Month: February 2012

You’re Killing Me, Smalls

In the last year, we’ve all had to get accustomed to undersized everything.  Boxes of cereal and crackers that look the same on the outside, but are only half full on the inside.  Bags of chips that are bags of air.  Ice cream cartons that you can polish off in a night.  Big bags of dog food with less in it, coffee in NEW packaging that is nothing but a smaller can.

Though I don’t like any of the above, and the clever manufacturing that is supposed to make us believe we’re getting the same product, what really YANKS MY CHAIN is the size of a roll of toilet paper.  Those things are so puny we’re going through them faster than the Edy’s.  They don’t make small rolls of toilet paper any more because the small is now called a LARGE, and it is anything BUTT.   I couldn’t resist.  I usually buy the mega rolls, which is really a large, but a family size pack of those can run you well over $10.00.  For toilet paper???  Really?

Day by day, grocery run by grocery run, we’re getting taken by The Man.  And who the heck would allow this fancy shmancy business to be done on a roll of toilet paper, thus wasting precious squares?  Not in my crib with new rules regarding excessive use of toilet paper.

Austerity’s a bitch………just ask Greece.

15K

I have always been writing ahead on this blog, so I keep my reserves up.  This weekend was not a writing weekend.  I don’t know what it was except that I’ve had a screaming sinus headache for two days.  They’re remodeling my fave Target store, and even with said headache, I went to look at the uber-cute shoes that were in their ad.  Which I could not find anywhere.  It took me ten minutes just to find the shoe department and after all that, the shoes weren’t there, along with any employees in red to help the “guests.”  Half the stuff on my list I couldn’t find, and that Jason Wu stuff?  Forgetaboutit.  Picked over like crows on a carcass.

So I’ve got nothing to offer.  Not even cute shoes.  Just a date with a bottle of Nyquil.

But………..this weekend I passed the 15,000 mark on hits to A Speckled Trout.  (For a perspective, Pinterest gets 11,000,000 a week.)  Anyhow, somebody’s feeling like a winner, and when that moonshine kicks in, I’m gonna pass out for the night then rise like Jesus on Easter morn, gel my mullet, iron my tie-dye and write with a purpose. 

I quite possibly could have the skills to win a major award. 

It’s Time

There’s been a whole lot of splits in Tinseltown in the last year.  Let’s see, there was……………

Arnold & Marie
JLo & Mark
Heidi & Seal
Demi & Ashton
Eva & Tony
David & Tea
Russell & Katy
David & Courtney
Sean & Robin
Jesse & Sandra
Camille & Kelsey

To name a few.  At some point or another, every one of those spouses has been asked in an interview how they’ve managed to stay happily married, and whatever wisdom they imparted had the potential of being on the cover of People magazine.  As if they can figure it out any more than the rest of us.

In this morning’s paper, there was an obituary for a man named Nathaniel who was described as having a successful antique business, was genuine, sincere, funny, wise, and who transcended social and economic barriers.  He lived by the belief that “everyone’s life journey was a quest for self-improvement.”  He is survived by his mother, brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews.

Also surviving was his partner of 43 years, Donald, and that’s where I found sanctity.

Acting 101

My acting gig as a Standardized Patient ended Monday with the last round of medical students.  Over four afternoons, I had 24 abdominal exams as well as having my heart and lungs checked each time.  There was a lot of heavy breathing/hyperventilating on my part, and I never did a header off the table even though it made me woozyish.

I was a 45 year-old English professor, married with no kids, who liked to camp and hike with my husband when the weather was good.  And a high functioning alcoholic.  That’s the tricky part for the kids.  Nearly every student asked me something that wasn’t covered in training such as:

So where do you like to camp?  Haven’t been in forty years.

Who’s your favorite poet?  Dr. Seuss.

What’s your husband do?  Make me crazy.

You said you eat out a lot.  Where do you go?  Culver’s with a coupon.

How often do you and your husband have sex?  What?????

What kind of English do you teach?  Blogger English. 

It was a lying fest for four days and more than one student told me I played a good, cagey alcoholic.  Why, thank you.  After they did the exam and asked a meeeeeellion things about my fake life, they went in the hall while I answered some questions on the computer about what they did or did not do.  When that was done, I called them back in, introduced myself and we talked about how it went.

I met students who were English and philosophy undergrads, a paramedic, a writer, a former teacher in one rough part of Chicago, a Giants fan, and a diabetic.  Without exception they want to get better, and are willing to get input and advice from somebody they just met on how to make that happen.

I can’t say it was easy, but I can say it was interesting, enlightening, and encouraging.  Oh, and a few years down the road, we’ll be in very good hands.

This Too Shall Pass

 It’s been a busy week.  This is a piece I wrote a few years ago when illness struck………….

I have wondered for a long time if I am one of the millions of people who suffer a mental illness.  In a magazine article about obsessive-compulsive disorder, I matched three of the five signs, and told The Big Daddy that I might be in need of some professional help.  “Nahhhh”, he said.  “I’m pretty sure your crazy meter is in the normal range.”

On an early morning while drinking coffee, I read in the newspaper that Jackie Chan suffered a back injury while filming a movie, and then immediately got a stabbing pain in my left side.  Wow, I just need to read about someone else’s pain and I start hurting. I wasn’t sure what category of mental disorders that fell into, but I made note of it and got some ibuprofen.  A few hours later I was in the emergency room, hooked up to an i.v. and diagnosed with a kidney stone.  I was sent home with instructions to drink gallons of water per day and pee into a strainer.  If all went well, my stone would come out or break apart on its own and I would be fine.  If all didn’t go well, I would need surgery.  With my new best friend, Vicodin, I nursed my little rock and told The Big Daddy when he called to check on me, “I’m after me lucky charm.”  Only slurred.

For three weeks I drank and peed, with nothing to show for it but another appointment with the urologist.  I wasn’t feeling much better, and was resigned to the fact that I would have to have surgery.  Initially, a resident came in and asked me how I was doing.  “Oh, I’m still having quite a bit of pain.”   “Left side flank pain?” he asked.  “Yes, yes, that’s it,” I said.  I don’t even know where the flank of me is.  “Well,” he said, “that’s interesting because we don’t see any sign of the stone on the x-ray.  I’m going to talk to the doctor and we’ll try to figure out what to do next.”  It was at that moment that I believe Jesus healed me, because as soon as he said they couldn’t find the stone, I felt much better.  Maybe I shouldn’t have been so loosey-goosey with the Vicodin and paid more attention to what was landing in the strainer.

Eventually, Dr. Ologist came in the room and I flashed him a big healthy smile and assured him that my pain would probably subside soon..  Like as soon as I got to the parking garage.  He seemed concerned and told me that I could call him at any time should things change.  The Big Daddy watched this interchange, and the look on his face convinced me that he now understood that I was nuts.  I didn’t need to schedule another scan or appointment.  I only needed someone to suggest that I was well, and lo and behold, I was cured.

I am back to my old self, but I have to wonder whatever happened to that stone.  Maybe a piece of it broke off and is lodged near my aorta, and I need to start making plans for the afterlife.

Or maybe I’m straddling a wall of crazy.  

Johnny

When The Boy child was in high school, we arm twisted him into trying out for cross-country.   Practice was rough going, and every day when I picked him up he would hobble to the car.  A month later the weekly meets started, which are bright and early on Saturday mornings.  The Big Daddy and I had to get up and at ’em to make it on time and that meant coffee.  Lots of coffee.

I was at one such meet when all that java started taking effect and I needed to use the port-a-potty.  No sooner had I gotten there when a group of runners had the same idea, and I let them use it ahead of me so they wouldn’t miss their start.  Just as it was my turn, a truck pulled up and an older guy got out and said, “Folks, gotta clean her up so you’ll have to hold it for a few minutes.”  By then there was about a dozen of us waiting, and we watched him unwind a huge hose from the side of his truck that he stuck down the hole of the port-a-potty to suck the waste out and into a tank on the truck.  He wiped things down with a rag and a spray bottle, swept the floor, restocked the toilet paper, and hung an air freshener.  All the while, he never stopped whistling.  When he was done, he waved his arm toward the door, did a little bow and said, “Ladies and gents, I give you a clean Johnny.” 

We all stood there dumb-founded until the guy behind me broke the silence and said, “I’m never going to complain about my job again.”

Truer words never spoken.

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