vaulted over. Forgetting that I was in Southern California, I launched myself from the grass and gave chase, shouting, “Hey, you #$@!, that’s my @#@! CAR! You %$@# up my car I'll take it out of your @#$!"

Stupid is as stupid is, right?

The kid was caught (trapped between us and the basta--clerk from the gas station), the car un-dinged, and no one got shot. Sadly, none of the ugly possibilities had gone through my mind as I dashed after our young shoplifter. That’s the crazy thing about traumatic brain injuries—sometimes they do a real number on impulse control and the like. Heck, sometimes it's so bad you toss all your stuff in a U-Haul and take off with no real plan.

Now, I know this all sounds terrifically UN-lucky, but that’s not the case at all! See, the new, big, wowser tow truck came and the driver/mechanic (who, upon learning were were homeless, slipped us a business card for the apartment complex he lived in) determined that the truck was utterly unbailable. That being the case, they dragged the whole mess to their tow yard (in Rialto, another fictional place), then helped us unload the car and place the contents (for free) in one of their locking storage sheds.

They then informed us that, because of the mechanical failure, they would hold onto our stuff for as long as it took us to find a place, and then drag the broken-down disaster to our new place at our convenience for unloading. Oh, and they’d pay for our hotel room, too. That took us from “oh, hell, we only have until tomorrow morning to find a place, unload the truck, and get it back before the 10 am deadline” to taking a few days to find a place with no time limit and no additional charges. So the breakdown wasn’t bad luck at all! In fact, it bailed our sorry behinds!

Funny thing is, after a few days of apartment hunting, we wound up calling the number on the tow-truck driver's card, and two days later we were moving in . . . U-Haul delivered as promised, and picked up as promised when we’d finished unloading. Were we in Los Angeles, our original destination, our dream? Nope. In fact, we never made it anywhere near. We were in Fontana (often called Fontucky, and for good reason), a good 45 miles east of L.A.

But we DID manage to get our kicks on Route 66 every time we headed to L.A., the beaches, Hollywood, or really anyplace worth going. And th-th-th-that's what it's ALL about, folks!

Will You Please STOP That?

2009-11-24T17:10:00.000-08:00

It's been one of those days. You know, the kind of day that leaves you contem-plating stupid things that really get under your skin? Okay, so maybe I'm the only person who does that. Regardless, it left me wanting to jot down a few (or sixteen) things that piss me off. Understand, this is just MY list of peeves (and a partial one, to be sure). I’m not looking to start a fight, and I’m sure you all have your own pissers-off (piss-offers?), some of which are probably things I do. I’d love to see yours, if the mood strikes you.

Ready?

People who fiddle with electronic gadgets of any kind while attempting to operate a motor vehicle. You may think you’re fully attending to that road, but fact is, you’re not. Pull over and play, or disconnect and drive. Your potential victims thank you!

People who dump ashtrays, car trash, dirty disposable diapers, or whatever horrifying thing it is all over the ground. That includes you, Mr. (or Ms.) “Flip-your-cigarette-butt-and-leave-the-empty-quart-oil-containers-in-the-Walmart-parking-lot!” World’s not your garbage can, babe. Pick it up.

People who make grand, sweeping political statements when they haven’t done an ounce of homework on the issue. Reading a paragraph in Newsweek, catching 30 seconds of Katie Couric, or having Glenn Beck tell you so doesn’t make you well-informed on the issue. Sure, you have a right to speak . . . and I have a right to tell you that you’re utterly clueless.

Cats that piss wherever they please. Yeah, that includes a cat or two I’ve owned. Nothing takes “oooohhh, cute kitty” love into “I hate you” quicker than watching the paint peel off the top of your brand new clothes dryer because Kitty has decided that the lint screen is where cat piss really belongs.

People who think that “loyalty” means backing their play regardless of what they’ve done. Hey, you may be my friend, but if you rob a bank, shoot a cop, and run over an old lady in a crosswalk (or any combination thereof), I’m turning your butt in. I'll still love you, and I'll visit you in prison. But I won't cover for you, I won't lie, and I won't turn a blind eye. Sorry, bud. Know that now and befriend me accordingly.

People who lurk. You know, every time you look up they’re peeking at you, following you, staring at you, reading your private emails over your shoulder, or listening to your conversations? Go! Make your own friends! Get your own life!

Large red diesel trucks. Yeah, that’s it. They don’t even have to be moving—the potential for utter idiocy is so great that actual motion isn’t necessary. Of course, when they are moving, it’s almost always too fast, too carelessly, and too dirtily. "Clean" diesel? If it’s so danged "clean," why can’t I breathe when one of those monsters is within five car lengths?

Excess. You know, conspicuous consumption? When I read about some diamond dripping, fur-draped celebrity blowing 10 grand a night on a hotel room, my nails itch. Have you ever stayed in a 500 dollar-a-night room? I have—it’s sumptuous, palatial. It’s positively sinful, it’s so luxurious. Let’s say "Prad Bittley," being Mr. Wonderful-Super-Mega-Actor, needs twice that to serve his ego and make him feel as important as he believes he is. He needs double the luxury, double the sumptuousness. Okay, fine, there’s your thousand-a-night room. Give the other nine grand to someone who really needs it. Look around, I’m sure you can find someone.

Quadruple-Whoppers with Extra, Extra Cheese, add mayo. That’s just nasty. ‘Nuff said.

Across-the-street neighbors who sneak around your back gate and then narc you out for not keeping your back yard in the condition they think it should be. Hey! Nunya! Mind your own business! If I’m not storing toxic chemicals or unstable explosives, growing marijuana, hiding kidnapped children, or keeping old, locking fridges and cars on blocks, it’s none of your danged concern! What do YOU care if I’ve created a deadfall against a back fence so the birds will have a place to nest? How does that possibly hurt YOU? You can't even SEE it unless you're TRESPASSING! Nosy buggers.

People who think that divorcing and remarrying somehow relieves them of their parental responsibilities. Hey, don’t start a “new” family if you can’t afford to keep the old. 200 bucks a month child support is a joke, and yet you’re shirking even that? Get your tubes tied, get a vasectomy, stop breeding.

Restaurant nose-pickers, nose blowers, farters, belchers, and all-around slobs. Hey, I don’t want to see your snot while I’m eating, I don’t want to hear it blasting into a tissue or see you checking out that tissue to see what sort of cool toys you got this time. I don't want to see your food as you chomp and slobber with your mouth wide open, either. I don’t want to hear you belch, and I certainly don’t want to share in your flatulence. A good rule of thumb while eating in a restaurant is “IN ONLY.” If it needs to come OUT, go to the bathroom.

People who treat waiters, waitresses, clerks, checkers, etc. poorly. Come on, what kind of boor snaps fingers at a waiter or puts a hand on a waitress’s behind and calls her “sweetheart?” What kind of impotent tyrant takes out frustrations on some poor checker at the grocery store? It doesn’t make you cool to abuse people who are powerless to stop you. It just makes you a coward and a creep.

Folks who think that ex-smokers are just “bitter and jealous.” Believe me, not even ONCE since I quit smoking have I thought, “Oh, man, I wish I hadn’t quit! What a stupid thing to do! I wish I were still smoking!” Nope—when I see those smokers huddled outside in the icy rain, chewing their fingernails and tapping their feet on the train, or getting up to dash outside for a fix between courses at Chili’s, I am not even a LITTLE bit jealous. And the only bitterness I have going on comes from the anger at myself for blowing 26 years doing that to myself and the people around me.

People who, after the engineer announces that between-car doors must remain closed to prevent a dangerous carbon monoxide buildup, decide that their desire for a beer or a hotdog is more important than the safety of fellow passengers. Sit down! Stay away from those doors! It’s only a ten minute tunnel, you’re not going to starve (or die from dehydration)!

And lastly (for now), people who abuse or ridicule other people for their physical appearance. Why? What makes that funny, cool, impressive, or enjoyable? What’s lacking in YOU that makes you want to hurt other people? Shame on you.

Every Kid Deserves a Frank

2009-11-23T10:46:00.001-08:00

When I was six years old, I found myself lost in Ogden, Utah. Not lost like hey, where’s my house? But rather lost in that whoa, this isn’t my home, I’m all alone sort of way. I did a lot of sad meandering about, a lot of hanging out in my room with my toys, and a lot of dreading school because so many of the kids were less than friendly. All of this was made much, much worse by a father who hit and ridiculed, a mother who had a tough time getting out of herself long enough to care about her kids, and an older sibling who had no time for her clumsy, desperately sad little sister.

It was a rough time. Until Frank.

There I was, one long, miserable fall day, moping about the back yard. I heard a familiar noise from near the fence dividing our space from the neighboring yard to the south. A noise that made my heart leap and my eyes widen.

I heard a horse.

I crept closer to the fence and, sure enough, there was a horse. There were TWO horses, in fact. Two horses, and no humans to be seen. Being the timid, fearful child I was, I scaled the fence in seconds. I approached one of the horses (a blue-eyed vision named Zen, as it turned out), took him by the halter, and led him over to the horse trailer parked in the driveway. I climbed onto the fender of the trailer, then scrambled onto Zen’s back. No, I didn’t actually know how to ride. In fact, I’d only ever been on pony rides at Susquehanna’s Harford Fair before.

And Zen KNEW it.

He turned, blinked scornfully at me astride him, then wheeled about and merrily dragged me through the clothes line. I was scraped neatly from his back and thumped rather impressively to the grass, flat on my back. He considered me for a moment, snickered (I swear), then returned to his task of mowing the lawn with his teeth. I lay, sprawled in the warm grass, and gazed adoringly at him. It was love.

Imagine my surprise when, in the middle of this little one-way love-fest, two big, strong hands slid under my arms and yanked me to my feet. I closed my eyes and waited for the blow I knew had to come. My Dad had caught me. My Dad had found me screwing up and now he was going to slam me around until I cried . . . and then slam me around some more for crying.

But it wasn’t my Dad. It was my neighbor, Frank. Frank of the horses. My relief was only temporary, as Frank kept his grip on one arm and began marching me home. Oh, please no! The only thing worse than being caught by my father was being ratted out by someone who’d WITNESSED my stupidity. With my father, anger + embarrassment meant a whopper of an ass-kicking. I was dead. I was dead and I didn’t even have the strength to plead. I stumbled along beside Frank, knowing that this was it. This was the end of me. Frank pulled me up the steps onto our front stoop, reached out, and banged on the door.

Oh, please. Please.

My Dad answered, his eyes immediately narrowing at the sight of Frank beside me. He knew. He could SMELL my screw-up. And his eyes lit up with that manic glow—like they always did when there was an ass-kicking in the offing. Frank smiled, exchanged polite greetings with my Dad, and then it came . . .

“Would you mind if I taught your daughter how to ride horses? She seems quite enamored, and I think she’s got a knack.”

Wha?

I goggled. My Dad goggled. We both looked at Frank, sure we’d misheard. My Dad, ever hopeful, asked, “Has she done something she shouldn’t have? Has she caused you any problems?”

Frank smiled and shook his wonderful head. No problems. No trouble. Would it be okay, then?

My Dad agreed, reluctantly. What he really wanted was to clout me in the ear, but since that wasn’t going to happen, at least he could get me out of the house for a while.

And boy, did it ever get me out of the house! Every afternoon after Frank got off work, we were at the pasture, caring for the horses. Every weekend, every holiday, we spent entire days doing the things that must be done for horses. And no, this wasn’t some easy thing. I wasn’t even allowed out of the paddock until I could catch my own horse, do a good job grooming, mount up by myself, and pick my mount’s hooves. I didn’t get to use a saddle and bridle until I could care for my own tack, saddle the horse myself, get that bit in there on my own, AND correctly identify, on command, equine anatomy.

Yeah, I still know my hocks from my polls, my croups from my pasterns.

For seven years, it was heaven. For seven years, Frank kept me alive with trail rides in the Uintas, overnighters on Monte, and the occasional rounding up of the chickens just for fun. Even baling hay and souping out chicken coops was bliss. Because with Frank, I was competent. I was valued. I was possessed of expertise that was acknowledged and appreciated. I trained horses, I filled in muskrat holes, I even drained wounds, de-wormed, gave injections, trimmed hooves, and, as a crowning glory, I stitched up wounds. I wasn’t ridiculed, belittled, or ever, ever hit. When I mounted a horse, I was someone worth admiring. When I say that Frank “kept me alive,” I mean that in the most literal sense. Frank, Janith, Susan, Brian, Nola, plus Zen, SiSi, Fairy, Red Cloud, Tony, Musti, and Shahla. My life preservers.

I let myself be jerked away from Frank in 8th grade. I’d say, “Blame my bad-ass Camaro-driving friend,” but that’s not fair. It was me. My Dad was finally gone, and I was angry. Angry, and looking to show the world that I didn’t have to buckle to authority any more. No, Frank never told me, “I don’t want some drunken stoner hanging out with me.” I told myself that the two were utterly incompatible, and then I made my choice. I chose poorly. I remember watching with regret and longing as he would back the horse trailer out of the driveway in preparation for a fishing trip or trail ride without me. I never dared walk over and ask if I could come along. He might have said yes. I’ll never know.

Decades later, I sat down for a few hours and talked to Frank. About what he’d done for me, about the compass he’d provided that, even through my darkest druggie days, never failed me. About the scared, self-hating little girl I’d been, and how his heart had saved me. I told him that my greatest hope for every lost, lonely child is that they, too, find their Frank. Every kid in trouble deserves a Frank.

A year after that, Frank told me that he was done. He was tired, and he’d done everything he’d ever wanted to do. It was years since he’d had horses—a bad heart and arthritis had spoiled that for him. He smiled and said he was all tuckered out. It was time to hang up his spurs. Three months after that, Frank fell in his kitchen, fracturing his pelvis. He lingered a few months in a nursing home, seemed poised to come home when he gave it up and—well, he went home. He was almost 85 years old. Born in the long-gone town of Devil’s Slide, he was a Navy man, he was a lineman for the power company, he was a horseman extraordinaire, he was a conservationist before anyone knew what that was, and he was the best neighbor anyone in this town ever had. But more than that, he was my hero. He was my proof that men didn’t have to be abusive, sarcastic, or mean. He was everything I loved about this place, and he saved my life. He was my Frank, and I will miss him forever and ever.

Adventures in Lynch-land

2009-11-21T05:18:00.000-08:00

In our early days, Tommy and I spent a lot of time beating up on rocks and digging holes. They call it “rockhounding,” and so long as you’re not leaving eyesore holes or trespassing, it’s an honest, respectable way to break a sweat.

Our first trip to Topaz, Utah was an educational one. Twenty-eight years old, and no one had ever told me about Topaz. No history teacher, no college professor. Sure, I knew that Japanese-Americans had been wrong-headedly rounded up and held in “internment camps,” but I didn’t know I had one in my back yard. It’s a desolate place, and, at the time, all that was left was a water tank, some tar paper, and a lot of old, rusted barbed wire. I understand the locals have created a museum detailing Topaz’s miserable history. I guess that’s something.

For this adventure, we loaded up my Mustang (my bad-ass Mustang, in fact) and headed toward Delta, Utah. See, Delta is where the gas station nearest Topaz resides. We wanted to fill up the tank before heading off into the big, bad desert.

We reached our campsite after dark (of course). We didn’t really know what we were looking for or where we were supposed to be for our rockhounding adventure, but it was late at night, so we decided to pitch our tent, get some dinner into us, sleep a bit, then worry about where the pretty rocks were hiding come morning.

This was terrifically educational on so many fronts. One thing we learned? There is NO firewood in the desert! Seriously! Unless you want to uproot sagebrush (which we didn’t), there’s not a danged thing to burn. Luckily, some rockhounding pros happened by and gave of their firewood stash.

Another thing we learned? Ants go to ground in the dark.
Why would that be important? Well, picture this: it’s dark. You’re tired. You look around (in the DARK) for a likely spot for a tent. You decide on a nice little hillock under the dubious shade of a twisted juniper (actually THE twisted juniper—there weren’t any others around). You pitch your tent, unroll those bags, and climb in for a nice night’s sleep. When you wake up? Well, you notice the exterior of the tent is making strange skittering noises. So thick that it’s almost a buzz.

Did you know that big, red ants wake up in the morning? And they tend toward unhappy when they find tents pitched directly atop their home? Yeah. Like I said, educational.

After de-anting the tent and moving our campsite to a less ant-y spot for breakfast, we decided to go geode hunting. A few miles on the Topaz road, then 7 miles on the old Pony Express trail, and there it (allegedly) is—a treasure trove of geodes.

Uh-huh.

While the Topaz road, a cracked length of red dust and hardpan, rode smooth as silk, the Pony Express trail’s looks were deceiving; what appeared to be a wide, level, well-graded road was actually so heavily washboarded that driving at any speed over 7 mph set up a vibration in the car so violent it shook off the side mirrors. Now, if you’ve ever driven a big ol’ muscle car, you know that 7 mph is nothing more than a microsecond’s tick between stop and GO. The car idled at 15 mph. That left me jumping back and forth between braking and downshifting in hopes of keeping the car from overheating AND the brakes from burning up. We made it, but it wasn’t even a little bit of fun.

How were the geodes? Well, the dig began with the ugly realization that, through no fault of anyone’s, we had no WATER in the 100 degree heat. I had, back at camp, called out to Tommy, “Get the water!” That’s ALMOST what he heard me say, with one crucial difference.

He heard, “I’ll get the water!”

Oops.

We spent four hours or so digging holes in the blazing sun with no water. While we found some very pretty rocks with fascinating crystal inclusions, we came up utterly geodeless. We finally looked at each other and silently admitted defeat. We tossed the assorted tool-type things into the trunk and off we went.

At seven miles per hour.

By the time we hit the Topaz road, I was so dry I could no longer make spit. Unfortunately, we were down to less than a quarter tank of gas. Backtracking to camp for water would leave us without enough fuel to make it into Delta. There was that decision made for us, huh?

At this point came the black helicopters, but I think I’ll save that story for another day.

By the time we made the highway (a strong term, as the road ended a mile or two to the west), we were on fumes. I stopped the car, and Tommy hopped out and grabbed the gas can from the trunk. One gallon of gas in a car that got 15 miles to the gallon. Sixteen miles to Delta.

Hmm.

Tommy hopped back in and off we went, hopeful that the one gallon plus fumes would be adequate. After a couple of minutes, trouble came looking for us. Tommy squinted in the miserable heat and asked, “What’s with the road up there?”

The road ahead, you see, was--well, it was undulating.

I stopped the car dead in the middle of the nominal highway, and Tommy got out to investigate. By the time he got back to the car, I already knew. And I was horrified.

Gophers? Something like that. Hundreds upon hundreds of gopher-like creatures darting back and forth across the road. Why? Who knows why gophers do things? All I knew was that the road was covered in gophers and we needed to be on the other side.

Tommy, bless him, tried very hard to come up with a passage that didn’t involve squooshing gophers. He suggested turning around and finding a back road around the gophers. Had I not been half dead from dehydration and the car not nearly out of gas, this would have been my choice. However, when faced with dying in the desert or some dead gophers, I had to go with the latter. Tommy suggested he walk in front of the car, shooing the gophers out of the way. That might have worked to save a few gophers, but would have involved driving at 2-3 miles per hour. At 3 mph, that Mustang would have gone exactly 67 feet before running out of gas, plus the gophers shooed from the front tires would merely wind up under the rear. On a real highway, I might have opted to pull over and hitch into town for more gas. But this wasn’t a real highway, and we hadn’t seen another vehicle on a road since leaving Delta the day before. Understand that, by this time, I had stopped sweating. Walking the remaining ten miles into town just wasn’t an option.

With a sick resolve, we nodded to each other, cranked up the tunes, and plowed through the gophers. Tommy’s jaw was set, eyes down. And me? I laughed. Not a “ha-ha, funny” laugh, but an, “Ohhhh, noooo, this is too horrible to be real” sort of stunned bray. And it was horrible. Horrible enough that, even today, my stomach lurches just a little when I think about it too hard.

We rolled into the one gas station we could see on the fumes of fumes. We pulled up to the pumps, and Tommy headed in for refreshments while I pumped gas. The two teenage boys who made some serious moves on me were adorable. Not so adorable was their response when I told them how old I was. Yeah, that’s right, boys. Old Lady Kris still remembers, and she still knows where you live.

Pulling under a large elm at the edge of the station's dirt lot, Tommy and I climbed on the hood of the Mustang and sucked down Gatorades like—well, like dehydrated people. After about ten minutes of lazing and sipping, we climbed down, intent upon visiting the local hardware store for second pickaxe.

Or not.

Even before I spied the tire, I knew it was flat because of the way the car was sitting. Rear driver’s side. Nail. Marvelous.

We popped open the trunk and pulled out the spare and jack. It didn’t take long to realize that whatever moron (me) had put on those fancy chromed lug nuts had over-tightened them. They weren’t budging. We tried, both separately and in tandem. We did all those things you aren’t supposed to do (like standing on the star wrench and bouncing), but no go. Tommy looked up, and, like magic, there was a TIRE STORE right across the field behind us. How convenient, huh? Almost as if by design!

Who says there aren't miracles? Yeah, that's sarcasm.

Tommy walked over to see if someone could give us a hand (a FREE hand—remember, we’re poor). I hit the bathroom, bought another few drinks, and cat-napped just a bit while waiting. I awoke to the sound of footsteps on gravel.

And nearly screamed. I’d fallen asleep in Delta, Utah, but had awoken in a David Lynch movie.

Tommy had returned with a dwarf. A wild, Gimli sort of dwarf, with beautifully tangled black hair and bright, blazing blue eyes. A deep tan, a chambray work shirt, and a nametag that proclaimed him, “SHORTY!” Oh, and a gun in his belt. Mustn’t forget the gun.

The powerful sense of unreality that washed over me was nearly overwhelming. I blinked at Tommy, he shrugged, and we got down to business. What else was there to do?

Shorty was buff. He was tough. He could have kicked both our asses without breaking a sweat. And he whipped those lug nuts off in—yes, in short order. Couldn’t help myself. Mea culpa.

After dispensing with the lug nuts, he began changing the tire. We told him that wasn’t necessary, but he insisted, saying it was what he did for a living. We were grateful . . . for a moment.

And then Shorty started talking. He started rambling about his days as a heroin runner, his run-ins with the law over certain relationships he’d had. He ranted about Los Angeles, and how beautiful it had been before the “blacks” (NOT the word he used) took over.

Wowser.

We were cowards, I admit it. We looked over his head at each other (not hard to do), looked back down at the gun tucked into his belt, and made that choice to keep our mouths shut rather than risk inciting rage in a racist, muscle bound, well-heeled dwarf.

After Shorty had changed the tire, he offered to patch it for ten bucks at the tire shop. We agreed, and followed along. In the shop, Shorty took up his rambling where he’d left off; the wonderful prostitutes in Vegas, his incestuous relationship with his older sister, and, finally, his years in the Navy. And that was it, my mouth was open before I even knew what was happening. I muttered incredulously, “The Navy? The NAVY? What, were you ballast?”

It’s amazing how dangerous someone that small can look. He asked what I’d said, I backpedaled and mumbled a question about back roads from Delta to Topaz. Shorty shook his head, said there were none that would be passable in my car. He then turned, quite obviously sized me up (you know the old up and down—makes you feel like you need to bathe?), and demanded of Tommy, “So, she yours?”

I quite literally choked.

Tommy feigned ignorance. Shorty, not to be distracted, persisted. “Is she yours? Are you married?” Tommy shook his head, said no, we weren’t married. Shorty smiled like a man looking to make a deal. You know, the sort of deal that involves trading time with your girlfriend for a ten dollar tire patch? Tommy, looking absolutely trapped, cleared his throat in a most manly fashion and mumbled,

“Um, I’ve, um. We’re attached.”

I left.

Tommy caught up back at the Mustang. I couldn’t explain why I was so pissed off; I wasn’t sure myself. But I was. I was angry in that grand, splattering way that soaks anyone unlucky enough to come near. Tommy tossed the patched tire into the trunk, and off we went. It took us a few miles to realize that we were both craning around to look back, making sure Shorty wasn’t zooming up behind us. Yes, that really was a concern. This was, after all, a David Lynch movie—why wouldn’t the dwarf follow us and kill us in our sleep? Probably with poison darts or hallucinogens in our baked potatoes.

We made it nine miles toward camp when we saw the gophers in the distance. Seemingly unfazed by the ugly demise of their comrades, they were still zipping back and forth across the road with manic abandon. I pulled over. I looked at Tommy. He looked at me. And we began to laugh. Wrenching, raucous, uproarious laughter. We laughed until tears were flowing down our snorting faces. Then I put the car in gear and, sniffling, we mowed over the gophers to get back to our blessedly ant-free camp, where we ate, drank, and slept the sleep of the sleepy . . . with one eye open, ever-watchful for creeping dwarves in the night.

Psalm 109:8

2009-11-20T08:05:00.000-08:00

Or Bible as Bludgeon--How to Cheapen a Faith and use Scripture to Attack Political Rivals

A couple of days ago, I got a little blurb in my Facebook feed from a friend. A woman I’ve never met, but have known for years online. An intelligent, kind, compassionate friend I’ve always had the utmost respect for, even though our political and religious ideologies (if you can call mine that—I don’t HAVE a religion) are a million miles apart.

As always, I was happy to see her on my wall—until I read what she had to say.

You’ve probably already seen it. Hopefully, like me, you’ve seen it for what it is. Stupid, sneaky hate.

That’s right. My friend smacked me with the hate-mongering “A Prayer for Obama: Psalm 109.8” rubbish, which is cropping up on t-shirts, truckers hats, bumper stickers, and other classy modes of communication. For those not in the know, Psalm 109.8 reads thusly:

Let his days be few; and let another take his office

Okay. That’s not nice, but it’s not particularly bad, right? It’s just the cheesy politicizing of one’s faith in order to take a jab at a politician. Cheap and dull, but not bad . . . or is it?

As folks are so often complaining about things being taken “out of context,” let’s take a good look at that particular Biblical verse in context. Let’s take a look at it with its neighboring verses intact:

When he shall be judged, let him be condemned: and let his prayer become sin.

Let his days be few; and let another take his office.

Let his children be fatherless, and his wife a widow.

Niiiiice.

Now, I’m willing to give some of these Psalm-shouters the benefit of the doubt—maybe they’re just stupid and have latched onto this catchphrase without being aware that it is pulled directly from a chapter dedicated to wishing torture, death, and damnation on an adversary. Maybe they don’t actually understand what it is they’re wearing/waving/typing. Fair enough. But what about those others? The ones like my Bible-studying, church-going, scripture-comprehending friend? Can we let them slide by on the ignorance defense, too?

I don’t think so. I think that, when they type/wave/shout this, they know exactly what they’re saying. And I think they’re amused by their own inherently dishonest cleverness. Why? Because, if called to the carpet on their bad behavior, they can argue, “Nooo, I just meant that one itty, bitty verse, completely divorced of its real meaning or context!” If that’s really the case, then they’ve just cheapened their faith by picking and choosing, using their holy doctrine as a cheesy little quote-generating stick with which to poke a politician. If it’s not the case, then they’ve just vomited up a deathwish for our President via King James.

Regardless of their real intent (and who can really know what that is?), the sad fact is that they’re adding to the piss in the pool. You know, Karma—if we all scatter rose petals, then we all get to swim in sweet water. But all it takes is one Psalm-spouting, Obama-hating, scripture-swinging git peeing in the pool to foul it all up for everyone.

If you’re reading this and YOU’RE one of these Psalmers, ask yourself why you would do something this dirty with what is supposed to be the inspired word of your God. Why would you use your supposed faith as a political tool or a cheap whoopee cushion? And then ask how you would respond, were someone to cut up your holy scriptures in search of pithy quotes to use against YOU. Ask yourself these questions and be honest with yourself when finding the answers. And then remember that forgiveness rarely comes without sincere remorse.

Oh, and my friend? I’m ready to forgive you.

Looks Like We're Camping Here

2009-11-19T19:19:00.000-08:00

Tommy and I have a long history of sleeping in tents together. I think all of our camping experiences have been interesting, but some might not be categorized as "fun" by normal people. In fact, some could be termed horrific by those more attuned to what is and isn’t healthy and pleasurable.

The boring folks, in other words.

Back in ’94, when we were still fairly new, we took a little, bitty, baby camping trip. Our first--just a few nights, some rockhounding, a “getting to know you” sort of trip. We were fully prepared to head out early, scope out a campsite, then spend the rest of the afternoon whaling on whatever outcropping of stone caught our beady little eyes. Of course, being us, it didn’t quite work out that way. Really, when does it?

It’s not that we didn’t pack in a timely fashion. Heck, we had that little Corolla Wagon packed to the gills early on. No, the problem came when we tried to leave. Or rather, when we tried to close the hatch -back so we could leave.

It wouldn’t close. It stayed stubbornly aloft, one brow raised. Sneering. Really. No amount of cajoling, urging, begging, WD-40ing, threatening, or obscenity-flinging worked. We blew hours on that bastard, actually UNpacked the car in hopes of finding the problem and fixing it. No go. After way too much time, Tommy and I stepped back and nodded grimly at each other. And then we did it—we grabbed that bugger tight and yanked our hardest, dragging it closed. It cracked, it crunched, it snapped and groaned. And then it closed.

Sort of.

What it really did was BREAK, but I’m not going to let a little thing like semantics get in my way. Twenty minutes later, hatch bound shut with much orange twine, we were on the road.

Starting out so late was just the beginning of a trend with us. We are wicked bad for not finding a spot to camp until after dark. Yes, it’s stupid. And?

We cruised through Vernon (not to be mistaken for VERNAL), Utah well after dark, and were approaching Eureka when our cryptic map let us know that we wanted to “turn right at the second set of railroad tracks after the dirt road next to the power poles.” Being smarter than we look, we managed to hang that turn on the first try. Weee!

Speaking of that cryptic map, it also spoke of dirt roads that turn “bottomless” when waterlogged. Really, “bottomless” was the word. Goodness. Who thought THAT up?

We turned onto the dirt road parallel to the railroad tracks and headed toward the pretty lights in the distance (those pretty lights would be THE CHEMICAL WEAPONS INCINERATOR, but we didn’t know that). The road was a bit bumpy, with a little puddle here and there, but certainly passable. At first. After a few minutes, the puddles began to come at us faster and wider and deeper, and Tommy began his fancy slalom driving, keeping up the speed to keep us from bogging down. Perhaps a mile shy of our destination, we came over a rise to see an ocean of muck in our path. Side to side and at least forty feet long with no time to stop. Thinking fast, I shouted, “Shoot for the grass!”

Tommy looked at me, perplexed, and said, “Do WHAT?” Remember, the car was still careening toward our soupy doom.

I practically screamed, “THE GRASS! SHOOT FOR THE GRASS!”

Tommy shrugged, gripped the steering wheel tightly, and shot directly for . . . the very middle of the morass?

Wha-fuh?

The car splashed, squidged, slid a bit, floated for a moment, and then sank. Straight down, waves lapping at the rocker panels. The tires whirred ineffectually in the goo, spraying icy grey water all about.

I moaned. I gestured helplessly. My lips moved, but no words would come. I closed my eyes, breathed deeply through my nose a few times, then turned to glare at Tommy, my expression dangerous, I’m sure. I tilted my head, brought my hands up before me, palms up, and near-whispered . . .

“What the *^@! was that?”

Tommy stiffened, hackles rising as he made to defend himself.

“You said shoot for the grass!” He pointed to the very center of the sea, where three or four sad, small blades of grass were poking up through the mud.

I goggled. I gestured expansively at the grass all around us, the meadow to either side of the sinkhole. I cried, “GRASS, Tom, GRASS! It’s ALL AROUND US!”

Tommy blinked. He looked around. Then a slow, sheepish smile spread across his face. “Oh, yeah. That makes a LOT more sense . . . so, what do we do now?”

I shook my head. “Looks like we’re camping here.” That became something of a camping mantra of ours in years to come. Yes, we did find ourselves stuck here and there pretty frequently.

Remember that map? The one warning of “bottomless” roads? I remembered it, too, as I pushed my door open, creating a wave of mud and chilly water. I stepped into the pond and found my shoe instantly grabbed. It was a heck of a tug-of-war, but we managed to free our feet with footwear intact and unload our gear. Getting the car free was out of the question. We hoped that the cold night air (and it was getting very cold) would thicken things up a bit by morning.

Lemme tell you something about setting up camp around Skull Valley in the summer—it’s tough. The cheat grass is high and dry, and the nighttime winds are relentless. Not wanting to be one of those folks who torch 40,000 acres in their pursuit of the perfect weenie roast, I spent almost an hour just prepping a fire spot—fifteen foot radius of no torchable vegetation, a hole in which to put the fire, sides built up with rocks and dirt, then a screen placed over the fire itself. Anal? Sure. Beats dead or responsible for mass destruction, right? Best thing is, this sort of fire building leaves no sign when you’re done—fill in the hole, replant the plugs you took up, and three days later the spot’s invisible.

Oh, before you think Tommy was just lazing around while I cleared a fire-safe spot, know that he was busy dragging equipment from the gently bobbing car, pitching the tent, and setting up the gear. Tommy never shirks even an ounce of camping work. The man is a camping machine.

Dinner followed tent construction. Hamburger patties dropped into the dirt by accident (pretty sure it was an accident, anyway). Being broke and miles from town, we scraped them off best we could and ate them anyway. Grit aside, they were quite tasty.

Exhausted, we put out the fire (that involves water, stirring, more water, more stirring, yet more water, even more stirring, then a full burial with dirt, rocks, and sand), and climbed into the tent for some well-deserved (or at least greatly needed) sleep.
Sleep came, too—pretty quickly for me. I usually struggle for an hour or more before finding my way.

And then it came.

A blaring, deafening WHOOOOOOONK, the blinding glare of headlights, and the unmistakable roar of approaching death. No kidding, that’s got to be what death sounds like. Nothing else could push that much adrenaline into my blood in that short a time. No time to get out of the tent, no time to think, really, beyond the bleary, stunned “Oh, hell, the hicks have come to kill us!” We’d just watched Deliverance on video a couple of weeks earlier, and it was, apparently, still in my head. I scrabbled around in the tent pockets and found my handy, dandy bang-bang stick. Just a 38, not enough to stop a rampaging truck bent upon flattening us in our tent, but perhaps enough to put a hole in the radiator or take out a headlight or two. It’s not much, but when you’re about to die, you go for whatever little bit of something you can that will leave a sign of your once existence. The roar, the spectacular glare, the ear-splitting horn peaked . . . and then Dopplered. I don’t know any other way to describe it, but you know what I mean. It was obviously passing us. Quickly. We staggered from the tent to see the TRAIN rounding a bend a little ways away.

Yeah, train. Remember those tracks? Yeah. Sure glad I didn’t shoot a hole in the tent, huh? Or the train? I hope that engineer got himself a darn good laugh. Once we got all the piss washed out of the tent, we thought it was pretty danged funny, too.

She's Getting NUTHIN' for Christmas!

2009-11-16T21:49:00.000-08:00

Or What to get the Woman Who Needs EVERYTHING

There are women in the world who take great pride in being willing to learn anything and everything they can to better their situation. Women who only need to be shown a thing once to figure it out, commit it to memory, and then never need to be shown again. Women who are glad to be self-sufficient, who love not having to send up a cry for help every time something goes a tiny little bit wrong.

And then there’re those others. Those who wear helplessness like a badge, wave about their incompetence like it’s something to be proud of. I like to think of myself as a member of the former group, so those in the latter drive me utterly mad.

I had a roommate once who couldn’t change a tire. I know, sounds utterly clichéd, but she couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. She said that she didn’t need to change tires—she could just smile cutely at passersby until someone stopped to do it for her. Some nice, big, strong man. Hey, I have nothing against big, strong men—some of my best friends, you know? But didn’t this plan have a few gaping holes? What happens if no big, strong men wander by? What if someone stops with more than changing a tire in mind? What then? I wound up growling and shouting until she buckled and allowed me to show her how to change a tire. Again and again, until she had it down. She may have still been an idiot, but at least she was an idiot who wasn’t going to be at the mercy of whatever came down the road.

Or so I thought. About a year later, I was driving down the road when I saw my then ex-roommate. Flat tire, side of the road. Was she changing it? No, she was leaning prettily against her car and trying to wave down some big, strong man.

Why would she do this? Why would anyone prefer helplessness over competence?

I have another female acquaintance who holds her inabilities as points of pride. “I’ve never changed oil in a car and I never will! I don’t even know where the DIPSTICK is!” I could tell her where it is, but she’d probably be insulted. Ask her where her air filter goes and she sniffs and reminds me that it’s not her JOB to know that. But it’s worse than that—it’s not just automotive things, it’s ALL things. This woman brags that she can’t do much of anything—she can’t fix a loose screen, she can’t hang a picture or follow software prompts, she can’t DO anything . . . not if she can find someone else to do it for her, anyway.

What IS that? What would make anyone think that helplessness is attractive? I had one friend (another helpless Nelly) explain that “men like to feel needed.” My answer to that? Who wants to date a guy who’s okay with being manipulated like that? It’s one thing to not be able to do something. It’s another to pretend not to be able to in order to impress someone. Again, who’s impressed by inability?

Well, I’ve decided that what I’m going to give those women in my life who need EVERYTHING is a whole bunch of NOTHING. Can’t get that cable box set up? Read the directions. Need that printer installed? Pop in the disk and follow the prompts. Because I’m not doing anyone—them OR me—any favors by continuing to do it all.

Fireflies

2009-11-15T18:19:00.000-08:00

When I was just shy of six years old, my family made the wrenching move from Hallstead, Pennsylvania to Ogden, Utah. I remember it quite clearly. Probably more clearly than I should.

I remember moving from the “endless mountains” of Pennsylvania to the ROCKY mountains of Ogden, Utah. Where was the green? Where were the TREES? Where were the lush meadows and gentle morning mists? And what the HELL was with those sky-high cliffs overhanging our helpless little house? Those aren’t mountains! Mountains are gentle, verdant, rounded things alive with cardinals, jays, and white-tail deer. These were angry, snaggle-toothed beasts! What’s that you say, Dad? We now live on a seismic fault? Overdue for “THE BIG ONE?” And what’s that falling from the sky in JUNE? Is that SNOW?

And what do those kids mean when they say they can’t play with me because we don’t go to the same church they do?

How did I feel upon arrival in this “Pretty, Great State?” I think it went something like this:

Oh, Christ, I hate this place. It’s utterly foreign, like Mars! The mountains are going to fall down on my house when “THE BIG ONE” hits! It snows in June! Some kids ask me what “ward” I’m a part of, and when I can’t answer they don’t play with me! The people don’t even speak the same language! They laugh when I say things like “drapes,” “shears,” and “davenport!” They think Box Elder bugs are fireflies, and they get mad at me when I try to explain that fireflies LIGHT UP!

Really, they do light up. They glow gold or green (or red, in some mutants). And, while I’ve heard rumors of some out Plain City way, fact is I’ve never seen a firefly in Utah. It’s something I’ve missed most bitterly. I can’t even describe how sad I was when we left the east coast at the end of our last vacation. After sitting on the damp, green ground near the Susquehanna River at dusk and nearly crying with joy at the sight of my fireflies (fireflies I hadn’t seen in 25 years), we left.

We left. Every mile west we moved, the harder it became to breathe. By the time we were back in Utah, I could barely bring myself to get off the train.

I know Utah has a lot to offer. I haven't spent 38 years glowering balefully at the mountains. I haven't steadfastly refused to partake of what Utah has to give. I don’t sit around looking at the leaves falling from my trees and think, “Oh, it’s rubbish, I’ve seen it all before!” I don’t breathe in the heady smell of our autumn grapes on the vine and think, “Pffft, it’s crap, I’ve smelled better!” I’ll miss these trees—hell, I had a hand in the planting of almost all of them! I’ll miss those grapes—we waited years for that vine to become something worthwhile. I think the desert is striking, and I’ve spent many nights by the campfire, listening to the coyotes sing in the breathtaking dark.

But I’ve done 38 years of desert, and I need a change. A return to something I love even more than howling coyotes and skittering lizards. I’m done living with greys and browns. I’m done living with prickly pear and dust. And I’m done having to search for my small treasures. I’m ready for lush woods, gentle mountains, salamander and crawdaddy catching, flaming fall colors in blinding profusion, and green everywhere I look. I’m ready for summers with rain, rivers of size, massive museums with world-class exhibits, and rockin’ mass transit. Ocean beaches, real Philly Steak sandwiches, vineyards, a multitude of lakes, and beloved relatives I haven’t had nearly enough time with.

And fireflies. I’m so ready for fireflies.

Never Knew no Good from Bad

2009-11-15T18:06:00.000-08:00

This is my first entry in what will, hopefully, not become another dead blog littering the information highway. I should say, "another dead blog of MINE." Yep, I'm one of those bandwidth-clogging hit-and-run bloggers. I'll try to do better this time.I'm blogging because my husband, Tommy, suggested it. So did my other Tommy--my friend who lives happily in California and writes a wicked blog of his own. Which is not to say that my husband Tommy doesn't write a wicked blog, too. Because he does.

Shut up, Kris.

For my first entry, I'd like to jot down a bit about my early relationship with Tommy. My husband Tommy, that is. We met a long, long time ago in this very town. In fact, I met Tommy before I met my first husband, my second husband, and even my three month stand, Jimmy Page. Sure, Jimmy Page. Why not? What, you think I'm going to give his REAL name?

When Tommy and I first began "dating" (which isn't quite what we did), it was 1993, and we didn't realize we'd met before. In fact, it was a few months of coupledom before I mentioned wild teenage nights on the boulevard with my friend and her bad-ass Camaro (a combination of words always requiring bold, italicized emphasis). When I mentioned that this bad-ass Camaro-driving friend had a relative who overdosed on Dramamine and totaled his bad-ass Firebird whilst in the throes of bad-ass hallucinations, Tommy's eyes widened. He said, "Gwen? RON CLAIRE Gwen? She of the evil tortoise?"

Why yes. I don't recall it being particularly evil, but yes. It used to sleep under the pantry floor. Except when being used as a tool to torment poor Tommy, apparently.

Tommy begin to tremble (not really), tears welling in his glassy, fear-filled eyes (not really). He whimpered, in a small, tremulous voice (not really), "She lived just a couple of houses up from me. She used to . . . babysit me!"

I mis-swallowed. I gagged. I goggled. I brought my hand forward in a "little-bitty-boy-this-tall?" gesture. And then my laughter started. Raucous, uproarious laughter. The kind of laughter that makes a three-pack-a-day-er bring up half a lung. Because you see, it wasn't just my bad-ass Camaro-driving friend who used to babysit Tommy. It was her loud-mouthed, beer-swilling best bud, too. More than once. I was the go-to girl when my evil-tortoise-owning friend had other plans.

Yes, that's the sick, twisted beginning to our lifelong relationship. I was the babysitter. The naughty nanny. Every mother's worst nightmare. Never mind that 15 years had elapsed with no contact. Never mind that nothing untoward happened WHILE Tommy was the babysat. Nothing can mitigate the horror his mother must have felt when she discovered he was doing it with the babysitter. Even thinking about it makes me . . . well, it makes me want to talk in a thick Romanian accent. About terrible things. If that makes sense to you, I’d like to read YOUR blog.