Poked, Prodded and Slimed

I can think of a lot of places I'd rather have been yesterday morning than the gynecologist's office. I know it's something I have to do every year, but as I get older I have noticed a few subtle changes. My appointment was for 10:10 and at 10:50 I was still in the exam room. All that waiting gave me time to notice a couple of things. First of all it was freezing. Sitting there in little more than the equivalent of paper towels draped over my shoulders and lap, my feet and hands began turning purple. I started to put my feet in the warming drawer, but the speculum was in my way. Second, I also noticed that the instrument used to swab my cute little cervix was no longer an innocuous longer than average Q-tip. I was horrified to notice the little cotton tip had been replaced with something that resembled a grill scraper. Really....why? Third, I could do without the small talk before the exam, too. If they are going to require me to dredge up the last year of my life in order to make polite conversation then they need to be serving alcohol. Seriously, you could wait with all the other ladies in their paper towel ensembles, and get hammered—at least you'd be warm. Lastly, I really have an issue with the amount of KY required to insert anything into my vagina. They could have driven a tractor trailer in there, and turned the damned thing around with the amount of lubricant used. When it's all over, and you've been poked, prodded and slimed, common courtesy would be to leave something to wipe up the Exxon Valdiz spill between your legs. There wasn't even a box of low grade tissue, so I figured the paper towel dress I had on would have to suffice. What I really needed was another shower. 

I had blood work done this year which I don't normally do, but my mom told me to, and I try and always do what she says. I'm still 12 inside when it comes to her. I really wish people would listen to me when I tell them how to draw my blood. No, I don't have a degree in medicine, but neither should you if you can't do it right. My veins play hide-n-seek when they try to get stuck...can't say that I blame them really...and it takes some amount of skill to get the stick on the first try, apparently. Well, of course the nurse ignored me and guess what happened? I'm sitting there with a needle in my arm and no blood spilling out. I wanted to bitch slap her when she was finished, but I remained cool. I can't wait for next year, I get to have my first mammogram. Now, that should be something to blog about!!

Love and Friendship

Yesterday was my forty-first birthday. Birthdays are a natural time for reflection, I think. I lay on the couch watching my daughters interaction, and smiling with pride at the miracle God has allowed me to share my life with. Love is a powerful thing. The love I feel for them grows stronger and deeper with each passing year. Love affairs may come and go throughout our lives, but a mother's love is the one love that will not fail, will not wax and wane, it's the love we take to the grave—eternal. I wonder if any two people ever feel that way toward one another. Is it possible that two souls could come together, and be so totally and completely right for one another that love is effortless...instant...natural? Is there such thing as a soulmate?

My personal experience with love leads me to be skeptical that there is one perfect person out there who will fill that void completely, but do I believe it's possible, absolutely—anything is possible. Loving somebody else begins with loving yourself first and foremost, and I've never been good at that, but I work on it every day. Sometimes, you meet someone who makes you want to be better, and that too, is rare. We never know why certain people come into our lives or how long they will stay. Some people come back into our lives after a long time, and we wonder how we ever fully lived without them. It is a gift which should not be taken for granted. Some friendships can resemble love I think, because they can last a lifetime. Anyone who is able to find one love, one friend, or maybe that rare person who is both, is very blessed indeed.

A Woman's Worth

Any time we are fortunate enough to be reminded of our worth it's a gift. So often, we shuffle through life in a predictable routine or rut becoming numb to life's nuances and subtleties. We slowly become sleepwalkers in the recurring dream that is our waking life. The scenery never changes, and we lose sight of the little things that used to bring us joy. Some of us give up on ourselves. Some of us live for someone else's happiness. Some just get lonely. We forget who we are because we have lost faith in ourselves. We wear our smile like a mask, hiding the sadness underneath. Our soul becomes crippled with lack of exercise—and then someone shines their light on your face, and unexpectedly wakes you from your slumber. They share their breath with you, making it possible for you to start living again. 

A woman's worth is immeasurable and should never be taken for granted. Sometimes this stubborn old woman needs a wake up call to remind her of this fact. I have laughed more this week than I can tell you. I look forward to each new day with renewed enthusiasm. My heart races with excitement for what the future may hold. There is a song on my lips, and a spring in my step. Life holds the promise that anything is possible today, right now, this moment and I intend to grab hold of it, and enjoy the ride!! I suggest you all do the same because you are worth it.

Time

When you are young, time seems to move at a snail's pace. You can't wait to grow up. Then you finally do grow up, and there is a period between 18-25 that time seems to move at the same pace you are moving. Everything is good. Then you hit your 30's, you have kids, and the next thing you know time hits warp drive—you're over 40, and you look in the mirror and wonder....how did I get here so fast? I don't feel as old as my reflection in the mirror looks...I wish I could have a couple of do-overs...I'd have been kinder to my body...I would have done some things differently—better... I wish I had taken my mother's advice to heart when she told me in my youth, the years will just fly by the older you get. But when you are young, your crazy mother doesn't know what she's talking about. 

Now I am repeating the same words to my girls, and they look at me the way I imagine I looked at my mother—like she's looney. I want to catch time and freeze it before they get any older. I want to freeze it so they never grow up and find out about the World. I want to freeze it while they still think I'm the funniest person they know. I want to freeze it before they give their heart to some careless teen aged boy, and he breaks it in a million pieces. I want to freeze it before one of them breaks my heart with words I know they will not mean, but will say anyway in the heat of a moment when I am trying to do what's best for them.

Time races forward into the infinite unknown. There is nothing we can do about it except enjoy this moment, and try to make all the moments that follow worth remembering. I have many great memories, and many more to make. I can begin this moment, to take better care of this body, this mind, this spirit. I may not always like the older reflection that stares back at me from the mirror, but I can honestly say that I like who I am now more than I liked that clueless twenty something version of me. With time and age comes wisdom—another nugget of advice given to me by my mother, but that's something you have to live through to get to. How right you were mother. Now you can sit back and smile knowingly as those words get passed on, and on through generations, through time...

Grocery Hell and Psycho Bag Boys

I hate grocery shopping. It seems I'm always in the god forsaken Publix for something. I can—make a list, get everything on it, spend two hundred dollars, get home, put it all away, and then realize I have forgotten one item. What usually follows is an undignified adult temper tantrum with lots of cursing and stomping about. I start another list, unless it's something crucial that I've forgotten and then I have to return to the store wasting my time, and burning gas for toilet paper. You may be thinking...why doesn't she just go to the kwiki store for one item? Well, sometimes I do, but not for ass wipe. I have to buy the premium, mega mother, softest Charmin brand. I do, after all, have two (okay, three including me) very picky little girls, and one indifferent husband who can't understand why us ladies need to use so much toilet paper in the first place. We, on the other hand, don't understand how he gets his ass clean with three squares of paper—must be a guy thing. 

Besides loathing the chore of having to shop for food, I get myself all worked up during my time shopping because I have obsessive compulsive disorder about how my groceries should be bagged. When I load the belt, all of my food is sorted in the manner in which I think it should be—heavy items first, they should go on the bottom, then boxes like cereal, Goldfish, Rice-a-Roni, etc., veggies and fruit come next, followed by frozen and cold foods, and lastly bread and chips, they go on top so they don't get smushed, right? Well, let me tell you, my food never gets bagged the way I want it to. I get so excited when the cashier is missing the bag boy/girl. I'll dive into their line hoping that I get to bag at least some of my groceries, but alas, they always appear out of nowhere to help me finish.

What I get is a bag with one container of yogurt and a big box of cereal. In what universe does that make sense? Boxes t o g e t h e r. Cold items t o g e t h e r. I think you understand my frustration. 

The last thing I can't stand about the whole grocery shopping experience is chatty cashiers and baggers. I just want to pay for my food, not have a conversation about everything coming down the belt...ooohhh I've never tried these, are they good?...have you ever tried cooking these with bacon?...uh-oh, looks like someone is indulging later on today...I don't like avocados, never have...mmm, I love spinach salad, too, but with warm dijon dressing...I just stand there gritting my teeth, and nodding politely wanting the torture to end. Finally, it's time to go, but there is one more matter to contend with—the insistent bagger who wants to help you to your car. Is it just me, or does anyone else hate this? I have to jockey for position to wrestle my cart away from his grubby mitts. Let me help you with that, miss...No, it's okay I don't need help today...well, it's no problem, I don't mind...No really, I'm okay...but it's my pleasure to...NO THANK YOU!! You know what I'm talking about, don't you? You're laughing right now because you know it's true! Well, I hope you're laughing—I'm not 'cause I have to go grocery shopping later this morning. kmn

Five Minute Fan

My daughter got a new ceiling fan yesterday. Her old one was cheap builder grade, nine years old and made an awful racket if it was required to spin faster than low speed. I know about this squeaking noise first hand because she had a nightmare a couple of nights ago, and I offered to lie down with her until she got back to sleep. How long had my baby suffered in silence??!! Her room was about 110 degrees with the fan blowing (my husband would disagree and remind me that I'm freakishly hot natured), but the fact was, the fan was so loud it's all I could think about...Why hasn't Ruth Ann said anything about this god awful rickety clanking sound coming outta this fan?...No wonder she reads herself to sleep every night, she's trying to distract herself from this noise...I wonder what it would sound like on high?...No wonder she hits snooze five times in the morning, she's not getting enough REM sleep...How long have I been lying here?...Is she asleep yet? 

Are you asleep yet? 

(softly) No. 

So, four hours later I returned to my bed.

Now, for the record, Ruth Ann never asked for a new ceiling fan. This was all my idea. My genuine concern that my child is sleep deprived motivated the quest to find the perfect fan. I dragged her to the nearest Home Depot, where I let her choose. She must get her expensive taste from me—that or the Hunter fan people's claim, FIVE MINUTE FAN, was the reason for the cost. No matter, it was what she wanted and my husband would have it up in five minutes! Now, my husband's father was a master electrician, and like his father, Paul knows what he's doing, plus he's an A&P (Airframe and Powerplant Mechanic), which means he's licensed to work on and fix any airplane in the world. Ceiling fans are just fixed propellers, right? I thought it would be a piece of cake for him, and then I heard...five minute fan, my ass...I'd like to see the factory reps put this fan up in five minutes...I could take the wings off a 747 faster than this...who are they kidding?...sonofabitch...(sound of parts falling)...damnit!...maybe if two people were working on this it's a five minute fan...oh, come on! 

An hour and twenty minutes later, the fan was installed. So now you know, there is no such thing as a five minute fan, proving once again that if it sounds too good to be true, don't buy it!

Burn, Peel, Repeat

Well, another spring break has come and gone. Our trip to the beach was scrubbed due to bitterly cold weather. Call me crazy, but I want it to be hot and sunny when I have my toes in the sand, not overcast with a chance of snow flurries. As a matter of fact, the sky did produce some sleet, snow, and fierce winds during our time off...

I remember many a spring break with my mom when she refused to be deterred by a cold, windy day at the beach. She bravely (or stupidly) donned her bikini, slathered on some baby oil, grabbed her towel, and headed out to receive those beloved, cancer causing UV rays. I followed closely behind covered head to toe in long sleeves and sweat pants. I would have preferred to stay indoors and sleep, but mom needed me to help her wrestle the towel to the ground, and then park my ass on one corner so that it wouldn't flap back up on her. After hiking half a mile to the seashore, against the wind, our eyes were watering, our lips were blue, and mom's sanity was in question. We were the only people on the beach! You know you're an idiot tourist when the locals stay away! When my mom really wants something, in this case a tan, she will go to hell and back to get it. I'm pretty sure she was in hell that early afternoon—I know I was and I was wearing clothes.

We managed to get the towel down, and although my ass was firmly planted on one corner, the wind was gusting so hard that the flapping towel was the least of our concerns. The gale force winds whipped the sand down the beach, creating a minor sandstorm. In order to protect myself from the biting elements, I was sitting in an upright fetal position, my bare feet getting raked and stung by sand blowing forty plus miles per hour over them. Every now and then, I'd raise my head to check on my mother who was lying next to me, silently praying that she was ready to head in, but maaann, that woman has balls. She lay there, taking every bit of what mother nature was throwing at her—all for the sake of having glowing brown skin—and because of the generous application of all that baby oil, she was soon covered head to toe with a layer of sand, and I'm pretty sure the glow she sported later on was more from being wind blown and sand blasted than actually having any sun.

Mom and I have some great memories regarding our spring break adventures. Many of them include being cold, but striving to get that coveted tan to show off when you get home. There was no such thing as tanning beds when I was a teen. We had to do it the old fashioned way—burn, peel, repeat. You had to be tough and withstand painfully stripping off the first few layers of skin to see that glorious golden tan, and it was totally worth it! Good times...good times... :-)

40 Down, 40 To Go?

Assuming I live to be eighty, then half my life is behind me. What do I have to show for it? I have made too many mistakes to mention. I have traveled, though not as well as I would have liked. I have partied 'til dawn with rock stars, and been courted by royalty. Some of my best memories were made in the English countryside with an unpretentious girl named Janie May. I hope she was able to help save some of the South American rain forests as she so passionately spoke about over many a pint. As I take inventory of my life up to now, it has been an intricate tapestry colorful and rich with each thread representing friendships, lovers, laughter, loneliness, and heartbreak. I've had a pretty good life so far, so what's next?

I want to see the sun rise over the Grand Canyon, and the Northern Lights. I want to sleep in a haunted B&B, and in the Ice Hotel in Sweden. I want to learn to speak French, and then spend a summer in Paris. I want to ride a motorcycle over the Beartooth Mountains in Montana. I want to spend a week in a cabin in Northern California without another living soul around. I want to visit every state in these great United States of America. I want to perform one random act of kindness every day. I want to save a life. These are all things on my to-do list, and some, all, or none of it may ever come to pass. I've already done it all in my dreams

Experiencing all of those wonderful things would be fulfilling to be sure, but I have a better understanding of what my time spent here is supposed to be about. I never did much of anything right, or very well for that matter, until I became a mother. It is unquestionably my reason for being here. I'm not perfect, but I give my girls my whole heart, love outpouring like a never ending flow of water from a rusty old porcelain pitcher. My girls are my life. They are my greatest love. They will be my greatest legacy. When I'm gone, no one will remember the things that I did, or that I was a runway model, band groupie, or flight attendant. No one will care if I was ever fat, thin, gray headed or tattooed. They will have living testimony to what a great mother I was, and that's all any woman could ever ask for.