Diminish Your Pain

     Burning. Aching. Throbbing. Stabbing. Shooting.

     These were the options I had to describe my pain to the doctor, and I had to do it by placing a simple and non-descript ‘x’ in the box next to the word…..

      And it was none of the above. And there was no option for a ‘write in’.

      I have a really hard time with the standardized pain classification, because not only is pain so difficult to describe in the first place, but because reducing definition possibilities to a limited few words is so frustrating. Is this a survey, or are we talking about me? Why the doctors have to bind our pain into little sectors of hurt, has always irked me…because checking a box doesn’t do my reason for being there any justice.

     I suppose it’s an easy way for them to classify pain, (and to avoid the endless nonsense that flows from pondering crackpots like myself), but what if your pain doesn’t fit into their oversimplification? What if it’s an entirely new sort of pain….a type of agony that there are no words for? What if it’s not really pain at all but just an extreme and unbearable irritation?

      I usually ponder the question on the way to any doc when I know that I will be asked to define my problem with a mere flick of the wrist. I want to be sure of my answer because what if I say one thing and it leads the doc to the wrong conclusion? Maybe my idea of stabbing is more like a shooting feeling. How can I be sure? And isn’t throbbing a lot like aching to begin with? But yesterday when I was presented with the question, I hadn’t thought about it…I hadn’t prepared. So, I couldn’t answer….

      So then I was asked if I was familiar with the ‘Pain Scale’….you know, the ‘on a scale from 1 to 10, 10 being the most pain you could ever imagine…’ scale.  That gets me all flustered too. I don’t want to give the wrong answer and I usually have no idea what level I am, other than not a ‘1’ and not a ‘10’. Besides, between 1 and 10, there are too many choices. What happens if I think I’m a 8, but I really am a 6, but I don’t realize that until I’ve been to 9 and can compare to the original 8…?  Geez!  Frankly, I wouldn’t be there in the first place if I thought a little Advil would do the trick, so isn't just ‘bad enough’ good enough?  If I’m there, it probably hurts, and if simplification is what they’re looking for, they can measure the pain using my categories of  ‘A Little,  ‘A Lot’  or ‘ Give Me Something That Knocks Me Out.”

      Usually, when I’m in the doctor’s office for some sort of major discomfort, I always try to engage in a preamble to avoid filling out the questionnaire at all. The poor doctor sits there, eyes blurring over, mind thinking about the last round of golf, as I try to describe the feeling I am having. And as several minutes go by, and the glazed doctor finally interrupts me, I wonder why I just didn’t play by the rules and check the bloody box. But I can’t. It’s not fair to my body and it does not help the doctor with a proper diagnosis. So, I sit there, using my hands and best facial expressions in my attempt to draw an accurate picture of my situation. And even though I’ve practiced the speech and thought long and hard about it on the drive over, I still cannot seem to accurately describe the situation.

  

“Well, it’s this weird feeling…..like a ache, with some throb to it. It’s consistently intermittent. It’s acutely chronic. It’s hot and cold…..It’s kind of here, but sometimes there….It just hurts!”

     Hell, I am never satisfied with my descriptions. And the doctors end up just overwhelmed and more confused than if I had just put an ‘x’ beside ‘ACHING’ and called it good.

      I think it’s because pain is so individualized that we have such a hard time generalizing it into tiny, controlled categories. And notice that unless you’re actually feeling it at that precise moment, the description of that feeling is as elusive as the actual feeling itself? “It felt” is a lot harder to master than “it feels”. It’s a type of memory that has no grip in our brains. We can remember what our mother’s kitchen smelled like when we were kids and how joyful we were swimming in the lake that one summer, but we can’t seem to remember details of pain. We remember it hurt, but we can’t recall the actual agony. A lovely feature of the design, I must say. Who’d want to walk around re-living the sensation of that dislocated shoulder or chin laceration. And I suppose if we could remember, the world would be a much smaller place…..and maybe the species wouldn’t have ‘thrived’ to the bursting point ….since what women in their right mind would have more than one baby if they could remember the hell they went through while in labor with the first one! That would be the ultimate birth control; Pangs of Pain, or Cramps of Recollection.

I know. I’m the biggest pain: A pain in the ass.

And next time I have to go to the doctor, I’ll just bring a thesaurus.

Drained

     The evening had been lovely. The kids had been at a movie, we had been at dinner and everyone seemed calm and relaxed. Coming into the house, I thought that I might be able to pour myself into bed without the usual dramatic interlude, and I began to walk up the stairs. Coasting on the ease of the night, I guessed the others would follow, but I had made it up just one step, when my daughter’s voice pierced through the harmony and she bellowed,

     “Mom! He’s peeing off the porch! Right here! Right where I do cartwheels! Gross! Mom!”

      Sigh.

      Heading back down, I looked outside to see my son with his back to me in what appeared to be a casual posture. His legs were somewhat spread, with his hands loosely in front of him, and he was looking up ever so slightly. No way, I actually thought…maybe he’s just checking out that cool gibbous moon. I knew however, that my daughter was right, that this was the ‘pee stance’. He had mentioned that he had to ‘go’ during the drive home and I found it amusing that not only had he resisted the urge at the movie theatre, but that he had wasted so much energy, effort and opportunity just to pee once he finally did get home. After getting out of the car, he first entered the house and ran down the long hallway past two perfectly working bathrooms. He navigated around the corner, through the kitchen, and he unlocked the kitchen door. He then turned on the exterior light and exited the house, walking to the edge of the deck, before finally relieving himself on the lawn…right in front of the deck….where my daughter does her cartwheels. What? There were several opportunities to ‘lighten up’ before the deck, but he determinately searched out this spot….with intent….with verve….like a dog. I wouldn’t be surprised if he even circled around a few times first.

     All of them do it–the boys-at all ages…and it’s puzzled me for a while. Is it a subconscious (or maybe conscious) desire for males to mark territory, or is it just something they do because they can? Maybe it’s like a special club that the guys are so excited to be part of, knowing that they are the only ones admitted. Knowing that they don’t have even have to put up a ‘Boy’s Only’ sign because unless you have a willy, you won’t be shooting pee off the deck anytime soon. And like in any club, they make up names for the central icon and theme of their secret society. They call the worshiped appendage pet names such as Trouser Trout, The Colonel, One Eyed-Fred and Junior, and they practice their craft often...establishing euphemisms to describe the action of simply peeing. Like Taking a Leak, Draining the Lizard, and yes, Watering the Trees. People have tried to make it easier for girls to join the club….as with the invention of the ‘Funnel’ and ‘P-Mate’ (those are so weird)….but that still doesn’t afford us the hose–like quality necessary for aim accuracy and design capacity. So, I expect it is because of our limitations, that we have so many fewer names for simply going to the bathroom….

     At any rate, before I could respond to my daughter’s frustrated and disgusted plea for help, my husband chimes in from down at the end of the hall….

     ”Hey Bud, I’ve told you that you have to do that to the left of the pillar….the left…"

      The left of the pillar? Are there actual rules to this potty club now? They are more organized than I thought. I wonder if there even exists certain trees that have some invisibly coded detail on them to distinguish them as outlets….. My husband does tend to use the same tree often. Humm.

     It really just is an attractive nuisance, that ding-dong.  Boys can’t stop thinking about it or playing with it, so it’s no wonder they make up games with it too. And maybe I don’t understand the need to pee outside since it’s not really that much fun for me. Thinking about it, I can imagine it would be kind of entertaining to be able to carve designs in the dirt, and I bet it feels pretty powerful to have the ability to just unload anytime, through a small opening in your trousers, in any location. And to be able to write your name in the snow with pee? Whoa. How creative. We boring eliminators however, have to work at getting rid of our fluids when no commode can be found. It’s an effort, although we are happy with the trade-off, knowing that we don’t have to stash, gather or adjust anything when we’re done. But still, using the ground as a ladies’ room requires methodology. First, we have to pull our entire lower body clothing down, and collect it neatly around our ankles. We then scrunch it all up and pull it out as far as the fabric will allow in order to avoid dribbles from the impending unpredictable flow. And being that we are hobbled with our own clothing, the width of our stance is limited to about 16 inches, which is at times not wide enough to ensure a proper dry result. Nevertheless, we do our best and observe as the flow splashes onto the ground, adjusting and readjusting our foot positions…moving into a nice balletic second position…so that we avoid as much ‘tinkle sprinkle’ as possible. All this, and I haven’t even mentioned the incredible quadriceps strength that is essential for a stable and secure result!

     No, I do not suffer from the patriarchal and Freudian-conceived concept of ‘penis-envy’. Instead, I merely sometimes experience ‘pee-pee envy’. Woman can’t make designs in the snow, and we surely can’t hit targets on trees. We’re in essence, just lucky if we can avoid dousing our shoes. But, alas, I accept this as one of the few female limitations, and endure. I kind of like my little piddle puddles anyway.

     And just in case you’re wondering, I did not reprimand my son. How could I? He’s part of a team. He’s in the club. As a result, I simply turned around to head back upstairs. But as I approached the stairwell, I stopped for a second. Casually, I looked over my shoulder and with the slightest of smiles I cheerfully called out “To the left of the pillar, Honey….to the left…”

           

I Can’t Even Hear Myself Think!

     I love silence…I think...because I wonder if it even really exists. Unless you’re in a sound proof booth there always seems to be some level of noise saturating our lives. I rate it, not by decibels, but by level of distractions….

      I call it the Distraction Degree, or Agitation Factor and I measure it on the Frenzy Scale.

     A Level One distraction is the non-silent silence we experience from just sitting quietly. It includes the purring of the refrigerator, the rustling of the leaves, the water sloshing in your ears. Level Two consists of the truck zooming down the highway, the airplane overhead or the backhoe digging out your neighbor’s pond. Level Three however, is the extra noise that layers itself onto Levels One and Two. It’s the extra loud poorly equalized music that is blaring out of your son’s computer, it’s the incessant TV chatter in the living room, and it’s your spouse repetitively yelling for your attention because they can’t find their sunglasses and they just know that you must have moved them somewhere….

     My daughter thinks I’m ‘weird’ because I like quiet. I’m happy with Level One and Two. She thinks it’s funny that I like the slow songs she plays better than the incoherent ‘turbo-beat’ ones because I think they mimic the silence more effectively. (Really, I just think most of the music of today is bunk). She thinks my need for quiet is ‘so old fashioned’….And really it is, because these days, stillness or “a kind of hush all over the world” is rare.

     There are hardly ever situations where there is no music, no phone, no T.V., no background noise. It is persistent and it is consistent and it is very different from how I grew up. Until I was a teenager, there were no personal computers (never mind laptops), and even electric typewriters were rare. We had one telephone in the house that was originally on a party line system, shared with three other houses. The big black thing was centered in the middle of the house, where most of the action took place, and if you were lucky, one of those fancy long twisty cords was attached, so that you could hide in the closet and speak in the darkness in partial privacy. There was no such thing as a cordless phone and the idea of a 3-inch portable phone that could call worldwide would have been ridiculed.

     We owned one television, and if we strategically positioned the tinfoil bandaged rabbit ears just right, we’d get 6 fuzzy channels…..which you had to go to the unit to change….and which switched to either colored test pattern bars or black and white static ‘snow’ when the station signed off at about midnight. As for music, that was something you’d hear if you tuned the dial carefully to some crackly radio station, or placed a record needle softly and vigilantly on the 45 or 33 1/3 polyvinyl chloride disks we called records. We’d sit around that record player because only on special occasions (like New Years Eve parties) was it craftily connected to large speakers so that we could hear music throughout the house. Headphones were available, but they were expensive and cumbersome with each ear covering being about the size and weight of a 1/3 pound double cheese burger…with all the trimmings. And an earbud? That was either a protruding skin disorder on your ear or a friend who listened to your problems…. Those Level Three sounds (other than the spouse bellowing) were less frequent and less noisy. We had to look for them. We had to make them happen.

     Today however, we can be exposed to those extra sounds at any moment…and often. Whether satellite radio, 24-hour television, music oozing earbuds (a blessing sometimes), portable computers, or free roaming telephones, the sounds are everywhere. Very rarely will you go somewhere where there are none of those distractions present. Not at home, not at a doctor’s office, not in your car, not at a restaurant, not even on a wilderness hike. The Agitation Factor can be high. The Frenzy Scale points to maximum a lot.

     Yet my daughter can do her algebra homework, listen to her iPod, talk on speaker phone to her friend (claiming it’s about math) and eat a sandwich all at the same time….in the kitchen….while my husband and I are talking and banging dishes around! And she is an A student. Her brain has been wired to accept and actually embrace the noise, while mine is continuing to adjust. She can multi-distract while I can only multi-task. I’m not sure this generation could actually operate without it – the ruckus - and as it increases with each generation, I’m frankly concerned that I won’t even be able to have a conversation with my grandchildren. Will there be a Level Four for heaven’s sake?

     I need complete quiet and no commotion in order to do any thinking (or writing) in a productive or useful manner, and in this crazed society, it’s often hard to find. Isn’t it wrong that I have to consciously and purposefully search out quiet time? That I have to ask for it? Demand it? I like to be able to choose when and where I’m exposed to the chatter, but instead, the world today dictates that for me. There are few places where I am truly in control of it. Isn’t this how people are brainwashed - with incessant stimulation and no calm? There is rarely time without our thoughts being affected or deflected by external yammer. The redundant noise carving ruts in our brain.... so that we are nothing but regurgitating talking heads with no original thought…..

     Don’t get me wrong; I savor listening to and learning from the abundance of information out there, including discussions and sometimes nonsense on the T.V. I even enjoy loud music. Just not all the time. Just when I choose the time. Plus, I think adding a little silence to the mix can breed profound thought, better understanding and soul level peace. I like that ‘hush’ and I am comfortable with my silence - with just myself to tune in to. And after I get those several moments of serenity under my belt, I feel less ruffled even when the Frenzy Scale is tipped for a while at a time.

     So, I search out the silence daily. And I draw in the quiet.

     Now if I could only get those damned voices in my head to quiet down…..

All Wrapped Up

      I am plagued by excessive packaging. It seems to overwhelm so many things that I buy, whether a cheese slicer, a Rubik’s Cube or, my latest frustration, a pair of scissors. It's detrimental for the environment, it's completely unnecessary, and it's, quite frankly, ugly.  It is quite possibly the biggest pet peeve of my life.

      I hate it. The casing. The pathetically inflexible molded ¼ inch thick plastic which just completely envelops devices, gadgets, tools and toys. The edges are almost always melted together to create this bumpy distorted circumference, and that must be to prevent any sort of package disturbance, which god-forbid could lead to product assault…. And this shield is usually so dense and unyielding that any possibility of a ‘feel’ of the actual item is eliminated. You can’t even push it in enough to get a fake feel….one with a layer of plastic sheeting between you and the coveted item. It’s like looking at the ocean through a window; it may look great, but how would you know what it's really like, unless you go in - unless you feel it? Heck, it could be freezing or have stinging jellyfish in it for all you know.

     It’s so frustrating. Doesn’t the manufacturer know that people like to touch? I want to feel that shiny thing and make sure that its textured surface doesn’t irritate me in some way. I want to know for certain that I can slice my cheddar effectively and with ease of wrist. Maybe I even want to see it in action; a demonstration perhaps (which explains the popularity of Ginsu). What is the market research team thinking? Don’t they know basic cognitive psychology? And frankly, I don’t care if someone else has stroked my slicer or scissors before I have. They’re not underwear for god’s sake….which are, by the way, hanging stretched out on display hangers without a buffer anywhere....usually right in the middle of the store! Explain the logic in that. Why are cheese slicers and scissors more revered than undies? In any case, there seems to be a necessity to conceal the truth of some products, and we are forced to make decisions based on limited resources. We must rely solely on our visual interpretation.

     So I make my uninformed purchase, and after I get the thing home, I proceed toward the unveiling. I’m afraid of this part. This part I know will send me into a rage where I ultimately start swearing in every language I know, whilst I throw the thing against walls, onto the floor….sometimes into the garbage. It’s a tantrum, and I’m angry with everyone; the product’s company for coming up with this environmentally unconscious ninny idea, the store manager for stocking the product, and the government for not mandating against it. I want to convey my exasperation to someone, but I don’t know whom to contact, so I just stomp and throw things around like a spoiled child.

     Before it gets that ugly though, I usually attempt to rip open the package…with just my bare hands. Am I really that overconfident that I think I can make a difference in the constitution of this freaky packaging with no assistance from a tool? Talk about a super-hero complex. Predictably, I fail - only to be left with scratched hands and increased aggravation. So then I try a knife….or scissors, strategically looking for the best location to stab the beast. I usually choose a bulging curve, where it appears vulnerable, but I underestimate the strength of the exorbitant housing, and can merely pierce the area with the tip of my tool. At this point, you would think that a big slice would be possible, but my knife doesn’t budge. And my scissors don’t do a damn thing…which is why I’m trying to open a package of new scissors in the first place!

     It’s a war with the wrapper, and I’m initially the defeated. I’m the one with the bloodied hands and flaring temper, and that perfectly molded impression has barely even been bent out of shape. Nevertheless, my determination takes over and after several attempts, a lot of energy (tantrum) and a myriad of tools, I manage to infiltrate the package with a hole large enough for me to get a few fingers in. Tearing at the hole, my hands continue to take abuse until I can squeeze the item out far enough to hold that attacking plastic in an open and weakened position. I can then usually grab some pliers or something that will help strip the rest of the uncooperative container off. I have liberated my scissors, my kids Rubik’s Cube, or my cheese slicer. Hope they work well. How ridiculous.

    As bad as it still is, I must admit that I have noticed a bit more consciousness lately on behalf of the packaging evildoers. Sometimes I get an item that only requires a screwdriver and wire cutters to free the product, and sometimes I even get packaging that claims to be biodegradable. Fantastic news for the environment, and possibly no more package combat for me. Now I can just throw whatever it is into the compost heap, and simply wait 2 years for the cellulose to dissolve…..

I Think, Therefore I Have Anxiety

     A designer knows he has achieved perfection not when there is nothing left to add, but when there is nothing left to take away. -Antoine de Saint-Exbupery-

     Someone sent me video footage of a report done on the detriments of compact fluorescents. A great Canadian study on these bulbs and environmental disorders, including skin diseases and migraines, showed that even limited exposure can lead to deteriorating and poor health in many people. Sigh. What am I supposed to do now? It was a comprehensive study….truly objective and with no governmental allegiances…..very Canadian. So being that I am a thinking and analytical person, I consider this current research, and wonder whether to trust in it, or go along with the previous opinion? Do I take care of the environment or do I take care of my family’s health? Which is more important? Sophie’s choice…… You know someone’s going to be unhappy with my final answer.

  

     Eventually, after previously spending hours changing bulbs to compact fluorescents, I decide to meet everyone halfway (after all I am Canadian….it’s what we do), and I replace some replaced bulbs, changing a handful of the fluorescent to incandescent….only in the lamps that I or my family would possibly sit under, beside or near. After studying, ciphering and projecting the time spent by each lamp in the house, I’m pooped…just from the decision process. And should the closets in my kids’ room be incandescent or fluorescent? They don’t spend that much time in there, but then my daughter was complaining of itchy bumps on her hand the other day….and my son has been a little cranky lately…..

  

     The problem I see, is that as per usual, we were looking for a little ‘band-aid’ for the big booboo….our energy addiction. Instead of recklessly restoring our failed path, maybe we shouldn’t even be on that path, and should instead be on a completely different one. Heck, maybe we shouldn’t even be on a path at all. Maybe we should just stop, think….really think, and come up with a well thought out, researched and completely new solution, before heading willy-nilly into another unknown abyss. Instead of amending the broken model, maybe we could just find a new one. Maybe we could just simply turn out the bloody light.

  

     Replacing our bad habits with alternative bad habits, fits into the instant gratification, immediate-solution-needing society that we live in, but isn’t it just adding to the chaos? The most perfect example of this is the epidemic use of plastic bags which were originally intended to replace forest-harming paper bags….which were supposed to replace inconvenient reusable bags. Without any foresight, the horrible petroleum-sucking sacks were promoted like crazy, no one taking into consideration their effect on the environment. The typical arrogant ‘The Earth is Mine!” mentality. Now, they scatter our planet in the most horrendous way, killing animals, clogging waterways, and burning through billions of barrels of oil in the process. And the whole recycle thing became a huge crucial movement…but as hard as we tried, we realized that this patch-up solution was actually costing a lot of money too and that we were not really recycling but downcycling… just delaying the inevitable. Whew. Now, here we are finally thinking that maybe we don’t need a disposable alternative at all, and are promoting reusable bags. It took us this long to figure out that if we had all just stuck with our own bags like the ones we had in the first place, we’d save money and the environment too. One step forward, two steps back. Retrograde amnesia. Bass-ackwards. We’re a tragic comedy.

     It’s that ‘improvement mentality’ that some say makes this species so great, but sometimes ironically leads us further away from the best answer. Isn’t the best answer usually the first one you think of? (I was always told not to second guess my answers in multiple-choice tests….) Yet it is a given that as humans we’re continuously second guessing ourselves. Nothing is ever good enough, so we strive for something improved. Better. Bigger. Faster. Stronger. Other. Generally it’s a success, but sometimes I think that we have just piled more problems on top of the original problem, so that we are trying to remedy the remedy. We’re just trying to stay afloat rather than sailing at a steady pace. Can somebody just ask for a re-do? And what was wrong with candlelight anyway?

     As Nietzsche said, we can reason ourselves into or out of anything – at all costs…and he saw it as a disease. Not that I think Nietzsche had the answer to our condition, (the human condition), but I do think he made a good point. Through our progressive reasoning abilities, we have traveled so very far from our innate and visceral needs, that we are never satisfied and often conflicted. We are humans, and we are neither purely animal nor are we solely sensibly rational. We are both…and we are confused and out of balance. We either justify our inherent behavior or, many times what we think is inherent is actually a learned reaction.  Common Sense. We reason our instinct, when our instinct could already be reason. Humm. We are off our instinctual block.

So, are we evolving or revolving? (I know my head is spinning)

      It appears then, that my condition is the cause for my confusion. I don’t know what to do about the light bulbs because I haven’t analyzed the hell out of it yet….and we haven’t determined which side has the best logic. Instinctively, I need a little light (to carry out the rational events of our manufactured lives), but I’m conflicted with which form to use because I haven’t reasoned enough yet. I have analysis paralysis. Think it’s back to the candles for me. Thank goodness I have so many.

     And please, while were waiting for the bulb results to come in, can someone analyze whatever it is that’s in ‘Static Guard’? That’s a weird experience. Can’t imagine there’s anything in that stuff that’s good for either humans or the environment…..

I Dare Say

            Last Saturday was the town’s annual Old Bills Fun Run for Charities. Every year, most of the town gets together for a day that represents giving back to the community….a day of community philanthropy. There is a 5k race, a 10k race and a 2k fun-walk. There is free breakfast, live music, and happy dogs and people everywhere. It’s always the 2nd Saturday in September and there is always a t-shirt or cap given to donors. Each year the shirts are a different color with the number of years that the event has taken place printed on the bottom; My red shirt says Old Bills 8, my navy shirt says Old Bills 10, my yellow hat says Old Bills 12, etc. This year’s paraphernalia was different however. We still had shirts (turquoise this time) but instead of the annually increasing number imprinted on them, they had ‘Old Bills 2009’ displayed in its place. What? Since when did we list the year on our shirts? I want my annual number. Where’s the continuity in that? Who’s responsible for messing up the system? Then it hit me….this is the 13th Fun Run! Someone didn’t want to put the number 13 on the shirt! Either some committee member has a superstition or there was concern that participants might have superstitions. How crazy is that?!

Dictionary Definition: Superstition is a belief or notion, not based on reason or knowledge. The word is often used pejoratively to refer to beliefs deemed irrational.

     No reasonable basis. Irrational. Why then do so many people have these absurd beliefs? Who came up with this hooey?

         Thirteen is a great number. There are 13 moons in a solar year, there are 13 major joints on our bodies, 13 is the year you can finally call yourself a teenager, there were 13 original colonies in the US, and best of all, when you are 13 you can go to at PG-13 film without your parents lurking behind you. It’s just a little number, yet, there are groups of people who still consider 13 unlucky. Yes, I am aware of the theory that devilish people have been known to have 13 letters in their names: Charles Manson, Jack The Ripper, Theodore Bundy. But then there are other bad-guys who only have 10 or 11 letters in theirs: Adolf Hitler, Mao Tse-Tung, George W. Bush….

        And I know these phobic pholks must realize that when they stay on the 14th floor of a hotel that doesn’t list a 13th floor, they really are on that 13th floor.….(Unless, of course, there is a special entrance to Floor 13 for the wicked people… muwahahahaha!)

     Really, I am not superstitious. I dislike all cats, not just the black ones, I don’t have a rabbit’s foot hanging from my key chain, and the only reason I won’t walk under a ladder is because it’s bloody dangerous! (Geez, if the person above you drops something, it’ll go right on your head!) And breaking a mirror? The only bad luck I could see coming from that is that you wouldn’t be able to properly examine yourself before walking out of the house and the proverbial skirt stuck in the pantyhose thing could happen.

     I do one thing though, that is more just habit than superstition….I think…maybe OCD: I throw salt over my left shoulder after I spill it. It’s kind of silly, I know, but I do it, and I do it always. It’s not because I think the devil will make his move if I don’t, it’s just this laughable thing I’ve started that has now become custom. It’s not based on reason. It’s Irrational. It’s so unscientific of me! And the craziest thing about the salt myth is that when I am throwing salt to the rear, I am really just spilling more….now onto the floor! So to be effective with the spillage superstition solution, shouldn’t I then bend down, pick up that newly spilt salt and throw it over my shoulder again? And again....until the sprinkled salt is scattered all over the room and the only way to deal with it is to suck it up with the vacuum! Geez. How wearisome. I will never get anything done if I’m playing with salt all day. For that reason…..and just to be on the safe side, I’ve decided that I will not be using salt from here on out. It’s just too burdensome. So, they can cross their fingers, blow eyelashes and tug at wishbones all day long for I care, but on this family’s table, it’ll be basically paprika or nothing. 

“…a small speck of dust blowing past through the air.”

        My migraine was a gift today.

      At 5am with my head pounding, you wouldn’t think it would be, but as I wobbled down the stairs in search of one of the ingredients for my migraine remedy (a strong cup of coffee), I glanced out the window and was awestruck. The sky black as could be, was dotted with billions…no zillions of twinkling stars. It was an entirely breathtaking experience (or literally out-of-this-world), and I was compelled to plunk myself down and behold the wonder within that perfect silence. Maybe it was a drug-induced reaction from the Imitrex already kicking in, but I promise you, I felt like I was being pulled into that sky, away from my physical limitations and prevailing pain. I felt weightless, calm and very conscious…just me, undulating with the stars….and then I recognized that the silence actually had a buzzing sound to it. Strange. Definitely could have been the drugs. In any case, it was magnificent.

     But after seeing three shooting stars, that roving government satellite that is spying on me, and some flare thingy that appeared to be a comet, I came back to my current reality with the question of the day: How the hell did we become so unconcerned and disconnected from The Universe in our daily lives?

     We used to (or they used to) be attentive to the cosmos at all time; The Mayans, the Incans, the Egyptians… and it makes absolute sense. We are, after all, just a tiny component of the big picture and so to think that we are not affected or influenced by occurrences around us is just plainly narcissistic. We didn’t design this planet to begin with, and frankly we aren’t doing a great job of preserving it either. Still, there are countless people who are so self-absorbed and overconfident that they don’t, won’t or can’t acknowledge that fact.

     They just don’t know how to think outside the orb….

And just as Universal circumstances affect us, shouldn’t our planet’s circumstances also affect the Universe? If that is true, we have a bigger responsibility than was previously thought, because you know there absolutely has to be some rock somewhere else with intelligent life on it. We cannot be out here alone. Horton, can you hear us???

     In the end, I’m not saying that we should consult an astrologist prior to making any decisions or that we should design our cities and buildings with regard to the Universe’s elements. That cosmic attention would almost be ridiculous at this point since our “evolution” has effectively numbed us from that sort of consciousness anyway. (And by the way, please, do not start sacrificing children to the Sun God…I swear, he’s happy.). What I am suggesting though, is that we consider and contemplate our place in the grand design more often. Putting things in perspective….actual perspective, may make us rethink some of our petty situations, don’t you think? There’s a really good possibility Earth may just be a fragment of the backdrop, and I sense it would be beneficial for us to have respect for that…..and the ‘others’ who are somewhere out there.

     Besides, I’d really like to try to make a good impression.

     Who’s in?

I Just Wacked Idi Amin

       Just how bad do you have to be, to be reincarnated as a bug?

    

      Last night driving my daughter home from town, a bug hit the windshield with a thunk so violent that we both shouted “whoa!” at the same time. It even drowned out the radio. There was no hope for that bug. He wasn’t just wounded, with a broken wing or bent antennae but he was absolutely, positiviley dead…and plastered all over my windshield. I wondered: What the hell did that bug do to deserve that? And what exactly does a person have to do to be cause for them to come back as a bug?

     Let’s face it, it’s not the most coveted position in that ‘circle of life’ and if you believe in the survival of the fittest theory, I would say, the bug generally looses. Frankly, I have personally have never heard someone say “Boy, hope I come back to this earth as a bug!” (Fly on the wall maybe....) No, instead we swat them, spray poisons at them, stomp on them and curse them. Other things eat them. They make us squirm, scream and run. We avoid them at all costs and I assure you we’ll never hear “Gee, this would be a perfect day, if only a few more bugs were around.”

     And we use their name in such derogatory ways too, poor things. We say “ You’re really bugging me!” or “Bug off!” when there are other creatures out there that are just as annoying as the bug, but that we pretty much keep out of our repertoire of negative expressions. Like what about mice? They are definitely a bother, and can be downright destructive, but we don’t say, “You’re mousing me!” or “Mouse off!” And “You’re such a Gopher!” just doesn’t have the same effect either, does it?

     And don’t forget wiretapping or surveillance which we call ‘bugging’…. We all know there is no love or pleasantry associated with that procedure.

     So how did we all get so caught up in this bug bashing? Who started this conspiracy anyway? To be honest, I don’t really care because I would like to imagine that people that are reincarnated as bugs were those who were pretty repulsive in their former lives; Murderers, rapists, bad Presidents, disrespectful cheating husbands…you know. And why shouldn’t we let people believe that the bug they just whacked was really Saddam Hussein or the Nazi creep that shot their great-grandfather? People need to feel avenged and wouldn’t this be a great way to help people with anger and resentment issues? Think about how the level of harmony would bloom when people finally felt at peace, and all it took was a little fly swatter! Really, I think we should promote that concept, and encourage people to assign a name to the pulped pest in front of them. Then, we can move towards finally eliminating the death penalty once people start finding out how satisfying this new outlet can be. Let that sleazebag rot in prison until he dies a lonely death, then you can kill him yourself…with a flick of the wrist! Now that’s what I call cathartic. Karma not courts!

     I swear, that one last night on my windshield looked a lot like Idi Amin.

You Are What You Eat

     Today I will subject myself to one of the most intimate public experiences a person can go through. I am not going to the Gynecologist. I am not going to a Psychologist or Physical Therapist, and I am not getting a CAT scan either. I am going to the grocery store.

     It’s a big deal for me…the grocery outing…. and apparently this is why my cupboards look like they belong to Mother Hubbard and my fridge looks brand new. It’s not just because it’s a time consuming bore that costs a lot of money, but it’s just so personal. Really, you can discern a lot about a person and their grocery methods; Do they start in the produce section, frozen food section or do they shoot over to the pharmacy right from the get go? Do they stack their carts neatly with heavier items on the bottom, or does everything just get thrown in willy-nilly? And or course, do they browse the aisles slowly without a clear technique or do they hurriedly dart from item to item as if trying to win a timed treasure hunt? I’m a darter, simply because I completely despise the entire process.

     I have better things to do than read about the new and improved elbow macaroni that now have ridges, and the now softer un-bleached recycled toilet paper (without ridges, I presume). And what’s more, having people watch me read about that stuff and then witness my final decision makes me a little uneasy. That just leaves way too much open for misinterpretation or insight into my home life.

“Okay, so Lisel buys boxed rice….I wonder if she buys boxed cakes and pizza too? (she does) Maybe I’ll follow her over to the butcher block and see what, if anything, the girl cooks…”

     And ultimately, even if I’m as incognito as can be with a hat, dark glasses and an oversized sweater, I will run into someone I haven’t seen in ages, and I will have to stop and chat. The conversation is usually so generalized and impersonal, (due to the fact that neither one of us really wants to talk) that not much attention is required. Instead, each of us secretly surveys the other one’s cart and sizes up their life. It’s cart rubbernecking. It’s the grocery once-over. It’s vittle voyeurism.

“She feeds those sugary things to her kids!” “She didn’t buy organic milk…maybe that’s why her 10 year old boy has moobs…”

     Then, just when I think I’ve laid my whole life out for everyone to see, the worst is yet to come, because now I have to go to the check-out...in the front of the store…where people are congregating in globs. I always stand back and survey the situation for a moment before I commit to any one line, looking for the shortest line with the fastest, and least talkative checker. I know everyone is doing exactly the same thing too, because there is usually this chaotic access area before the actual lines; The area, not quite in the aisles, yet not quite in a line, where people are looking frantic, nervous, worn-out and under pressure. You see, the checkout selection is a process that takes skill, but by the time I get to this final challenge, I’ve been so overwhelmed and over-stimulated that I often make a poor decision. I’ll ultimately end up with the nice old man who just can’t seem to get his scanner to work, or with a person in front of me who suddenly stops putting stuff on the belt because they’re still trying to find dry-ice for the person ahead of her…. But the most miserable I’ll be is when I get stuck with a lady that likes to talk about everything she’s scanning. The lady that has no shame…and no ‘off’ switch. The lady that has no filter between the brain and the mouth, so that whatever she is thinking about your apples, your cereal or your bathroom products, she just says….in front of everyone…because the next person in line is merely separated by a small rubber divider and is listening to the entire banter.

“Oh, didn’t know they have an improved version of that toilet paper! That last stuff just scratched up my bum….”

Bad enough, she’s touching the food and goods that divulge a lot about my family and me, but to force me into discussion about them is just not something I’m really that keen on. Generally, I tend to both ignore the comments and pretend to be having problems with the credit card machine, but sometimes I’ll do something ridiculous, out of my self-consciousness, to try to make the situation bearable.

“You sure eat a lot of beans! Making Chili?” I was once asked. Flustered, I just shook my head, started pumping my fist into the air, and began singing enthusiastically “Beans, beans, the magical fruit…..!.”

Not one of my finest moments.

Who knows what I’ll do today. Think it’s time for either tranquilizers or a personal shopper.

Eau de Nostalgie

      Do you remember flashcubes? Pet rocks? Party lines? Smoking on planes(!)? Those were the days.

     My son takes guitar lessons in the low basement of his teacher’s house.  Dropping him off the other day, I bent over to walk through the dwarfish door and was suddenly hypnotized by the incredibly perfect smell of musty basement.  I paused, lifted my chin to the ceiling, closed my eyes, and audibly sucked at the air.  I was breathing in the past…reminiscing about my youth.  I was huffing nostalgia.  My son looked at me oddly and said “Mom, what are you doing?  Come on!” and I as came back to 2009, explaining to both my son and his instructor that I loved the smell of basements…that it reminded me of my childhood, they looked at me with bewilderment until the teacher asked “Why…did you live in a damp basement as a child?”  Think he really wanted to know. 

     I didn’t actually live in the basement of our house, but I think that I must have spent a lot of time there.  The basement was indeed damp.  It was fashioned with dirt and some gravel, and it was built right into the land so that exposed rocks from the ground made up part of the walls.  Just how damp was it?  Well there were continuous tiny streams of water staining the rocks that helped to hold up our house (I learned how to operate a sump pump when I was merely 6). It was humid down there, to say the least, and it smelled fascinating.  Maybe it’s because that basement was where we kept all the fun things; the things like bikes with banana seats, my easy bake oven, hockey sticks and skis, the Big Wheel.  That’s where my dad’s tools were; the tools he used to expertly fix almost anything that was broken or not working quite right.  And that’s where we kept the logs for the fire; the fire that kept us warm and happy when we were huddled by it during power outages (there were several).  I think that may have been where I had my first innocent kiss too...

     It does amaze me how smells can conjure up such vivid images of the past, and signal your brain to begin the video montage of memories.  Guess that’s why you can find scented candles and room sprays that smell of apple or pumpkin pie and mulled wine. Evidently, they are supposed to comfort us. Of course, those things only work as happy memory stimulators if there were actual pies baking and wine simmering in your childhood home….  Haven’t seen a candle called "Baked Velveeta” or "Clammy Cellar" yet. 

     But, I can’t imagine what smells will ultimately send my kids on that journey down memory lane.  We don’t have a wet basement, I certainly don’t bake pies (or anything for that matter), and wine straight out of the bottle is good enough for me.  Will it be ‘wet dog’?  ‘Coffee breath’?  ‘Hand sanitizer’??
     I wonder, can you actually smell the polar ice caps melting?

Volunteering For The Witness Protection Program

     I ran into a lady I know at one of the pick up spots during the ‘mad drive’ tonight.  I nearly didn’t recognize her, but then she started talking about her kids…. Yikes.  Can you say ‘plastic surgery’?  She looked like she had been stretched and stapled, injected and implanted, and I didn’t see one wrinkle or crinkle anywhere.  And she had that ‘moist’ look to her too, with her skin looking like she had an unusual buildup of Vaseline on it.  I see that a lot with people who have had a remodel done.  It must be a special lube to help with the inevitable expand and contract motions that you know are going to hurt.  It’s the horse fetus look….all wet and waxy… like they just haven’t quite been born.  I had the strangest urge to grab her and pull her out….

     She’s now part of this new breed of humans I see…the people I like to call the ‘Waxy People’.  Is it just me, or do they all look very much the same?  Truly.  They’re all pulled up to hell with their cheekbones looking far too big for their heads, frightened looking and unreadable eyes, frozen expressions (the new poker face) and of course really shiny skin.  I sometimes see one of the Waxies standing in an airport or mall and have to wonder if maybe it isn’t really the newest Mme Tussaud creation; Real looking. Unchanging expression. Wet and shiny. Never know. 

In the end, I don’t have any judgment for those who opt for cosmetic enhancement procedures.  I’m all for looking your best and preventative aging tricks, but to look 35 years younger than you really are (when you’re only 43)….or like you’ve joined a witness protection program, is just simply disturbing.  

Changing your name is one thing, but changing your face is something entirely different. 

Notes or Nuisances?

     I write everything down.  I make notes and lists for groceries, errands, stuff I want to do to the house, people I need to call, places I’d like to visit, situations I’d like to write about, etc.    By all appearances it’s fine and organized, except that I’m always making new notes to supplement the existing notes and then re-noting when there are either too many notes that could be consolidated, or the old notes have several items crossed off!  It’s a disaster.  Something is amiss.  I have a note pad in my car, one in the kitchen drawer, one on my desk, one in my bedside table, one in my purse and one in the bathroom.  (Yup.  The bathroom -never know when inspiration strikes.)  Consequently, I have my lists spread out all over the place and with no cohesiveness.  By the time I find the lists, organize them into categories and re-list them, I’ve wasted so much time, that I could have easily just taken 10 minutes and used my still-adequate brain to write down what I actually remember – or at least what’s really of importance.    Clearly, my method is wonky.  Heck, today I found another note pad in the pocket of my hiking pants, and in it was nothing but fragmented bits of lists that absolutely made no sense to me.  Did I want to buy butter or was I supposed to write about it?  What or who is ‘61 x 41 Carson’?  And what the heck was I doing making lists on a hike anyway?  That just can’t be right.  Think I’ll start fresh, with one booklet (maybe have one in the car too….), merge all existing lists into as few as possible, and just carry that notebook around with me wherever I go.  It’ll be treated like gold….all my eggs in one basket.  Or maybe I should color-code my note pads:  blue for errands, red for house stuff, yellow for thoughts…… Is this related to my candle condition of late?  (see entry Sept. 8)

     I have way too much time on my hands. 

Did Hitler Exercise?

     Went on a great hike up the Old Pass Road.  I swear, there is nothing a little exercise can’t help.  Clears the head, gets the blood moving, changes the frame of mind!  If only all vicious leaders and tyrants of the world exercised daily, the world might be a little more peaceful.   I don’t’ mean a little walk in the park, an outing to the ‘gun club’ or a few steps into the desert to view the outcome of the recent extermination attempt.  I’m talking about good ol’ heart pumping, sweat producing physical conditioning.  Bet you Osama Bin Laden doesn’t take time off for exercise.  He just sits in his cave in the mountains….when he could be climbing those mountains!  Imagine what eliminating those toxins could do for his attitude?!  I’m sure he’d have a little rosier outlook on an aerobic high.   Come on Mugabe, and Kim Jong-Il; get off of your cushioned bottoms and get a workout in!   Sitting in your darkened lairs strategizing about the next massacre and ultimate destruction, cannot be healthy.  You obviously need to clear your head of ridiculous thoughts….

     On my hike, I ran into a friend a little older than myself who told me that he’d just had a defibrillator implanted in his chest.  He said that during a routine exam, the doc noticed that his heart rate was quite irregular, so called for more tests.  The EKG guy wouldn’t even let him run on the treadmill, the original results were so bad! Apparently, he had this drop-dead-for-no-reason-at-all condition that leads to Sudden Cardiac Death.  The heart just stops working one day.   Silence.  You die. 

     This is a guy who is in really fit (climbs over 15,000 foot passes with ease), eats really well and is a Buddhist. (He meditates for god’s sake!)   This is why it shocked me so much.  He was walking around basically a ticking time bomb.  Sheesh.  It reminded me that any of us could go at any time.  We’re all time bombs.  Whether cardiac arrest or being run over by a bus, who knows….?  So I say, get your game on, go for it, seize the day, don’t let an opportunity pass you by, say it if you mean it, and as Janice said get it while you can. 

     Best-case scenario:  “Megalomaniac despots fall over dead while exercising.   No apparent medical conditions or fowl play sited as possible causes.”

Pillar Candles

September 8, 2009

   The kids are back in school and now I have hours to myself.  Once the madness of the 6am morning wake-up-breakfast-pack-lunches-brush-hair-and-teeth-do-you-have-your-viola/dance-stuff-rush is completed, and the kids are on the bus, I have about 7 hours of complete freedom.  Freedom from mediating arguments and negotiating chores, freedom from having to listen to boppy and generic music, and freedom from trying to solve pre-teen issues like ‘boredom’ (their word) and apathy. 

[Foundation:  I have 2 kids- my daughter is 13 and and my son is 12.  Yup-13 months apart.  We didn’t plan it that way, and in fact still call it the immaculate deception.  It was nutso for the first few years, and I don’t even remember much before our son was 3, but it’s been nice for them to be so close.] 

    And I better enjoy my day and do what I need to do, because when school is over, the craziness begins.  Dance classes, Lacrosse practice, Robotics Club, Piano lessons, Guitar lessons, Stock Market Club and of course homework all fall into the ‘after school activities’ category, which can make a person insane.  I call it the ‘mad drive’, as I shuttle kids around the valley.  Oh ya, dinner is in there somewhere, and if we’re lucky, and my husband is in town, we may have a ‘normal’ family dinner…at home….at our table!

[Foundation: My husband and I have been married for 15 (!) years.  He is a trial lawyer who respectfully does not sue anyone within our community, so therefore travels A LOT for work.  I joke about it and say that I’m a married-single-mother, but it feels like that sometime.  I honestly don’t know how actual single mothers do it.  At least I don’t have to provide and income for our family….  To be clear, he is a GREAT father and husband.  He’s just gone a lot.  In fact, as I write this, he’s in Ecuador climbing volcanoes with a friend….for recreation!  The guy’s gotta have some fun too, right?]

     So what do I do today with all my spare time?  Well, I get this wild hair, and decide to clean out cabinets, drawers and closets.  What is wrong with me?  I have been going through this incredible cleaning (or cleansing) period where I’m examining everything I own, contemplating its use and discarding it (usually give to the local churches or people in need) if I can’t find 3 things that absolutely proves I need it.  I have donated BAGS and BOXES of stuff that I know my mother would be lecturing me over.  “You get rid of everything!  Don’t you find value in things?  You can’t give that away, that was your grandmothers!”  And there’s other stuff that she would be drooling over and wanting to add to her mad collection of ‘things’.  She gives nothing away and in fact keeps cramming more useless figurines, trinkets or silk flowers onto already overcrowded armoires, ledges and superfluous occasional tables.   I believe that if it’s not used, useful or you don’t love it, it should go to someone else.  But she believes that you don’t throw anything away, because some day it may come in handy.  Like that floor-length gold taffeta dress with the puffed sleeves - who know when shiny gold marshmallows will be back in style!  Or those bisphenol-A plastic utensils……First they tell you not to use metal, and now it’s no to plastic.  They’ll probably change their minds in a few years and then my mom thinks she will be ahead of the game, having saved money and wasted nothing.  And anyway, 'everything in moderation'…..right? Clearly, our personal definitions for the word 'collectible' differs by miles.

     But honestly, I guess my spring-cleaning-in-the-fall phase is appropriate for me.  I clean out  in the spring, summer, fall and winter, weeding through furniture and things in closets all the time.   I actually still have people come to my house for the first time and ask me if I’m still moving in! (We moved in 8 years ago…..) Stuff accumulates and I can’t stand the clutter.  How on earth it does, I don’t know but I organize, reorganize and weed-out more often than most people.  It feels good to me to drop a box off somewhere.  Lighter.  Free from stuff.  Stuff that I have no attachment to -simply because it’s just stuff.  You could change my house every year; replace all my furniture and I wouldn’t care. There is no value in that stuff for me.  It’s not real, and I, and my house are evolving! (again)  (My husband say’s I’m re-volving……)

     My dining buffet was a mess.  Placemats, napkins and candles all disorganized and mixed together.  For shame!  Needed to stack those napkins and give away those placemats that have been used once in 6 years!   My big discovery came when I found out that I had 12 pillar candles.  What the hell is that about?  12 tall pillar candles!  This does not include the tea lights, tapers, votives and short pillars that were crammed into the drawers.  My first question  was, “What the F*#!?  And my second question was “How did this happen?”   I love candles, true, but 12 pillars?  I probably started ‘collecting’ them in as a precautionary measure.  You know, Armageddon happens, there is no electricity for days, you need fire for warmth and light, etc.  I do believe in having some waxy alternative to the light bulb, for sure…and know I probably have more hidden away in my ‘safe room’ just in case the above ever does transpire, but 12 TALL PILLARS?  Jesus.  How long would I be able to keep us lit up and cozy with that amount?  They’d burn for days continuously…no months (!) and if we were in such a sorry state of disaster that there was no electricity for months on end, I’m not sure I’d want to have any candlelight.  Just feed me to the bears at that point….  So, I started weeding out the pillars, and stashing them in a new place in the laundry room (closer to the safe-zone).  Got down to 5.  Hell, one was so exceedingly tall that it wouldn’t even fit on the shelf without being lain on its side…on the diagonal!  Just how long had this candle obsession been going on?  Don’t know.  Must have been out of my mind.  It’s a glowing (I mean growing) concern.   

Here we go....

  My name is Lisel and I am a 43 year old housewife in Jackson Hole, Wyoming.  I decided to start a blog to document my more than ordinary but less than extraordinary life.  Perhaps a little self-indulgent, I consider the ritual of writing alone to be an outlet….cathartic….and a blog is a hell of a lot better than a simple paragraph on Facebook or a mere few words on Twitter.  How can one express anything with such a shortened and edited version of the deal?  Geez!  But alas, there is blogging, and this blog will absolutely enable me to vent and share situations in my life that even I find sometimes amusing.  Amusing.  I vow to always try to find the humor in my life and on a daily basis.  I think that there is more humor in life than we actually acknowledge and I think that humor is underrated, overlooked and could be the answer to a lot.   I accept my faults (and will laugh at them) and I accept others faults too (and will indeed laugh at –with- them too.)  And, as I am always searching for a response to that question “SO, What do you do?” I can now say….”Why don’t you just check out my blog!” and feel validated.  

 (Wrote something about that horrid question a little while ago...check it out: "So, What do you do?"  http://web.me.com/lisel99/What_do_you_do/So,_What_do_you_do.html  

           In any case, on top of simple expression through the written word, and a little humorous relief from the mundane, frivolous and downright depressing scenarios, I also think it’s important to show the shallower side of myself to the public!  He He!  Here we go.