Did I Pass The Test?

       Pop goes the…..ACL.

       I find it strange and fascinating with how people react when you’re injured. As I sat on the ski hill contemplating the pain and the remaining descent, I noticed that a few concerned skiers had gathered around me. I found it amusing that no one actually came up to me though, and that they all remained at least 15 feet away from my twisted skis….in strange and complete silence. Did they think a torn anterior cruciate ligament was contagious? Were they afraid I might grab onto one of them in anguish, pulling them down with me into the abyss of knee pain? One guy, who actually heard the shotgun sounding pop along with me, remained at a comfortable 20 feet uphill, but managed to nevertheless vocalize in my direction with an appropriate exclamation of “Holy S#@*!” Honestly, it was comforting to know that at least someone had been paying attention. A few others gathered, maybe 5 total, but no one questioned my need for help, or if I was even hurt. There was one guy who asked if I needed a sled down, but he posed the question as he whizzed by me at 20 mph: “Do you need a s….l….e…….d……?” What if I had said, “Yes, please”? He would have never heard me, as he was at the base by the time I could have responded….obviously terrified that he may have had to cease skiing and help out on such a fine day. There are no friends on powder days, and no time for manners. I forgive him.

       Finally, when my husband caught up to find me in my pathetic situation, the watchers continued to stand around….like lost zombies….with no apparent purpose but to irritate me. At that point I figured they were just sick voyeurs, depraved of any recent tragedies, and in the mood for a good accident and some gory misfortune. Sadly for them, there was no blood and no protruding bone. I wasn’t even in that much pain, and although I did wince a bit (the performer in me…..), they quickly dispersed when they learned that I would ski the rest of the way down and wouldn’t need a ski patroller nor a sled (adrenaline makes you do crazy things). How boring am I? Can’t even have a dramatic accident.

       So within exactly a week, I’ve had surgery to replace that sad little curled up ACL (that looked like a terrified slug on the MRI), and now I’m about to begin physical therapy. Things happen quickly in this town, where no one has time for limitations, and rehabilitation is more like training for a marathon. I promised my doc that I’d take it easy though, so I’ve set up my new lair downstairs, close to the kitchen, the television, the bathroom and my books. I had my computer and notebooks brought down and I imagined a hugely productive and artistic surge that included a lot of writing….maybe even something brilliant enough for a novel, since…what the hell else am I supposed to do? Surgery and pain pills however, have taken my muse and sent her packing….and I appear to be on a pharmaceutical holiday myself. My most creative moment thus far was discovering alternative uses for my crutches and learning to use them as tools for lifting water bottles, taking off socks, and opening the trash compactor. I’m sure if I really work at it, they could help me change that light bulb over the kitchen sink too. They really aren’t given enough credence, those large chopsticks, and they are certainly not used to their full potential. Mine have little spiky things on the bottom as well, for ice and snow control, but they could also be used as very effective weapons in required situations! Multifunctional. Brilliant.

       In any case, I’ve not been able to read more than 3 pages of any book, nor accomplish anything productive whatsoever. Instead, I’ve shamefully managed to watch the entire series of “Lost”…. That’s right, about 100 episodes. I’ve ‘lost’ my mind! This is not like ‘me’. Someone - I thought was a friend - told me that the show was entertaining and smart, and that since I would be on the sofa for a while, I might want to watch past episodes and catch up. Well, apparently I have. I must say that I quite enjoyed the first season, and then found it to be rather boring and repetitious, (lets face it, there are only so many scenarios that can occur on an island…even with time travel…) yet I continued to pursue watching….like a drugged subject in a Clockwork Orange-like experiment. Am I unknowingly part of the new Ludovico technique of rehabilitation? Was my ACL accident staged or part of my destiny that brought me to this ridiculous obsession with this mediocre show? Is someone or something trying to alter my perception of life, time and purpose? Has fate intercepted because I’ve been abusing my free will?

       I don’t know. I’m lost.

       Maybe I just need to cut back on the Hydrocodone….

Chopsticks

      “Relax”, he said. “You stiff as chopstick!”

       The small but burley Asian masseur then proceeded to drape the paper-thin sheet over my body……including my whole head. I was freezing as the room was unusually cold, but thinking it would probably warm up, I simply proceeded with my laundry list of ailments including a brief surgical history and mention of my persistent debilitating shoulder pain that has required many visits to doctors and physical therapists.  'Good luck', I thought. I really am a mess...

       Suddenly, he began rapid and deep breathing as if he was hyperventilating, and then roughly plunked his hands on the sheet covering my cold body, while mumbling something about my scoliosis and twisted hips.

       “You breathe!” he demanded and then demonstrated with some more, loud repetitive panting. He sounded like a horse, and I blew out tentatively in order to show him that I was paying attention and could follow directions. “That good! Awesome!” (Horse sound. Horse sound. Horse sound). I tried not to laugh out loud.

       He continued to work through the tissue covering using long dramatic rubbing motions that felt more like he was washing clothes on a washboard than working on tension in my apparently crooked back. Often, he had to stop to adjust the gauzy sheet back over my head as it was repeatedly forced down with his bizarre technique, and I started feeling strangely corpse-like with my stiff, cold head and body hidden under a shroud. I waited for the toe tag…..

       I suppose I wasn’t breathing right, because I began feeling a little lightheaded. Thinking I needed a good hit of oxygen, I tried to take a deep breath but noticed that the intense pressure of my tormentor’s hand on my back compressed my rib cage against the table in such a way that made it difficult for me to suck in a sufficient amount of air. I made a noise that sounded a lot like a desperate wheeze, and then I coughed….and coughed….and sputtered…and coughed again.

       “You blocked in you lung”, he said. “You need relax. Let go.” he chimed and then let out some more of those frantic horse sounding noises.

       “I’m blocked in my lung because you’re squashing me.” I said.

       “I feel block. Breathe. Good. That good. Awesome!” he continued as if he hadn’t heard my pleas for release. Did he know he was suffocating me….and about to break a rib?  At this point, the ‘massage’ through the sheet was starting to get irritating and I was convinced I would have chafe marks or sheet-burn from the unreasonable friction.

       “That’s a little too rough”, I said.

       “You feel the buzz? Energy? Good! Ohh. Ahh. That good. ”

       He then lifted the sheet, fanning extra cold air on my already chilly torso and then grabbed for the oil. ‘There is no ‘buzz’, I thought disappointed, but imagined how a Martini with extra olives could take care of that. “Is this only 45 minutes?” I asked. “’…’cause I have to meet my friend in the lounge.”

       Folding the sheet down to expose my stiffened back, he tipped the bottle of massage oil upside down so that globs of the greasy stuff landed in what felt like an icy Frisbee size puddle on my back. Aren’t they supposed to heat that stuff?

       “That’s cold!” I complained, raising my head and peeking around at him.

       “That oil.” he said proudly, dousing me some more.

       ‘Jesus’, I thought as he moved the oil around, clogging absolutely every pore I have. ‘Can I fake an illness and ask to leave? How the hell do I get out of this unbelievably un-relaxing and unsettling experience? What’s next? And why is he pushing on my bum like that?’

       “You shoulder pain is from you buttock!” He said as if he had heard my thoughts. “ Relax. Awesome.  Ahhh.  Yessss.  Ooooooh. ”

       Just then he quickly jumped around to my feet and started manipulating them in ways I didn’t think feet should move. Suddenly he snapped my toes so that all of them cracked and crunched at the same time. The sound was unnerving and I was sure the people in the next room had heard it.

        “My god!” I screamed.

       “Hear that? Wow. You hear? That good. Awesome. Feet cold, block lung, buttock and shoulder pain!” he said huffing sadistically.

       He then moved back to my shoulders and back and poured even more cold oil onto me. What the hell?! Was he about to Wok something? I’d be slithering around for a week!

       He continued to breathe excitedly, working himself into some loud irregular racket that disturbingly sounded a lot like he was involved in some strange tantric ritual. I found the experience to be quite awkward and creepy and I half expected him to have to excuse himself….ew. Was massage a bizarre way for the freak gets his jollies? Does the spa know what happens in his cold little room? For god’s sake, had anyone who works there ever had one of these outlandish experiences? Was this normal? What time was it?

       He asked me to flip over.

       Again, the gauzy film was adjusted over me, tucked under my frigid feet and placed over my face. I thought of corpses and death again, but this time that seemed almost comforting, as my captor moved to my neck and sat by the top of my greasy head.

       “Don’t crack it, adjust it in any way or over-manipulate it.” I stated. “I have neck problems too.”

       He stood up, pulled the veil down from my face and then stood over me.

       “You have neck and shoulder problems because you like chopstick”.

       “Ya. Well I’m a lot less of a chopstick when I’m warm and not distressed.”

       “What stress you?”

       “This is not a relaxing massage….”

       He cut me off. “For you, no pain, no gain. You blocked in chest and buttock. I can give you soft massage, but that is waste of time. You need to stretch and open up.”

       “Um…I’m actually supper flexible, which is part of my 'loosey goosey' joint problems.” I said, defending myself. “My shoulders are tight from surgery. There is hardware in there to hold them in their sockets! There are anchors and pins in there!”

       “You don’t need surgery. Yoga! No such thing as too flexible. You not! You need r e l a x....” Obviously he didn't know I was a crazed housewife and mother.

       “I’ll work on it...at the bar. This chopstick is out of here!” I said, as I jumped off the table and headed out the door.

       Oddly, I’ve been pain-free ever since…hmmm.

You Don’t Have To Call Me Darling

       Basking in her entirely appropriate and resplendent pride, my friend proudly showed the impressive Powder Magazine photo and write-up of her tough, rad, supreme and beautiful ski champion daughter.

          “She still calls me ‘Mama’ ”, she said, beaming.

          “I call my mother, ‘Mother’”, said one of the girls in our little gathering.

          “My daughter still calls me ‘Mommy.’” said another.

          ‘Really?’ I thought. “My kids call me ‘MOOOOOOMM!!!’ ” (or ‘Are You Kidding Me?’ or ‘Not Fair!’), I said.

          So I started thinking about how we address people and how sometimes that initial address holds so much significance in setting the stage for the direction in which the conversation will flow. I truly think that the name we use to open a conversation with someone can determine….or at least sway the dialogue. In fact, I’ve heard psychologists say that even when a couple is engaged in serious ‘discussion’ (ahem…a fight), they should call each other ‘pet’ names or speak sweetly...or hold hands. Apparently, it’s a disarming tool, designed to charm or appease an otherwise resistant and irritated person. Ha! You’ve got to be kidding… I can’t say I’ve tried that relationship tool because frankly, if a discussion has escalated to the boiling point, the last thing I want to do is speak sweetly or hold the chump’s hand. And let me just tell you, I can make “darling” sound as discourteous and offensive as any word….

          “Honey….you’re a self-absorbed irresponsible idiot”.

          “Sweetie, I feel attacked. Would you please stop throwing plates at me.”

          Nope. No mollifying there. Who are these nutty shrinks anyway?

          But in other circumstances, the title that designates character or distinction really might make a difference. Like, perhaps if my daughter said, “Mommy dearest, could I bother you to please give me a ride to the theatre?”, I’d be more responsive than if she said “Hey! Can we go now?! Geez! You’re going to make me late to the movies!”

          But then again, Joan Crawford proved that those sort of demands on a child can backfire…and I kind of like the brutal honesty and directness of a 13 year old anyway.

          So, I guess I’m conflicted. I don’t really care what my kid or others call me, but I do think that a respectful dubbing can benefit all participants in a discussion….depending on if that person has a preference with which they are being addressed. Do they like Mr. Smith or John? Honey or Hey You? Does it really matter? I think it’s all about intent anyway, as I can make ‘honey’ sound pretty hurtful and ‘hey you’ seem quite alluring.

          There is however, one name I absolutely despise being called, regardless of the speakers intent or delivery. It’s ‘Ma’am’.

          I often forewarn waiters (like the poor sod last night) when it’s my turn to order, that being addressed as a ‘Ma’am’ will most likely send me into a verbal fury or dreadful sermon on why I don’t appreciate the label. Yes, it’s an appropriate address for some (like Southern ladies who apparently like the title), but for me, (who is anything but Southern), the word connotes an older, very plump and wobbly, slightly hunched woman with really poorly applied lipstick. A ma’am is beyond her prime. A ma’am is mean. A ma’am plays Bridge and wears nylons under her stretch pants! I just feel too young to be a ‘ma’am’….and I don’t play Bridge. Do I look like a ma’am? Besides, the word is just a Southern bastardization of ‘Madame’, which sounds so much classier….yet still old….and evokes images of whore houses, bunny ranches and Vegas when it’s uttered.

          So, the waiter last night didn’t heed my warning, and although he appeared very young and naive, and must have thought I looked ma’amish, he failed to understand the potential consequences that could befall him. In his defense, I think he must have thought I was joking about the whole thing… even when my kids and husband all started nodding in acknowledgement in an attempt to save the greenhorn from complete humiliation and a minimal tip. By this time though, I was on a role and my tired explanations and silly lecturing were holding him up and drawing attention from the table nearby. My family, used to my hang-up, barely squirmed in their seats, but I think I saw his eye twitching and sweat on his upper lip. And when I finally concluded my spiel by telling him that it would behoove him to call me ‘babe’, ‘honey’, or ‘duchess’ before ‘ma’am’, he looked over at my husband, perplexed (okay, probably a little scared), with his eyebrows raised in that ‘Can you help me out here, Sir?” kind of way. Of course, all my husband did was bob his head anxiously and encourage the confused and nervous innocent to go ahead with…anything but ‘Ma’am’.

          “And you?” he said pointing his pen peevishly in my direction. “What can I get for YOU?’

           Oh-Oh.

           He should have called me ‘Mama’…..!

      

         …..But I think he may have spit in my food.

Jesus and Pop Rocks

        My son was concerned that the myth he had to create for Language Arts class was not believable enough.

       “No one will think this is good, Mom. Why did I pick such a bad subject? Who would believe that bats hang upside down because Zeus put a curse on them to make them look stupid? Who would believe that?”

       “Well who wouldn’t?!” I said. “Look at other myths out there….. Cupid, Poseidon, Pandora....Big Foot? They’re all pretty silly and hard to believe, and some myths are even STILL thought of as factual.  And Mikey didn't die from consuming pop rocks with soda, either.....”

       And then I started talking about Adam and Eve….and Jesus.

       The creationist theory of Adam and Eve is pretty ridiculous. I have a hard time believing that we all came from those ignorant and self-absorbed numskulls. And Jesus? He must have had some pretty great storytellers and writers in his entourage. They did a hell of a job. We can all make up stories and run wild with them, but for tales and anecdotes to be thought of as truth for centuries…now that’s a successful writer. Don’t hear me wrong, I’m sure Jesus was a really cool guy and participated in many selfless and philanthropic ventures…. Heck, he was probably the life of the party too, but I bet he got a little irritating with his continued obsession with ‘Daddy’, and his exaggerated stories. Being the teacher’s pet probably contributed a little to his social problems as well, don’t you think? No one likes a suck-up….or someone with a superiority complex….or a martyr. Man, Freud would have had a ball with that guy on his couch.

       But as I continued to spew my sarcastic, conjectural and less than respectful views on Christianity to my son, he suddenly stopped me….

       “Mom, you can’t say stuff like that! People really believe that stuff and spend their whole lives proving that it’s true. Some myths are based on fact, you know. I actually believe that Big Foot could exist!”

Transparency

            “Just stay very still. Don’t move. The machine is very sensitive to any movement. I’ll put you in now. Remember, don’t move.”

            The technician then proceeded to send me into the big MRI machine for the shoulder scan I regretfully needed (long story).

            I felt akin to sausage meat being stuffed into casing, and as I scrunched my broad shoulders in and up towards my ears, I felt grateful for my slim body since it didn’t take up too much volume in the insufficient, restrictive and claustrophobic space of the machine. I contemplated how accurate pictures of my shoulder could possibly be obtained when the machine walls were pushing in on the outside of the shoulder itself, and most likely distorting the photo. I was sure the radiologist would report that my shoulder capsule appeared flattened and buckled due to some unexplained external compression. Have they ever been in that machine? Does Mr. Radiologist know that my arm may only look like a squished donut due to the positioning against the giant magnet, and that the true reason for my pain is from something altogether different…that can’t be seen…because it’s being squished into a strange formation not normal in most shoulders? And then I wondered how a large person even gets into the machine? I must have had a mere 4 inches of space from my nose to the top of the cold inhospitable unit, and with my shoulders and hips pressing against the sides, I was not the most comfortable. And I’m skinny! Jesus. Even a moderately obese person would fill that hole like a pimento in an olive. How do they get them in? How do they get them out???

            Trying to find the position I would have to commit to for the next 45 minutes, I shifted and repositioned until I miserably accepted that nothing would feel as comfy as my down quilt and featherbed at home. I gave up….and reprogrammed my mind into thinking of the test as an experiment in tolerance, patience and meditation. ‘I’ll see how much ‘suffering’ I can take until I feel the irrepressible urge to push that comforting little help button and scream’, I thought. So, I pretended that I was in a life or death situation and I wasn’t allowed to move….and I was completely uncomfortable….and there were loud banging noises all around me. I pretended to be in the jungle in Vietnam, hiding for my life. I pretended to be hiding from a gangster….under a bed that was very low to the ground. I pretended I was paralyzed….but then why could I feel my random spasms? I pretended I was Buddha meditating. I counted. I thought about Sartre and his views on Existentialism, free will and human consciousness. I was aware that I felt trapped, not free, but willed myself into choosing to accept my choice to be there….ultimately reflecting on something that was itself already pre-reflected upon…thereby causing anxiety and limiting my experience. Huh? And was this machine indifferent to my experience anyway…or did it imbue reason for my existence….?

            In any case, no matter what thoughts I had, I could not force myself to relax. On top of the confining and unpleasant circumstance, being told to relax and not move…several times….just made me more tense and hyper aware of every little movement in my body. One would suppose it would be easy.…not to move….providing the lack to space in which to move…. but as I was lying there my leg twitched uncontrollably, my stomach gurgled and bulged like hot pots in Yellowstone, and my breathing was causing my diaphragm to expand and contract at an unusual range. 'What if I have to spend more time in the bloody machine because I can't control my bodily functions?' I thought.  'What if I go through all this and then the pictures are so difficult to read that I have to go through it again? What if when I swallow, I cause ripples of movement through my neck and shoulders that disrupts the precise camera slice which then surfaces as some strange redundancy in my shoulder?'

            “How you doing in there?” the guy asks? “Only about another 20 minutes. Continue staying absolutely still. How’s the music?”

            ‘How’s the music? You mean that faded sounding ancient 90’s crap being piped into the poorly placed headphones on my head? Stop talking to me and just get the goddamned thing over with.’ I thought. There’s only so much stillness a person like myself can take….and I’ll have to scratch my cheek or burp here in a moment…’

            “All is fine. I’m going to sleep so you don’t have to talk any more.” I said, hoping to speed things along.

            So, as I tried to focus on something other than the accumulation of saliva in the back of my mouth from fear of swallowing, I thought about the new body scanners that will undoubtedly dominate all airports. Maybe if we were given a little printout of our bodies (fetal ultrasound style), it could prompt us to make some great changes; like correct our posture, work on our muscle tone or lose some weight… Maybe this could be the key to getting Americans in shape! Then I kind of wondered if they could make a scanner that not only scanned through clothing, but through skin too, so that we could get a mini-medical check up every time we traveled. You know, it might show a tumor in someone’s stomach, an enlarged appendix, or even a tooth abscess…

            Besides, I don’t think the current scanners are sufficient for security anyway. What about body cavities? Eh? Those soulless nutcases aren’t beyond stuffing and packing, I’m sure, so why not just get a simple version of a MRI-type machine to the TSA? Then, we could get a print out of our scan as we exited the screening area, and examine our bodies at our leisure.  It could be the key to preventative medicine as even those whom are uninsured would get a quick check.  Wahoo. Imagine how much money our government and hospitals could save! Heck, eventually the brave and honest could use the images on Internet dating sites….or as those photo Christmas cards… Instead of fighting the idea of body scans, let’s embrace it!  I don’t mind if someone notices that I have on cute undies or that my spine is pretty crooked. And let me just tell you, if you’re worried that someone will notice your weenie is small or that you have fake boobies…believe me….people already know. And who cares anyway? Do you really mind that some boring screening agent can see through your clothes? Hell, let them print a life size version of my scan for all I care…and post it in Times Square.   I’m all for transparency!

 …And less uncomfortable and tedious MRI’s....

The Road To Hell.....

     Ahh. I love the ‘new year’ feeling. There is something inherently forgiving about beginning a new year, and even more lenient about the start of a new decade. It’s a dedicated fresh start, an acceptable excuse for the past 10 years of foolish actions and valuable experiences (ahem..mistakes). It’s acknowledgement that we are indeed moving forward (?) and a reminder that time goes by quickly without respect for your personal intentions or meager aspirations. It is a new start for some, an excuse for a few, and a kick in the pants for others. For me it’s a combination….and that’s all I’m going to say…..

     Looking back at the 2000’s, I was struck by the lack of words I could come up with that could label the decade. “Tragic”, “Odd” and “Pathetic” were the best I could do. Heck, I don't even know what to call it...the past 10 years.  The Aughties? The Two Thousands? The Oh-Oh's?  Personally, I had some fine moments, but as a group, I think we might just want to let the past stay in the past. I suppose it didn’t help that we all entered the decade feeling duped from the seamless transition through the ultra hyped Y2K scare. Sheesh. What a disappointment. I was kind of looking forward to candlelight and gardens…..and watching as New Yorkers scrambled to regain balance with nature… And Y2.01K seems to be glitch free so far too….darn it. Guess our next big apocalyptic excitement can center around 2012. Maybe I should invest in my 2012 countdown calendar now….

     Politically we were pathetically unconscious with 8 years of Bush, fashion was dominated by sloppy, grungy and shapeless clothing, and music news was jam-packed with ridiculous stories about ridiculous people like Brittney Spears and American Idol contestants. There was 9/11, Tsunami’s, Hurricanes, SARS and Swine Flu. Really rotten reality TV rocketed, people became dependent on ‘communicating’ in fragments with twitter, facebook and texting, climate change became a divisive reality, and the economy really tanked.

     Any good happen? Well other than the obvious - Obama, Dexter and blogging, all which made their mark towards the end of the failed decade, I’d have to say that the long down coat coming back into style is a definite plus. That always helps when you’re pinching pennies in an arctic-esque climate….and then there’s winter too….

     And resolutions? Don’t you love those? It’s empowering to think that we can make a grand statement and personal prediction once a year and have people actually believe it. “I will….” “By next year….” “My goal….” And it almost seems plausible because hell, you have an entire year to get the job done. Really, there’s not much pressure on the day you declare, and no room for someone to tell you that you’re full of malarkey, or there’s no way to get that done. Heck, there are 365 days remaining to achieve that lofty goal…and on leap years, 366… There’s room for several attempts, new strategies, and even experimentation with the dignified project....the ugly realization of its complexity probably not surfacing until the end of April. In reality, a once-a-year announcement basically allots yourself breathing room….a sabbatical for a few months before anyone calls you on your ridiculous attempt to save the world or make yourself a better person.

     It’s really quite a brilliant way to give yourself a break….if you happen to have the bad habit of setting goals and yearly intentions.   Why do people have the need for self-imposed pressures and demands? The set up for failure and disappointment, self-doubt and insecurity? Why do it? Aren’t there enough external challenges? Isn’t just living every day trying to eat well, stay healthy and be kind enough? My god, just reading labels at the grocery store and deciphering the USDA’s deceptive methods are pressure enough for me. Will I ever be able to find non-GMO corn? Does ‘farm raised’ mean ‘factory farm’ raised or farmer-John raised? Can I trust the USDA for labeling something Organic when they are irresponsible with the safety of other foods and are lying in bed with Tyson, Smithfield and other irresponsible food (?) companies? Can I trust the government at all when I can be sued for even naming those disgusting companies and encouraging others to question, complain and even boycott our unhealthy and broken food system? (By the way, if I get sued, I’ll never stop talking) ......And did I mention I have a 12 AND 13 year old? Need I say more?

     Clearly, I don’t make resolutions. You know….in one year and out the other…. I don’t make resolutions for the reasons stated above, but also because I try to modify my life and bad behavior all year long. One statement in January just won’t cut it for me. I’m too much of a mess with too many issues and frankly, just declaring that I will not lose my temper or be too critical a mere handful of days per year is big for me. Maybe I should make a qualified resolution. A pledge with perimeters. This year-long commitment thing is both too daunting on one hand and then not significant enough if I really examined myself, on the other. So I just don’t do it. I don’t resolve to solve anything nor do I pretend to think that I can. Why put the pressure on myself right off the bat? I already have enough things in the hopper and god knows I have to leave room for the ‘expected unexpected’. Sure, there are things I’d like to do and accomplishments I’d be pleased with, but to actually say them out loud, just makes me a little sweaty…..because the last thing I need is to be visited by more ghosts of resolutions past, and left over failed commitments. Hell, I can’t even promise I’ll go grocery shopping, that the mail will be picked up every week or that we won’t run out of toilet paper!

     But hey – it’s all about the adventure, not the destination anyway.  Right kids?