Month: October 2014

Studly’s Addiction

My husband is a man of moderation. He doesn’t drink to excess. He doesn’t smoke. The strongest drug he takes is Advil. But he does have a problem: Bad TV.

“Cops,” “American Jail,” “Gas Monkey Garage,” “Tosh.0,” “Ridiculousness,” etc. Our evenings are filled with this stuff and nonsense. He roots for the tasering of suspects and the face plants of skateboarders. Our remote control firmly within his grasp, he flips between horrible programming with a gleam in his eye. It could be worse, I suppose. I have a friend whose husband is into Court TV.

Is it any wonder that I drink? I read, as well, but the drinking is the most beneficial. Wine allows me to sit with Studly and tolerate these programs with a vacant smile on my face. We hold hands. I pretend we are watching something with substance like “Criminal Minds” or “The Walking Dead.” Hey, I didn’t say I was perfect.

Peace, People!

Vampires and Zombies and Werewolves, OH My!

A blogger whose posts I follow posed the question yesterday, “What is the difference between vampires and zombies? I jumped on the question immediately, because while I don’t know much about anything of importance I know a great deal about supernatural creatures.

My response to my friend was that zombies are dead, while vampires are undead. In my scholarly opinion, zombies, while deadly, are not inherently evil, while vampires are. They are both quite dangerous and should be avoided at all costs.

Bram Stoker’s novel, Dracula is the guidebook for all things undead. Anyone claiming to be knowledgeable about vampires who has not read Stoker’s tome is a mere pretender. While I can appreciate the sparkliness of Twilight’s Cullen clan, they are not true vampires. They are some aberration and should be treated as such. Cute and cuddly, but hardly worth guarding against with garlic and holy water.

Zombies, by all accounts, are simply reanimated dead people driven by a desire to eat human flesh, preferably brains. Some accounts attribute the zombie condition to an infected brain stem which remains functional despite the death and decay of its host body. The virus is the only living thing inside of said zombie. And they do decay, unlike vampires.

Werewolves are an entirely different matter. They are very much alive, perhaps too much so. One must survive a werewolf bite or flesh rending attack in order to become a werewolf. Perhaps that explains why they are so few in number. For the better part of each month werewolves live quite normal lives, attending PTA meetings and congressional hearings; however, during the full moon they transform fully into bloodthirsty beasts and terrorize all within their hunting range.

I hope this small treatise clears up any confusion about the nature of these denizens of the dark. If you have any questions of a scholarly nature I’ll be glad to entertain them at 1-888-Vampire. (Not really. I made that part up.)

The Walking Dead

series starts tonight if you’d like more zombie input.

Peace, People!

Check out: https://ksfinblog.wordpress.com/

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Whack A Mole

Several weeks back I spotted a suspicious mole on my left forearm. It came to my attention as Studly and I were out rowing in our kayak. Of course I freaked a little and called the doctor the next day. I really expected him to chuckle, pat me on the head and send me away, but to my chagrin he wanted a dermatologist to look at it.

His office referred me to a reputable clinic, and as I write this I’m sitting on the exam table awaiting the arrival of the doctor. Of course the spot has now faded to a mere freckle, so I feel like a complete imposter, but since I’m here I thought he could do a complete body check. Heaven knows I’ve got plenty of body to check. We could be here awhile.

(Pause for exam)

Okay, the doctor has come and done his thorough exam. He’s concerned about the freckle spot and wants to do a biopsy. There’s another spot on my shin he wants biopsied as well. This is getting to be quite an ordeal. Right now, his nurse is preparing to numb my two troublesome areas with a rather long syringe.

(Pause for gasps of pain)

Damn, the one on my shin hurt like a sonofabitch. Remind me to forgo any offers to tattoo that particular area of my body. Now, I just have to wait until someone comes to perform the actual biopsy.

(Pause to hum the Jeopardy theme song)

The biopsyists (?) just entered, a young man and young woman (they both look 12) wielding sharp objects. I wonder why they’ve sent in two people, then, I realize they’re tag teaming me. He goes for my shin.

(Pause for sharply indrawn breath–totally unnecessary given the aforementioned numbing)

She goes for my forearm. He bandages my shin. She bandages my forearm. Simultaneously they pat my hands and rush out the door as quickly as they blew in, telling me I can get dressed. I feel like the Doublemint twins have left the room.

(Pause to get dressed)

(Pause to wait)

Waiting sucks. Please send good vibes my way if you’re so inclined.

Peace, People.

Health Alert!

I had to see my doctor this afternoon for a minor issue and found a warning sign on the office door:

HEALTH ALERT
If you have traveled to or been in contact with anyone traveling to any of the following areas please immediately notify our staff and you will be referred to our local emergency room for evaluation.
Guinea Liberia West Africa Sierra Leone Nigeria Senegal

My first instinct was to run to my car, drive home and dive under my covers. Instead, I went in and sat in the waiting room amongst a group of hacking, sniffling, sneezing, achy, sick people.

So now I think I might have Ebola. I know the incubation period is longer than a few hours and that one needs to come into actual contact with bodily fluids from an infected Ebola patient in order to contract the disease; nevertheless, I’m probably the next victim.

Hypochondria is a bitch.

Peace (and prayers for the real victims), People.

Aging Gratefully

I celebrated my 58th birthday on Sunday. 58 Two years away from the big 60. Whatever happened to the years between 28 and 58? I find some fun in grumbling about my age, but honestly, I don’t think I’d go back to any previous milestone. There are many things I like about being older. For example,

1) These days I can find humor in the oddest situations. Several years ago I was having some “feminine issues.” I didn’t have an OB/GYN at the time, so I made an appointment with my general practitioner, a very capable young man. Midway through my pelvic exam he said, “hmmmmm.” Then he excused himself and came back with another doctor in the clinic, an older woman, but way younger than me. Now they were taking turns peering into my hoohaw and hmmmmming. I looked at the RN who kept patting my shoulder reassuringly and said, “If we join in we’ll have a quartet.” The doctors cracked up and decided to send me to a specialist.

2) All I need to do to look good is to take off my glasses. I get ready in the morning without the aid of my eyeglasses, and I don’t look at myself very carefully before I leave for work. Thus, I’m often surprised at my appearance when I see myself in a mirror during the day. Who is that crinkly-faced woman looking at me? Why don’t her earrings match? Did she put eye makeup on the right side, but not the left? I just know that if I live to be 80 I’ll be one of those elderly women who puts two bright, unblended spots of rouge on her cheeks and a slash of lipstick somewhere near her mouth.

3) Everything sags and I just don’t care. The bags under my eyes have become close friends with my cheeks which have merged with my chin, and my breasts form a bridge from my torso to my hips. Undressed I look like a ride at Disneyworld. Wheeee! In the bathtub I regularly pretend to be a prehistoric creature emerging from the depths of a lagoon. Everything jiggles like Jell-O on steroids except my elbows and kneecaps.

4) I’m never cold anymore. My internal thermostat is set somewhere between “extra warm” and “ohmygod it’s hotter than hell in here and I need to strip down to my skivvies and run through the sprinklers right now before I spontaneously combust.”

5) I have grandchildren. Nothing compares with that.

6) I used to be a prevaricator, but now my friends know I can be counted on to tell the truth. They know that if they ask me if that dress they’re trying on looks good on them I’ll give them a tactful, yet brutally honest answer. And, I expect the same. A friend who lets a woman go out in an unflattering outfit just to save her feelings is no friend at all.

Maybe this just all boils down to taking everything in stride, enjoying one’s blessings, and being true to oneself. Whatever it is, I wish I’d been like this when I was younger. I’d probably have a lot fewer crinkles now.

Peace, People!

I Don’t Sleep, Don’t Ask Me

Wide awake at midnight. Studly snores boisterously. My mind runs rampant through the possibilities. My prayers are said, my book’s been read. I’m tired, but sleep won’t come.

What have I forgotten to do? Who have I forgotten to call? Where am I supposed to be? What if I cannot do it all?

A new friend suggests that I’m an overachiever. Conscientious, to a fault. I’m more inclined to think that I suffer from a lack. Of something. Ability? Logic? Imagination? Drive? Sleep, certainly.

I probably should stop drinking Chardonnay in the evening. Get more exercise. Eat better. Switch to Merlot?

I probably should stop reading post-apocalyptic young adult novels that begin at the end of everything and then try to find a beginning. Maybe they make me too anxious.

I just want to sleep.

Peace, People.

Road Kill

North Florida: Road Kill capital of the world. Just this week I encountered :

Possum
Fox
Ssssssnake
Armadillo
Deer
Squirrel!
Raccoon.

When I ride my motorcycle I obsess over animals. My main fear is that one will dart into my path and that one, or both of us, will sustain mortal injuries.

Riding through Custer State Park in South Dakota I developed a mantra:

I hope I don’t hit a squirrel.
Better a squirrel than a fox.
Better a fox than a hog.
Better a hog than a large dog.
Better a large dog than a deer.
Better a deer than a buffalo.
Better a buffalo than an elephant.
Better an elephant than a blue whale.
Glug. Glug. Glug.

Now, this is true. These are the things that trip through my mind when I ride. I also sing Dixie Chicks and Elvis Presley songs at the top of my lungs in the hope that my voice will deter animals from crossing my path. So far, so good.

Peace, People!

Hall-iday Inn

My junior year in high school my dad decided to take a job in Dumas, Texas, with Piggly Wiggly. He’d worked for the chain in Floydada, Texas, and then tried his hand at store ownership there. His partner in that endeavor lacked a couple of necessary attributes, money and business acumen, and soon that business failed. So when Daddy was asked to take over the store in Dumas, it was a blessing. For everyone but me.

I’d gone to school in Floydada since kindergarten. All of my friends were there. My future was all mapped out. I was a junior, for Pete’s sake. What kind of parents make their child move their junior year in high school? Well, apparently parents who need to make a living.

They let me finish out the school year in Floydada. I lived with my mother’s parents for three of the longest months of my life, and then moved to Dumas in late May of 1974 to rejoin my family. I moped a lot. There I was in a strange town during the summer of what should have been the best time of my life. Truthfully it ended up being a pretty great summer, but I certainly didn’t want anyone to know that. “Work the guilt,” was my unconscious motto.

My dad had the brilliant idea that we should embark on family camping adventures that summer, so he bought this ginormous green and white striped tent at a garage sale. It was hideous, but he got this crazy notion that we should dub it the Hall-iday Inn. Our last name was Hall. Pretty clever, eh?

Soon we were immersed in a frenzy of camping. Many weekends we’d head to Lake Fryer near Perryton where we’d swim, pretend to fish, and be jolly. We even took the tent to Tres Ritos in New Mexico where Mom stepped on a rusty coat hanger and had to have a tetanus shot.

One fateful weekend we arrived at our campsite near Lake Fryer after dark and had to set up the tent by flashlight. I called dibs on the top bunk of the double decker cot and after we all made trips to the communal outhouse we retired for the evening. Sometime in the wee hours a fearsome storm blew in. A boom of thunder woke me. Bursts of lightning flashed outside the Hall-iday Inn. Then a gust of wind forced it’s way beneath our tent and blew us over and over and over. I screamed like Shelley Winters in the “Poseidon Adventure.” Mom told me to shut up.

Once the tent stopped rolling we took stock of our physical well being. Mom and Dad were fine. My younger brothers were accounted for, and I was ok, but embarrassed by my histrionics of the previous few minutes as we went tumbling toward the lake. We couldn’t find the zippered entrance to the tent, but Dad had his pocket knife. My brothers begged him tearfully not to cut the tent, but that seemed to be our only recourse to escaping from that collapsed canvas of doom.

Fortunately we had friends camping nearby who came to our rescue and took us in for the night. As I recall that ended our camping obsession, and we went back to being a normal family. I never could have admitted to my dad how much I enjoyed those camping trips. Those really were the last times that the five of us vacationed as a family. Those were the days before I met Studly, before any of us thought too much about the changes that were upon us. I hope I told Daddy “thank you” at some point for bringing us together in that tent in the summer of 1974.

Peace, People.

Happy Birthday to Me

Today I am 58 years old. I’d like to think I still look good for my age, but I know the years are beginning to etch themselves into my face line by fine line. I’m really okay with that. I’m alive, happy, and healthy. I have a terrific husband, two incredible children, a daughter-in-love and a son-in-love, and five absolutely brilliant grandchildren who obviously take after their Nana.

About birthdays: On one hand we have the joyful celebration of a life lived for one more year, an act of death defiance at any age, but as we grow older we are more aware of that truth. On the other hand we have the memories of birthdays past, often a bittersweet blend of wonder and loss.

Several of my birthdays stand out in my mind. Here’s one. The day before my 12th birthday, Mom picked me up at school. She was waiting for me as I came down the steps at R.C. Andrews elementary. She was smiling, but it was a sad smile and she told me that Pappy, my great grandfather, had passed away that morning. Of course being the dramatically selfish little sixth grader I was, my thoughts immediately went to my carefully planned birthday slumber party that would need to be cancelled. I cried, but for all the wrong reasons.

The weekend was spent at my Nannie and Grandaddy’s house with grownups speaking in hushed tones while a seemingly infinite number of casseroles arrived to feed us. My birthday was forgotten. On Monday afternoon I returned home from school to find Mom there already. She immediately sent me to Nannie’s home to pick up something that Mom had left there. I grouched to myself all the way to Nannie’s on my bicycle and all the way back.

“What am I, a servant?”

“Who does she think she is, anyway?”

“No one cares about me anymore. No one even wished me happy birthday.”

“If I died they’d all feel sorry.”

I probably said “damn” and then felt guilty about it.

When I walked in my back door with the spoon, or potholder, or apron that I’d been sent to fetch it struck me that the house was curiously quiet. Then I heard, “Surprise!” as I entered the kitchen.

Mom had gathered my closest friends for a party. She’d taken off from work that afternoon, baked a cake, and decorated the kitchen in my honor. It’s still one of my fondest memories. In the midst of her own sorrow, Mom knew how much I needed attention. I miss her every day, but especially today.

Peace, People!

Walking Farts

Please excuse the title, but I’m all about truth in advertising. Most of the time, anyway.

About 15 years ago Studly and I took a big motorcycle trip with our good friends Guy and Janice. When I say big, I mean we rode from Great Bend, Kansas, to points in South Dakota and Wyoming including Sturgis, Mt. Rushmore, and Devils Tower of “Close Encounters” fame. it was my first major ride on my own bike, a 650 Yamaha V-Star. The V-Star was an absolutely beautiful cruiser with next to no horsepower. Keeping it at 65 mph took constant effort. I was fairly miserable for much of the trip–a combination of first ride nerves and no oomph.

The ride, though, was incredible after we escaped from the wind tunnels commonly known as Kansas and Nebraska. Once in South Dakota we rode through a cluster of wild burros in Custer State Park. Had I the inclination and temerity I might have reached out a tentative toe and nudged a buffalo in the park, as well. I was that close. It was that scary. We came within five feet of the Bighorn Sheep that were clinging tenaciously to the mountainside. This indoor girl experienced wildlife overload. Perhaps that accounts for the buildup of abdominal gas I experienced, as well.

We didn’t have reservations at the lodge in the state park, but we decided to stop by and see if there were any vacancies. The setting was breathtaking, and I kept my throttle fingers crossed as we pulled into the parking area. Sure enough, they had a suite available consisting of two bedrooms with a shared, “Jack and Jill” style bathroom. It wasn’t ideal, but we were all saddle sore from the day’s ride and decided we could share the facilities for one night.

We dined on steaks and baked potatoes that evening in the massive common room featuring a soaring ceiling and chandeliers fashioned from antlers. Then we took a walk outside to take in the wonder of the park. That’s when an embarrassing case of the walking farts set in. Every step I took resulted in a “pfffft,” a “thhhhhht,” or a “vvvvvv!” at full volume. At first we all tried ignoring the sounds emanating from my behind, then someone snorted a laugh and all bets were off.

I tried to rein in my flatulence, but the harder I tried the worse it got. Finally we decided to return to our rooms. My walk back to the inn sounded like, “step, pffft, step, pffft, step, pffft!” I could have generated power for a small city.

In the middle of that night I felt like I could dispense with some of that pent up gas, but we had a shared bathroom and I didn’t want to impose the sounds and potential smells of my relief on anyone else, so I dressed and went to the lobby bathroom. Ahhhh. Redemption.

The next morning as we gathered for breakfast I related the tale of my midnight expedition to Studly and our friends, only to learn that each member of our group had done the same thing. Apparently, friends don’t subject friends to smelly bathrooms.

Peace, People!