Finally, over my morning latte the Jim Croce classic, Don’t mess around with Jim, invaded and took over. In my defense it was playing on the radio. Now, I’m humming “Don’t tug on Superman’s cape-You don’t spit into the wind-You don’t pull the mask off an ‘ole Lone Ranger-And you don’t mess around with Jim”.

I wonder if this really does say something about my state of mind. Both songs are about overcoming adversity. The ant finally moved the rubber tree plant and Slim kick Jim’s assssss…..cape or no cape. It’s possible!

I tend to think there is a hidden meaning in everything we say, do and think. I wax philosophical at times and like to think I’m really deep and profound. Perhaps I’m just insane. My mom is, my sister’s are, so are the last 10 generations of my family. We tend to think we are just eccentric, but really we are insane and sometimes heavily medicated. I’m always amazed we don’t get a group discount on therapy.

I can find hidden meaning in the shape of a cantaloupe while watching Wallace and Gromit (yes, really it’s there), and am always interested in the hidden motivations behind what people do or say. Maybe we are all just ants trying to move rubber tree plants, or Slims standing up to Jims? Then again maybe not? Who knows, but it sure makes life more fun to break into song for no reason at all. Oh, great now the theme to the Pink Panther is in my head! I wonder what that means?

Verbal communication has always been the bane of our existence. In the days when we communicated through hand signals to tell our fellow man where to go to spear the approaching mammoth, we kept to quick simple gestures which had one meaning and one meaning only. Our verbal communication has become so utterly complicated words can have many unrelated meanings and our placement of them in conversation is the only way to determine what that meaning may be. Sow, sow, I am I talking about my lady pig or my need to plant seeds. We express ourselves to others in the manner and motives that make sense to us. We fail to take into account those we communicate with one another. We ignore the idioms which are used by different cultural groups and age affiliations within our own language. “No I am not sick; I think your painting is sick.” Same word one makes my face turn green the other describes my delight in your ability as an artist. Next week the word could be a catch-phrase for a type of tuna fish.

When we talk to one another we need to remember to BE CLEAR. We must ask ourselves the question “Is the person I am talking to hearing what I am saying?” and more importantly “Is this person understanding where my words are coming from?” I recall a having a conversation with my ex-husband.  I felt I was clear and concise in my phrasing. My girlfriend who was present later stated she understood me completely. My husband stared at me with a blank expression of confusion, thus he is now my ex-husband.  Perhaps we should all go back to chatting in the sign language of early caveman when we have something important to say. We could take away the adverbs and adjectives in our speeches and just get to the nuts and bolts of the issues.

Verbal communication is destroying our country right now. A lot of people are talking but no one is saying anything of value and more importantly no one is bothering to listen. Bill Clinton was quoted on the Situation Room website by Blitzer as saying “I think Obama will win”. I did hear him say this in the interview, but he also talked about bipartisanship, the need to resolve political agendas for the good of the American people, social responsibility, Mitt Romney’s chances of success and much, much more. Our verbal communication is ignoring the necessary and embracing the sensational. How do we stop talking and start listening? How do we speak and be heard? How do we make a statement which will be taken at face value and not disseminated by others into something it is not? Sometimes I think we should just throw the phrase “Cat, dog, bites, wagon, grandma, open, tool, mileage, coffee” at everyone we meet just to see if they even bother to notice.

I love the days we have these conversations. I forget sometimes she is 12 going on 40. She amazes me with her insight, clarity and often whimsical sarcasm. I treasure the comments she makes about my road rage driving “Mom, do you really thing that insane woman can hear you?” when she sees me ranting back at the lady who just cut me off in traffic and flipped me off as if it was my fault. I love the answer to the question I asked about whether or not it was obvious that I had lost 30 lbs. “No, I really can’t tell” was the reply.  But the best by far this week was “Thank God, they left out Transformer Heaven in this movie, I don’t think I could have handled it a second time!” A true movie critic in the making.

We all pretend we are looking for peace and quiet in our daily lives, but few of us would know what to do with it if we had even 5 minutes to enjoy it. Some of us claim we would sit in the garden and commune with nature, but in my experience nature is far from silent. The birds talk, the squirrels chatter, the wind blows through the trees. It is just a different type of noise to fill the back of our minds. Some of us consider the calm soothing sounds of classical music to be silence, but again our mid is working to assimilate the noise it receives and send it to a place in our brain that relaxes us and brings us comfort. We learn as we age how to filter out the noises we enjoy from those we deem unworthy of our auditory time. I wonder sometimes what we are missing by doing this.

There is no silence. True silence is terrifying. The sound you don’t hear when the birds stop twittering as a predator approaches. The sound you don’t hear in the calm before the storm. It is eerie, frightening at times and makes us realize how small and insignificant we are in the grand scheme of things. I need to start appreciating the noise in my life. It is a symphony to enjoy and experience, the loud, the annoying, the calm and the soothing all remind me I am alive an able to partake of things outside of myself.

                My head hurt, my back hurt, I was tired and had a nasty case of heartburn. I wanted to walk the dog, but the effort involved seemed too much for me to handle. I wish I could say I had the flu or some exotic illness that would explain away my symptoms. I didn’t. I was depressed. At least that’s what the commercials on television told me. My depression was making each of my physical ailments larger than life. My head hurt, my feet hurt, my bones ached, my teeth throbbed, and my eyes were sore and unfocused. I was ignoring all the work in an online course I was taking, ironically enough in psychology. I kept thinking “I’ll do it tomorrow. After all I have nothing else to do”. That wasn’t true, but I was feeling lost, lacking control and losing the drive to even try. I felt like I was trying to breathe underwater. Normally I would have rallied at this juncture in my depression and found a purpose. This time I was still looking, or maybe I had stopped looking.

                There was no difference in my day if I got up at 5 am or 11 am. I didn’t need to shower and shave to start my day, just slide into my desk, still clad in my pajamas. I worked alone, walked the dog alone, parented alone, counseled alone and attempted to be creative alone. I reserved my energy for the hours my children were home and required me to be at my best. I couldn’t sleep and could wake.

I had fervently looked for a job, telling myself it was because I needed insurance and a steady income, but it was just to get out of the house. I needed to feel needed and valued by total strangers for my abilities. Not being able to share my knowledge was slowing driving me mad. My anti-depressant was no longer functioning and my ADD medication kept me focused on the fact I was depressed. I hadn’t been creative in months. I had drawn anything, written anything enlightening or discovered any new concept or idea lurking in the back of my brain. My photographs lacked “light” along with my soul. I had stopped attending mass. I wasn’t mad at God, just unwilling to get up early to attend. It was frustrating, confusing and frightening.  

                I had tried counseling only to become the counselor. I had tried expressing my thoughts only to become more depressed about how drastically my life had changed. I was stressed out and just wanted to spend my life in bed until the solution presented itself. I needed to write, but the words weren’t coming. I need to draw but the pictures weren’t present in my mind. I needed to photograph, but couldn’t find inspiration. I couldn’t find answers to my questions or explanations for my feelings. The gray skies had become the gray in my soul. I wasn’t suicidal, just lonely and feeling extremely undervalued. I needed a solution.

                My knight in shining armor hadn’t shown up at the door in years, and when he had come by he had a severe case of untreated bi-polar disorder. My friends had come to rely on my wisdom so much they couldn’t fathom why I would be asking them for advice and actually shied away from me when I did. I was the sounding board after all not the needy one. I represented everything the strong resilient professional single mother could embody. My children had gone to private school and my oldest was in college. Until recently I had a very successful career and was respected in my field. I had a graduate degree and was respected by my peers. I had beaten the odds.

                Now here I was with a headache, lack of motivation and wondering what on earth had happened to me. My weight was yo-yoing, my hair was turning gray and I was feeling old before my time. I didn’t want to look in the mirror. Every time I did I saw this once beautiful woman staring back at me asking why I hadn’t solved world peace, created a Fortune 500 company or written the Pulitzer prize winning novel or better yet, how she was going to pay the dentist, the veterinarian, the utilities, the rent and buy gas and groceries.  I had been through horrific situations before in my life and come out of them more resilient, more compassionate and stronger. Why was this time different? Was it because I was still in the tunnel looking for the light, not sure which end it was on? What was it going to take to change the way I thought and felt? What would it take to jump start my mind and my feelings? I seemed it was time to start a journey. A journey different from ones I had undertaken before. I wasn’t looking for answers this time. I wasn’t in search of project or a cause. I wasn’t sure what type of journey this would be, what I would need to take with me, now much time it would entail or where it would end, but I did know if I didn’t take it now, nothing in my life would change. I would be stuck, trapped and in limbo until I took the first step “somewhere”.

                My daughter Emma and I have become regulars at a quaint little pie shop in Fremont. On this particular day Emma’s eyes were bigger than her stomach and she ordered three bite sized chocolate peanut butter pies in addition to her savory spicy turkey pie. She ate one of the little pies and was completely full. As a result the pies traveled home with us.

                It was my fault really, what happened to them. Emma forgot them in the car after we arrived home and went about her day. Hours later as I was cleaning it out for the weekend I noticed 2 of her pies sitting on a little plate.

The still looked edible so I decided to bring them inside. They didn’t make it that far. I’m not one to waste trips so I piled my hands up high with all sorts of items, including the little plate o f pies and headed to the house. As a result, by the time I got to the back door I was dropping things left and right. I set the pies down on the table outside by the backdoor and forgot about them. Emily didn’t.  She watched them.

As I scurried in and out of the house and up and down the stairs to the basement, through the backyard and back again, the little pies never moved, neither did Emily. She watched them, completely devoted to her prey, just waiting to make sure we had forgotten them in our hustle and bustle.

Two hours passed and I noticed the pies still sitting outside. I thought to myself “you really should bring those in”, but that was the same time Emily decided the pies had waited for her long enough.

She stood up, stretched, yawned and stretched some more. She moved slowly and methodically in an ever decreasing circle towards the pies. She looked, left, right, up and around to make sure no one was watching. She didn’t see me looking through the kitchen window. When she reached the table with the pies, she hesitated. She pushed the little plate around with her nose, but never touched the pies. She looked left, right, up and around to make sure no one was watching and then carefully slid the plate towards her.

With almost delicate precision she lifted one of the little pies from the plate and placed in her mouth. She didn’t chew, swallow or even attempt to eat it. She just stepped back, looked left, right, up and around to make sure no one was watching and headed for our barren garden plot.

With pie in mouth she dug a small hole. She dropped in the pie and covered it up with mud using her nose. Then she sat on top of it. I was trying very hard not to laugh so she could hear me. I was curious if she was going to dig it back up and eat it or what on earth would happen. She stepped away gingerly and came inside to nap.

An hour later she marched back outside and after checking the yard for signs of life, decided she was sufficiently alone to dig up her pie. I thought for sure this time she would eat the little thing, but no. She dug it up and gently lifted it out of the ground. The peanut butter was holding the entire thing together and except for the dirt still managed to look like a pie. She carried it gently over to the strawberry patch and buried it again.

The second pie was still waiting outside on the table. She walked over and promptly ate it.  The first little pie is still buried in the strawberry patch. She has dug it up twice and reburied it but makes no attempt to eat it or disturb the poor little thing.  Some dogs have a bone, mine has peanut butter pie. Well, our family has always been a bit eccentric to say the least.

Life has been dull. I’m not complaining, just stating a fact. The kids are healthy and happy. The cat comes home every night and the dog is house trained. I start my mornings with a walk the gym, then a trip to the dog park, then hours of technical writing and editing, following by another walk. Afternoons are mom time. I’m the taxi, the homework tyrant, the fun-mom, chef and laundress. What more is there?

I’ve had writer’s block, a lack of inspiration, and a sense of growing frustration. The laundry wasn’t provided Warshak shaped stains and the neighbors were acting exceedingly normal. No one had tried to attack me in over a parking space and all my crazy friends and relatives were otherwise occupied with their own lives for a change. I finished and started a new course in psychology, but it was the same old routine. Freud is an idiot and I follow the cultural psychology dogma. I mean really, I started out as a cultural geographer, how far of the mark do they really think I will go? Blah, Blah, Blah.  The bills were paid and the weather was too miserable to venture out more than necessary.  My only sense of stress was not being able to find a full-time job (I need the insurance) and attempting to get my tooth fixed. My youngest child was even out of town 10 days last month. I could have used those days and nights to find inspiration, to write up a storm with no distractions and to stretch my creative feelers. I could have gone bar hopping, to the movies, shopping or just out for lunch. What did I do? Actually, I lay on the couch eating Quaker Dipped Granola Bars and watched endless reruns of Dragnet and Alfred Hitchcock Presents. Perhaps I needed the down time. So I’m still looking for inspiration. Maybe that is the problem. I need to quit searching for it and it will show up on its own.

He’s getting married! Maybe he already did! All I know is I wasn’t invited. I didn’t expect to be, but I think they missed out on a great gift of Vagisil and Nicorette. I might just send it anyway, along with some antibiotic crème and a foot scrapper. This is marriage number 4 for Bubba, or maybe number 5. I’ve lost count over the years. It doesn’t matter, I couldn’t be happier. I wanted to dance, sing and make merry the moment I found out. It wa … Read More

via Annie Sabarte

For some reason, when Bubba decides to get married a great weight lifts from me. I am not jealous (far from it), not angry (no rage brewing here) and not wistful (I feel like Fiona from Shrek singing to the birds). I know I am going to have 18 months of unadulterated freedom. He will be spending all his time addressing the flaws in his new wife of which there are a countless many and leave me alone in both thought and deed. He will try to change her, rearrange her and who knows what else. The bottom line, they will be so busy with one another and the makeover of the century I will be wonderfully forgotten. Things will again cease to be my fault and become hers instead.  I will no longer be the bad guy, at least for 18 months.

We had this discussion on wife number 3. He called me from his car on the way to tell his parents the great news. She was with him at the time. I always wondered what she thought about him calling me on this momentous occasion. But alas, they didn’t last. I predicted it down to the week. He wanted me to know he was getting married and then he wanted sympathy when it didn’t work out. For some reason marriage makes him feel empowered. I think it has to do with unresolved feelings about his mother, but that is a book and a year of therapy for everyone involved. Hmm a book.  I mean after all I am the most important person in his life. He credits me with sunspot creation and maintenance so how can I not be. Trust me, not a position I applied for.

I had my best girlfriend over at the time he called about wife number 3. I remember bursting into song, I was so ecstatic from the news. She thought I had a stroke and was ready to call 911. Bubba then spent 30 minutes telling me my reaction was actually rage and I wasn’t happy about it at all. In the end she took him for everything he had, ruined his credit and ran off with another man, but what do you expect when you marry a 40 year old stripper. She was probably a lovely woman at some time in her life, oh, hell, who am I kidding. She was pretty though. I will give him credit for picking a looker.

This time I still give it 18 months. Spudnick, his new wife, is not a looker, or a taster, or a much of anything. Her eight grade education and social habits come from the middle of nowhere land, complete with missing teeth (yes mine is getting fixed in 10 days) and camel toes. He has been living with this woman for a few years now, but something about making it final sets him off. He wants permanence. He wants to be loved. He just seems to always look in the wrong places. I’m just glad they will now be at each other’s throats and leave me alone. Could we make a party cruise out of this? I could invite all the old girlfriends and wives (even the stripper) and celebrate our glorious fortune.

At first I thought Spudnick was great for him. They have so much in common. Well not really, Bubba morphs into the values of whatever woman he is with. I’ve watched him over the years be Harley Davidson man, Cowboy Man, Literary Man, Antique Man, Art Man, you get the picture. With Spudnick they are drinkers, smokers and doers of other deeds living the dazzling hillbilly life of the socially aberrant.  Then I realized she actually fueled the fire and made him more aggressive and abusive than ever before. I didn’t know this was possible until I found the woman parked outside my house and office. It was the teeth that gave it away (Oh, my God I need mine fixed so I can celebrate).

I hope she didn’t take him to the licensing office at gun-point, but I really don’t care. He is now officially hers and she is now officially his. There is a GOD!!! I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!!!!  I can pray for more than 18 months, but unfortunately Bubba doesn’t know how to be happy and this relationship definitely isn’t built on the common good for anyone’s sake.  He will start to feel trapped and resentful by about next Thursday, but that’s okay, His credit will be ruined by March 1, 2011 and his bank account will be empty the day after and then his 401(k) the day after that. She’ll probably get the house too. I hope he checks his food for arsenic.  All I know, is I won’t get the backlash for 18 months. I can’t stop smiling I’m so happy!!   Congratulations and best of luck, I’m off to celebrate in your name!!!!! I think I’ll make it a Cuban Sandwich and some FroYo!!

Annie

I finally reached my limit the other day at a Safeway store. The ladies room is in the back behind the ominous black rubber doors. It usually fairly clean (I’ve used it before) and I felt confident it wouldn’t require much more than a wipe down of the rim before I felt I could settle my ample behind on it. As I walked through the great black doors toward the ladies room I saw a man come out of the door. It is very clearly marked “WOMEN” and is next door to the door very clearly marked “MEN”. This young lad ducked quickly into the break room around the corner as I approached. Upon entrance of the facilities the first thing I noticed was the smell. It stank like only urine can. Then I saw it, the wall were covered in urine, the seat, the handle, the floor and the tank. Unless his penis is made of serpentine elastic materials from space he should be able to hold onto it well enough to get it close to the target. It appeared a fire hose had gotten out of control in this little room, and this poor boy definitely didn’t have anything resembling a fire house in his pocket. Did his mother not use the Cheerios trick with him? It’s the only reason they make them.   Come On!!!!

I reached for the paper towels and started to clean it up, I really had to pee. Nope, not today, “No, this is ridiculous!” I said to myself and went on a mission to parent this reluctant young man. I am everybody’s mother given the chance. I walked out of the restroom and popped my head into the break room. An older lady sat there on her break and asked if she could help me. I explained the situation to her. She didn’t know the fellow’s name, but indicated this was a common problem with him using the ladies room and creating “havoc” as she put it. She didn’t offer to clean it up for me, however, after all, she was on break (she did reek of tobacco and booze so obviously her problems were worse than mine). As I turned around to finish my business, I couldn’t leave now, I had wasted too much time complaining and was ready to make my own mess in the hallway if my bladder damn broke. By now my no-whip, no-foam, venti, hot chocolate was making what was left of my teeth float and it was do or die time. It was then I ran into a wonderful older woman who works for the store. She asked me what was wrong and I told her. She offered to clean up the mess for me and told me to tell the manager. I told her I could handle it enough (I really needed to pee and frankly she moves rather slow) to get through what I needed to handle and the rest was up to her. I hovered and took care of business as quickly as possible while standing on mounds of paper towels. Then I washed my hands from fingertip to elbow and grabbed the door handle with a clean paper towel to leave. I always think of Ellen DeGeneres when in a public restroom. By God, I’m not just touching that door handle unprepared, NO WAY!!

As I walked back through the giant black doors, here he came, the peepee monster. He was carrying soup for his break and had a streak of urine leaving a wet stain down his pant leg. He actually looked and me and “checked me out”. I can’t really put my finger on it, but having a dripping peepee pants boy look at my boobies just wasn’t wear I was headed on this particular day. “Excuse me,” I said. He just looked at me and put his arms out to his sides, his body language saying “What?” “Are you the young man who just pissed all over the ladies room in the back?” I asked with ever a straight face. This completely took him of guard. He thought I was going to comment on the boob glance, but I came out of nowhere as far as he was concerned. “Yeah, so what?” he said and then began a lengthy commentary on how the men’s room is smelly and he only went into the women’s room to wash his hands and he wasn’t the one who left the lid up or peed on anything and blah, blah, blah. I raised my hand and said “You need to stop talking now” and turned to walk away. He actually followed me through frozen foods, cat food and beer (with soup in a hand which had not seen soap recently despite his assertions otherwise), giving me a complete rundown of why it was okay for him to use the woman’s room and pee on the bowl. I lost him in the crowd in produce, but kept on the lookout anyway.

When I left I wasn’t going to say anything to the manager, but thought of my lovely lady friend who asked me to. I wondered if perhaps the female employees needed a customer to speak out on their behalf before anything would be done. I requested the manager and told him my tale. He looked at me and stated “that doesn’t sound like something he would do.” “Oh”, I replied, “I’m sorry, I must be mentally ill then and delight in making up stories about young men urinating in the women’s restroom and following me around the grocery store while I shop because my life is so vacant and empty of purpose. I’m sure you know best.” “I’m sorry, ma’am” he said, “I’ll take care of it, thank your bringing it to my attention.” “You are welcome.” I replied, “Have a nice day.” The kid was out front smoking a cigarette when I walked out. I think my “Don’t even think about it look” was what keep the sound from coming out of his mouth as I walked by.
The bottom line, literally. If you can’t hit the whole in the bowl…. There is no answer to this, just hit the damn hole for crying out loud!!!  This applies to women too. We get to sit on the seat you old ladies, so there is no need to miss, dingle, dampen, splash or otherwise foul up the area with bad aim. Men, use the men’s room, it’s your own fault it smells. Train your buds to hit the seat when they shake and shimmy and the smell will stop. Just my thoughts for the day, I feel better now.

The cult affected my life in a variety of ways. From the age of 10 to 17, once a week, for several hours at a time I sat listening to a complete idiot, “Jack”, tell me and others how he was the supreme connection to God and without him we were all doomed to die. He had these poor souls convinced he could cure cancer, create world peace and invent a way to make sugar out of cat poop. I wrote some years back a book about this experience and how it shaped my desire to parent my own children differently, but that is another book and another time.  Instead I am going to tell you all the things I learned from the Cult that I can actually apply to life. Yes, even in the midst of seemingly insurmountable mounds of horse shit, sometimes you find a nugget of wisdom. I’m sure none of these things I am going to relate where on the list of required learning for me as a cult member, but none the less, I learned them.

1)      IF SOMEONE TELLS YOU TO DRINK PURPLE FLAVORED DRINK MIX (or any other concoction) FOR YOUR OWN GOOD THEY ARE PROBABLY FULL OF CRAP AND YOU NEED TO ASK QUESTIONS OR RUN!!! I personally advise running; bob and weave, bob and weave.

2)      WHILE MANY A YOUNG BOY MAY HAVE HAD AN ENCOUNTER WITH A SHEEP (I don’t just, I just wish to be left naïve and in the dark), THE SHEEP WAS NOT SENT BY GOD TO GIVE HIM PERPETUAL WISDOM AND SPIRITUAL ENLIGHTENMENT. I can’t even go there right now, it still haunts me just hearing about it. The tears, the justification, the need to tell the story to anyone but his shrink confuses the hell out of me. I have often wondered how the sheep felt about this.  Personally, I would liken it to a pixie stick shoved up a, Hmm, something to ponder another day.

3)      GOD DID NOT GIVE YOU A DISEASE BECAUSE YOU DIDN’T EAT YOUR PEAS. This one is especially important and can include all fruit and vegetable groups as well as some cookies. Now, you may die from some sort of food borne illness because you are a crappy cook or eat raw pork, but that doesn’t have anything to do with God either. Take a class, think well-done for Wilbur.

4)      YOUR WAITRESS DOES NOT WANT “TIPS” IN THE FORM OF HEAVENLY ADVICE, BUT IN HARD MONETARY CURRENCY. Along this line, when you are done eating leave, camping out in her station is not only rude, but far from enlightened. She is there to make a living and could give a fart is space how connected you are to the universe and its karmic knowledge. Trust me I have been on both sides of this table and speaketh the truth.

5)      WOMEN WERE NOT CREATED BY GOD TO CLEAN TOILETS. Now, I’m not saying they shouldn’t be cleaned; just that cleaning them is not our sole purpose in life. Having said that; neither is baking pies, mixing vodka sprinters during services, missionary style sex or spending weeks at a retreat to learn how flawed you are while living in a tent and eating raisins. My parents were rather upset I excelled at the cooking, cleaning, drink making and sex, but not at the raisin eating. I would actually sleep through the sermons. It was damn cold out there!  Ah, I guess you can’t have everything now can you?  

6)      GOD DOES NOT DEFORM OUR CHILDREN FOR BEING CREATED OUT OF WEDLOCK. Where this one came from I’m not sure, but I remember my father telling me my handsome intelligent compassionate son, who is now almost 20, would be born deformed and defective because I did not have a husband. It didn’t matter I had my own career and was 25 years old and this was a choice. I remember pointing out to him in my most loving voice (HA), I was an adopted child and other than being irrevocably damaged by those who raised me, I turned out all right.

7)      CHURCHES ARE NOT WHORES, AND PASTORS ARE NOT BROTHELS. Yes, I was raised listening to this. I may not always agree with the “Father” but seriously doubt he is pimping the nuns out in the vestibule for alms. Upon hearing this I had visions of orgies going on in the local Pentecostal church and red velvet wall paper. I’m not sure what the difference was between how we worshiped in our neighbors living room, from what happened inside the neighborhood church except there was no 501(c)(3) filed. I pretty confident tax evasion was in the mix there somewhere to. I wonder if it had anything to do with sheep.

8)      MONEY WILL NOT BUY YOU A PLACE IN HEAVEN, NEITHER WILL DENIAL. No explanation necessary.

9)      ALWAYS ASK YOUR CULT LEADER “Where do the dinosaurs fit in” and “Explain natural selection” when discussing creationism. It is fun to watch them squirm!

10)   PEOPLE IN CHARGE LOVE TO CHANGE THE RULES TO FIT THEIR PURPOSES. If you find yourself in this situation regardless of race, color, creed or religion, it is time to revisit the reason you are participating in your current activity. Trust me; it isn’t THE GOOD LORD changing the rules just the misguided SMUCK leading you looking for more than he/she is entitled to.

11)   BOURBON AND MARGARITA MIX WAS NOT CREATED BY GOD AS A DRIVING BEVERAGE. My dad drank this lovely concoction in a convenient Mason jar mug while driving down the highway, or any road for that matter. He loved to declare, “God’s hands are on mine.” I remember it very differently, but hey, I was a kid and sober. When I was 28 I made him pull the car over and let me walk to the top of the hill (We were on a steep one way road in the Rocky Mountains. I was sitting in the middle of the backseat of a Jeep Cherokee with no door access for jumping). My mother asked, “Don’t you trust your father?” I just gave her the look. It was enough, my husband drove us home.

AND THE MOST IMPORTANT LESSON OF ALL

12)   NO AMOUNT OF PRAYER WILL MAKE IT STOP HAILING ON YOUR WEDDING. I remember watching from under the slowing collapsing awning at my younger brother’s wedding as “Jack” demanded the hail stop for him as a servant of God. “Jack” was officiating the marriage of my brother, 19 to his daughter, 27. They had unsuccessfully tried to marry her off to every single man who had briefly ventured into the “Study”. At this point she was an Albatross and my brother was the so anxious to get laid, he didn’t care. “Jack” was so intent on his right to control the weather he insisted the band keep playing under the onslaught of golf-ball sized hailstones. It was some type of Laurel and Hardy comedy watching the poor musicians duck and flinch as they were pelted by enormous hailstones from heaven. Finally the bride and groom ran for cover as “Jack” prayed louder and louder. My uncle, bless his heart, commented it seemed to come down harder at this point, forcing us to flee for additional cover, “Perhaps” he said “God is trying to tell these idiots something.” Needless to say the hail ruined a lute in the process and inflicted a bloody lip or two, but hey I’m not a meteorologist, so I could be missing something about convergences, sun spots and global warming.  After the sun cleared 10 minutes later and the ground was covered in white hunks of ice my stupid ignorant papa stated “Wow, what a cleansing ran.” I guess a man standing in on pile of crap is entitled to pretend it is a hill covered in flowers if he is the one paying for the whole thing.

I first went to the dentist with a cavity in my tooth. The one next to your eye tooth, I’m not sure what number it is, but it’s right out front there were the world can see it. The bastard drilled a hole all the way through my tooth on accident and then filled it with composite, billing me $1500 over what insurance was willing to pay.  He didn’t tell me that is what he did, I found at when the composite fell out and went to see dentist number too. The damage was extensive and the tooth needed a root canal. The time it cost $2300 over what insurance would pay and my new doctor said I didn’t had an infection in my gum above this tooth and I needed to see a periodontist. Okay, say periodontist and paid $5100 over what insurance would pay for gum surgery around the damaged tooth.

Back to dentist number two who now stated I didn’t have enough gum left to attach a crown to, so he also filled the tooth with composite and called it done. $1600. I wanted another opinion, I made an appt. with dentist number four who told me, “No, we can definitely put a crown on that tooth, but you have used up your dental benefits for the year so wait until March 1, 2008 when you are prequalified and it will only run you $1400 out of pocket.”

It was already January so I decided to wait. I was laid of from my job on February 28, 2008. My insurance stopped that day. If my employer had laid me off on March 1, 2008 I would have had one more month of insurance. He pocketed the money and I as without a job. Since then I have known this would eventually become a problem, but didn’t really think it would actually crumble on me.

Now, I have a gaping hole in my face to go with my fat butt, and love handles. I really think I should take up alcohol and cigarettes just to make the picture complete. Oh, God, then I would look like my sister too!!!!! Is there a God and if so is he laughing his ass off right now? Well, the up side is I can’t eat anything so I guess I will lose weight whether I actually try or not. I’ll just remember not to smile, ever, or breathe with my mouth open and let people think I’m an even bigger bitch than they already do!!! Ah, the hassles of being perfect!!

 It’s just a little stress; I will find a way to cover what isn’t covered, pay what needs to be paid and provide what needs to be provided.  Maybe someone will click my link and buy 1500 books tomorrow. Maybe!! Besides it gives me something to write about and I can always comfort myself knowing he is a putz.  

 PUTZ

1 a: a rare incurable condition cause by extreme stress due to the exertion and trauma of putting one’s head up one’s ass in rapid repetition for extended periods of time.  

 I may be fat, broke, ugly and old, but I still have my sense of humor about me!

in·sur·ance

1 a : the act of a business offering to pay your medical bills for a fee and then telling you “Ha, Ha Ha” with a smile b: the promise of payment for treatment only to find out HMO’s don’t work in your state c: the creation of the evil to subjugate the good by bankrupting them over medical bills.

2 :  a policy you ex is court ordered to pay for. Unfortunately he buys the cheapest policy with the lowest coverage that will not cover your child anywhere but in bum-fuck Egypt Nevada!!!

Fashion Police in training!

I am trying to hold my judgmental attitude in check, some days it is hard. I tend to be sarcastic, we know this, but I am endeavoring to see people as complete human beings. After all, my fat butt has been speculation for a few lately I am sure.  I think he was a man, but he was the best dressed “man as a woman” man I have ever seen.  He had on beautiful silk pants and a lovely green short sleeved turtleneck sweater.  I didn’t notice him right away when I walked up with my daughter to his checkout counter.  I noticed someone, but it took me a minute to make the “it’s a guy” connection. You must remember I am 6’ tall, so whenever I run into another woman who is taller than I am, I tend to take in the details. The first thing I check to see is if they are standing on something or wearing heals. This was not the case. Nice casual ½ pumps adorned his very large feet, but then my feet are not exactly small either. I start to slyly scan the body for signs of gender transformation. It was there, but I must admit, very, very well hidden. I could make out the heavy brows, skim of facial hair and hairy upper lip, but he was dark, he could have been Mediterranean with hormone problem. I have seen some hairy women in my day.

 I would have perhaps chalked the whole thing up to an Ugly Betty moment, but this person had a great sense of style. I felt frumpy next to him by comparison.  Coco Channel had dressed this soul with a paintbrush of style with stunning results. I looked up at him at least a dozen times trying to assess the gender. His voice was deep, but he stood like a woman, with that little sway of a hip. His hair covered most of his face, but not in a way to be hiding, just obscuring anything that might give him away. His turtleneck was just loose enough to hide any sign of an Adams apple. His five o’clock shadow this was a man, but I was just not 100% positive.

Finally, in desperation I did the boob check. I don’t like to check out another person’s boobs, well, when they actually aware of it. Oh, admit it we sit in groups and guess whose are fake, whose are real and why, but we don’t advertise it to the specimens of our study! We hide behind coffee and ice cream cones and laugh at them while being jealous at the same time. I had been looking anywhere but at them before and now I took a good long look. Funny thing about boobs, fake, real or otherwise, unless you went to a plastic surgeon who got his degree from Mattel, there is a placement for these wonderful orbs of ours. This poor soul in front of me did not have his placed properly. They were not lopsided, too large or too perky, just too high up. His stuffed bra straps were too short, something us girls learn in middle school. These boobs rested about 1 ½” above the BOOB line. Yep, that cinched it. It was a guy, not an immaculately dressed Ugly Betty in need of a waxing.  Just a nice man, in drag, whose boobs were riding too high. Feeling much better about solving this dilemma, my daughter and I left the store. On the way to the car she said “Did you see that guy?”

“Which one,” I asked?

“The one who waited on us,” she replied.

“How did you know it was a guy, honey” I inquired?

“Well, for starters he needed to shave, but basically his boobs were way high up, like his bra straps were too short. Mine are new and they aren’t that high, so I figured he must be a guy.”

I stifled a laugh, well, actually I coughed, gagged and pretended to be having cold symptoms and asked her when I finally regained my composure, “What about him?”

She replied “I loved his sweater!”

The once and former me - Can I do it again?

I started this blog CLIMBING FOR MY LIFE thinking it alone would be the motivation I needed to change how I was taking care of my body. It wasn’t. I spent ten days absorbed in climbing every step in Seattle, I ached, I suffered, I quit. I made excuses. I had a cold, I twisted my ankle, I had finals, I had a book to publish, it was the holidays, the kids were out of school, I needed to go to the post office,  you name it, I found the excuse to stop climbing and as a result my life, my spiritual, physical and mental health suffered. I decided I needed to rethink how I went upon this journey. It wasn’t enough to walk all these steps and take notes about it, I needed to actually transform. I needed a total program that would challenge how I viewed myself and my abilities before I would be successful. I needed inspiration, that didn’t include just wanted to look better in a little black dress. I spent my living teaching people to transform, to appreciate the difference between being a survivor and someone who survived and now it was time to use those skills on myself and benefit from my own insight.

What did it finally take for me to get my ass literally in gear? I turned 45 years old two days before Christmas 2010. My weight was 50 lbs hirer than where it should be, my body was sore, tired and stiff, I didn’t sleep, I was always felt hungry and I had been making excuses for far too long. My history said I could drop 25 lbs. easily enough and I knew it, but I had far exceeded that 25 lbs. and needed a new plan. The 25 lb. scenario included a few weeks of deprivation and extreme exercise and I was back to a “comfortable” weight, where I would camp out for six months and then do it all over again. I hadn’t, however, actually put myself to the test in a very long time.

How did it actually happen, the decision to climb for my life, to stretch for my life, to dance for my life, to row for my life, to lift for my life and to walk for my life? I turned 45. I had gained 28 lbs since September and was still stuffing cookies in at 3 am and eating cheese sticks at 11:30 pm. I needed to figure out why and stop it and then offer myself some amazing reward for getting back on the wagon and becoming a sexy vibrant woman once again. The answer presented itself in the form of a $10 gift certificate I bought for myself. It allowed me 10 visits to the gym. I had purchased these types of things before and never followed through, but then again, I had never turned 45 before. 

The first part of my fear, I must admit was how I would cope with long term diet and exercise changes. I had a history of anorexia and bulimia and didn’t want to open that door again. It had been 20 years, but the fear still lingered I might opt for “control” and go overboard on my mission.  The second part of my fear was physical. I have been so ill for so long (I suffered from chronic hives and angioedema for 7 years, until December 2010) and was actually afraid I couldn’t do it. Afraid I was destined to become one of those women who never made the transition back to health and fitness. I hated these women, resented them every time I watched them buy an ice cream cone or each a huge helping of mashed potatoes.

I also, was afraid of going hungry. For an anorexic this is rather ironic, but when you chose not to eat it is about control, when you can’t afford to buy food it is about fear. There had been times in my life I went for days without eating so I could feed my children. I remembered the horrible hollow feeling that gave me and didn’t want to feel it ever again. As a result I ate when food was present whether I was hungry or not just because I was afraid of feeling hungry. It was irrational and I knew it, but I feed (ha, ha, ha) into it anyway.

To top it off, I thought somewhere deep down I needed to be compete, it wasn’t until I accepted the fact it didn’t matter how stupid I looked in the back of that yoga or Pilates class that I accepted I really needed to be there. I needed to let go of my ego and admit I looked like crap and it was time for a change! I needed that other person, that teacher, driving me. I knew this. I really did. I have had many personal trainers over the years. I did this because I knew they would push me just that little bit further than I was willing to push myself. Now, with limited funds and no one offering free personal training I was forced to push myself. If joining class in addition to weight training and rowing would help I was all for it. Up until, I was failing miserably now acting as my own personal trainer, so a class a day would keep me in check.

Day One

9 am – I went to the gym and activated the certificate. This meant the clock was running.

10 am – I came back with yoga mat and water ready to stretch and be stretched. I was afraid, intimidated and nervous. I went anyway. I chose a Hatha Yoga class taught by a man. It was possibly the greatest yoga class I have ever attended in my life. I believe the universe wanted me in this class. It new it was time for me to make changes, not just physically, mentally and spiritually. I needed to feel safe, comfortable and secure to begin my journey. That is exactly what I found. There were three other new people in this class that morning.  I was by far the most out of shape, but I wasn’t the oldest or fattest, it wouldn’t have mattered if I was. Our instructor lead us through a great series of stretches and exercises that exhausted me, but also brought me back into contact with each muscle, each ache and need my body had. The hour was over much sooner than I expected and I was sad. I wanted more. I knew I would be back. It was an uplifting experience on all levels.

I spent most of that evening with my daughter in the emergency room. She had a recurrence of a condition caused by an injury to her foot and while we perhaps could have handled it at home, I wanted her looked at just to make sure there wasn’t something completely different going on. They gave her some pain medication and a referral back to the pain clinic as well as relieving our fears we had an additional problem to deal with. We arrived home very late and got little sleep. The sleep I did get was restful. I was grateful I had chosen to go to yoga that am. I think it gave me the mental clarity and physical stamina to get through the evenings experience.

Day Two

6 pm – My schedule this day had been so crazy with clients and scheduling my daughter’s physical therapy and pain clinic appointments, I didn’t make it to the gym until 6 pm.  Today was mat Pilates.  I walked from home to the gym in the cold. I was up to the challenge. I knew this class would attack my muscles in a different way, but I was ready. Again there were three new faces in the group in addition to mine. I hadn’t practiced Pilates in over ten years and felt completely out of my element, but the instructor gave a blow by blow explanation of what we needed to do and how to do it. My legs cramped, my feet cramped, my hips cramped and my toes cramped again and again. I didn’t care. I just stopped and massaged the area until I could go again. I didn’t give up, I didn’t leave and no one judged me for being the least physically fit person in the class. It was wonderful.

When I got home I did fall of the wagon when it came to food. I ate a few too many cookies and down a bit too much cheese. I was giving this article on cheese and found the following enough to blow my mind.

 The first hint of a biochemical explanation came in 1981, when scientists at Wellcome Research Laboratories in Research Triangle Park, N.C., found a substance in dairy products that looked remarkably like morphine. The especially addicting power of cheese may be due to the fact that the process of cheese-making removes water, lactose and whey proteins so that casein is concentrated. Scientists are now trying to tease out whether these opiate molecules work strictly within the digestive tract or whether they pass into the bloodstream and reach the brain directly.¹

Holy Crap! My ex’s girlfriend accused me of being a Starbuck’s addict, which I thought was hysterically funny, but ironically enough this wonderful eighth-grade graduate, actually had come very close to diagnosing one of my issues. I needed to give up cheese and cut down on dairy. This didn’t for a minute mean I couldn’t still indulge in a Starbuck’s Unsweetened Black Iced Tea, but it did mean, I definitely needed to stop buying cheese and cut down on my milk intake.  

Day Three

                I had missed the Hatha Yoga class today. I didn’t want to. It was devastating not to be able to go, but my daughter had an appointment at the pain clinic scheduled for the same time. Priorities and motherhood won out. We spent the day at the hospital going from appointment to appointment, but left with a great prognosis, a schedule of appointments for follow-up and at home therapy treatments. I had been so absorbed with getting her there; I actually ran out of gas in the parking lot and was forced to wait for AAA to come rescue us so we could go home.  I think the universe was looking out for us.  Like I said we ran out in the parking lot. She went straight inside to her physical therapy appointment while I waited outside then I joined her. We didn’t have to hail a cab, walk for blocks on bad feet, or miss out on her appointments. It was just a little reminder from the universe to “pay attention.” Normally, this would have marked my stopping point. I would have made excuses to myself that my child required my full attention and then parked my butt in front of the television whether she was in the room or not. Not this time. I knew I needed to be in shape, so I can help her stay in shape and be successful in her treatment.

5 pm – I walked up to the gym with the intent of lifting weights. I had unearthed no less than three pair of weight gloves and dressed for this event. On my way out the door I saw a book sitting on the shelf I hadn’t reviewed in a very long time. It was the Course In Miracles. It just seemed logical I should reread this book while I began my journey. I didn’t life weights this night. I rode the bicycle for an hour and read.  When I came upon this phrase it all came together once again for me.

Spirit is in a state of grace forever

Your reality is only spirit

Therefore you are in a state of grace forever²

So basically, if I am in a state of grace, then all things are possible. What an exciting thought! At the end of my hour I was headed down stairs to lift, a little stiff and sore, but feeling good. I saw a man getting off the rowing machine and a voice in my head said, “You need to row.” I rowed, I rowed some more, and I kept on rowing. I rowed until my back ached and my chest was sore. I rowed until my feet hurt and my legs screamed for a break. I rowed. It was wonderful.  I never did lift weights that night but I don’t think I was supposed to. I think I needed to row. I needed to practice getting somewhere using my entire body, every muscle, every fiber, every speck of my being needed to be involved in preparing me to “Get someplace else.” I will include rowing in my routine at least 3 times a week.

Day Four

                The gym didn’t have any classes today due to the holidays. This was a chance for me to see if I could be my own personal trainer. The same person who clued me in about cheese told me about the steps at Golden Gardens. I knew of them, but had not previously walked them. It was 28 degrees outside and well, what day could be better to attempt climbing mountains of steps. There was no rain after all. I concluded if I parked at the top of the steps I would be forced to climb back up regardless of how I felt.  Whereas if I parked at the bottom, I could always flake out half way up and go back down. I parked at the top, the very top.  The grand total was 600 steps down and back plus a bit of travel on an incline path. I walked from the top down to the beach. I met a dog named Olaf. The day was beautiful. Ironically, I wasn’t the only one climbing this particularly cold day. Plenty of people had ventured out to get their fair share of freezing sunshine and exercise too.  I felt great, not tired, just winded and knew if I were to be my own trainer I needed to add a bit more. On the way home I stopped at an incline hill. The steps aren’t really steps but a concrete path with raised slats in them for traction. I parked at the top and walked the 193 paces down, plus 13 actual steps and then back up again.

                I’m off to do my stretches now. I cleaned the entire house top to bottom and put away the Christmas decorations just so would have room on the living room floor to pop in my Yoga video. Perhaps I will also have time to get in a bit more the Course in Miracles as well. After all it is a New Year. I think it will be a good one!

^{1 http://www.healthdiaries.com/blogs/vegetarianblues/archives/2004/09/casein_and_cheese_more_addictive_than_chocolate.html}

^{2 Course in Miracles}

We went to the er at the same hospital where she was diagnosed and had her treatments and had to tell the admissions guy what was wrong, then explain the entire condition to him, then the 1st triage nurse and explain the entire condition to her, then the 2nd triage nurse and explain the entire condition to her, then the ward nurse and explain the entire condition to her, then the resident doctor and explain the entire condition to him and then the attending physician and explain the entire condition to her. What I couldn’t understand is why they didn’t just pull up her file and read it!!!!! Finally hours into this ordeal they did. It’s a miracle!!!!!

We finally came home with a referral and something to manage her pain. Today I have the dubious honor of trying to connect with someone in the Pain Clinic to get her an appt. Wish me luck!!!!!

A part of me is actually in a panic mode for other reasons. As with any illness or injury you have to PAY the piper. I guess it’s time to figure out how to handle it this time around. I haven’t paid of the bills yet from last time. AhHHHHHH!!!!

 I felt I was more than a survivor, a noun. There are lots of nouns that described me; female, tall, mother, daughter, friend, neighbor, human, Catholic. A survivor is someone who has remained alive, in existence, after some event.  This event can be cancer or it can be suffering from a hang nail. We are still survivors of both. I was someone who had survived, a verb.  Surviving was something I did, as was giving birth to my children, growing old, learning to ski or writing this book. I wasn’t a survivor, I had survived. There is a very real difference and I wanted to explore it before accepting I should label myself as a survivor for the rest of my life.

The second reason I took exception to this term was more pragmatic. What type of survivor would I be?  I can only pick one after all. You didn’t run into people who listed their entire litany of survivorship for you, they picked one, usually the most tragic and stuck with it. In my case that would be a bit difficult. I decided to make a list of all the things I had survived and see which one would “stick”. I know the big three are cancer, abuse and natural disaster, but there are also some other extreme topics which are in vogue for survivorship too, such as eating disorders, poverty, abandonment and anyone forced to watch Blades of Glory more than once. I made a list of all the things I had survived in my 45 years of living;

Cancer

Domestic Abuse – Adult Relationships – Verbal and Physical

Domestic Abuse – Childhood – Verbal and Physical

Abandonment – Put up for adoption

Abandonment – Adoptive parents joined religious cult

Abandonment – Left by my child’s father during pregnancy – Both Kids

Natural disaster –flood

Growing up in a Cult

Cystic Acne

Anorexia

Bulimia

Obesity

Depression

ADD

Chronic Pneumonia

Valley Fever

Ruptured Ectopic Pregnancy

C-Sections – Twice

Planter Facitis (don’t scoff, it is extremely painful)

Bullying

Arthritis

Unemployment

Divorce

Hot Chocolate Addiction

Poverty

Chronic Hives

Chronic Pain

Lordosys

Stress

Writer’s Block

High School

Any movie with Jim Carey

                You can see my dilemma. Where would I even begin to start in labeling my survivor status.  Which adjective is the best to attach to my survivor noun? Which one of these things took its toll on me the most, which one helped shape who I am and how I see the world? Which one would I be a survivor of? The fact is I survived them all and I’ve only included a partial list. I actively lived through each and every event and the surviving of it shaped who I have become. Am I perfect? Far from it, but I can feel sympathy and empathy with those who have undergone similar conflicts. If instead I choose to accept the fact I have survived all of these things and they are part of me, my past, my personality and my journey then they have no power over me, but they offer me power to prosper.

Dear Friends and Family,

This holiday season will be a bit more eventful than last year. Lisa found a part-time job as a cytotechnologist ………………… It is a very good job and Lisa is very fortunate to have it.

Will has been with ……… for almost 30 years now. He has no discernable job skills so we are grateful they keep him around.

Emily is 12 years old and in the 6^th grade…………She is now interested in water polo and hopes it will become her long term sport.

We hope this year finds you happy and healthy, and we hope to see more of you in the coming year.

Love

Will, Lisa and Emily

I just about fell over and died. I wasn’t sure if I should laugh at poor Will’s expense or find it incredibly sad his family sees him this way. I figure after 30 years his company must think he has some type of skill even if it’s only to keep the water cooler full.  I have known him for almost 8 years myself and well, Will, I love you, skills or not.

Lisa wrote this letter, she sometimes doesn’t think before she talks and apparently sometimes doesn’t think before she reads either. I won’t need to say anything about his letter as I am sure her mother already said her peace. I am a bit reluctant to call tomorrow for XMAS for fear of hearing the fall-out from that conversation. So for Lisa, who is as smart as a whip, but a little socially crippled, and Will who I am sure possesses skills we know absolutely nothing about and Emily who is just the coolest kid on the plant despite what Mrs. Resipio says. Merry Christmas and Happy New Years, you are a great family and wonderful human beings.

Perhaps if like me you haven’t sent out your letters yet about 2010 you might consider having a total stranger read them first to determine they are socially acceptable and everybody comes off in a good light. I think I’ll send Will some bourbon and chocolate just for good measure.