I Wish I Was A Walton

So polygamy and polygamist sects are WRONG and sicko -and all those power freak perv men need to be strung up in the town square and forced to gargle peanut butter until they choke to death. That being said, it’s become clear to me in my progressive age that living in larger groups, communal style if you will, is the only way to go. Here is my rational for this:

Every housewife on my block (our little micro-model of American life) is overloaded out-her-ass. She does everything on her own. The chores, the kids, the house, the pets – the darling husbands float thru daily, making messes and requiring to be fed and once in a while they mow the lawn, take a kid to soccer or take out the trash. When the Mama is sick, she STILL gets the kids to school, does the laundry, cooks the dinner, yadda yadda yadda couldn’t you just SO quickly get tired of my incessant list making for godssake. Anyway, my point being – WHERE is Grandma Walton? You know, those people had it goin’ on, man. Sure, they were fictional t.v. characters, but who cares? They are going to prove my point to the hilt!! Back in “the day” extended families lived together, mostly out of necessity due to their rural or po’ in the big city lifestyle. Multi generational, yes indeed. While Mama hung clothes to dry, granny was in the kitchen with a few rug rats hangin’ on her apron while she prepped the fried chicken. And while she fried the chicken, her friggin’ laundry was being done. Bring a spinster or widowed Aunt into the mix and EVERYTHING gets done, but no one has to do it all by themselves!

We have given this up. In fact, we didn’t just give it up, we ran for the hills in desperation. We were vehement, nearly hysterical, thirsty for one singular thing. Privacy. Oh baby, don’t make me share a bathroom with ANYone! Hell, I don’t even want to share a flippin’ SINK. Yeah, I watch those house hunter shows and the prospective buyers go in there and they’re all up in arms and whining thru their spoiled American noses, “ooi, there’s not a double vanity in the master. Oh my Gawd.” You must be kidding me. So now we’re all private and can run around the house pseudo-nude and no one touches our toothpaste tube and WOW, what a bad trade we have made. Mostly the women got the rotten end of that stick, as mentioned in the previous paragraph, but men have lost something as well. How many times have I heard my husband say something like, “Maybe when Bob comes over next week we can move that book case…” Or hows about fixing broken things as a team. Something as simple as hauling away an old appliance, we now pay people to do it because Uncle Joe isn’t just “out in the barn” any more, ready and willing to help. But we have our privacy. And as we age, we have so much privacy that we need to wear little alert necklaces so strangers can be called when we’ve fallen and we can’t get up. If a grandchild were nearby, perhaps even bringing grandma a glass of water and learning about the value of service within her own family, someone would know that granny had fallen. Someone would be there to care. Jobs take people away, this is true. And that’s an unfortunate aside to our very mobile culture. But it doesn’t have to be family (and in many cases it probably shouldn’t be). Friends make the best family ever.

You know, we’re all so isolated. Often we e-mail instead of even calling each other on the phone. Much less drop by like Millie did to Rob & Laura’s house. So isolated, very private. It’s easy to hide our pain that way. Our struggles stay our own, the shameful secrets we think are original to us. So, you yell at your kids? No one has to hear. You and your husband have not slept in the same bed for two years? Who needs to know that? Maybe you wouldn’t feel like yelling at your kids if someone else had your back once in a while and you could think a straight thought. The price for all this seclusion is high. The suicide rate for adult/middle aged persons has gone up 20% between 1999-2004 (for U.S. residents age 45-54). Suicide is at it’s highest peak in 25 years for that age bracket. I don’t think it’s rocket science, but the fact is, the suicide rate for women in that age bracket is the highest. So, while I’m down here in my isolation chamber of a house feeling invisible, gee….maybe I am. See, in the Walton household you didn’t have enuf privacy to fall into a depressive stupor. You didn’t have enuf quiet time to stew and ruminate about your woe’s. If you found yourself sullenly staring out the kitchen window while standing over a pile of filthy dishes, you’d be jarred out of your stupor by the kind voice of your housemate asking, “Would you like some coffee, too? I just made it fresh….” And then you’d have to turn around and smile and say, “Sure. I’d like that.” But women of today, we don’t have someone in our kitchens to comfort us. We stand at the sink alone and have to bolster our SELVES and pep talk our SELVES. And some of us just – don’t – make – it.

I raise my glass to the Waltons. I wish I was one.

Dr. Patient, My Ass!

And so, when did it happen? When did patients become responsible and in charge of securing, transferring, gathering, understanding and analyzing their own medical records?

Recently I have been dealing with this, as my daughter went from her original orthopedic surgeon at one major hospital to another surgeon elsewhere. Surgeon #2 wanted a copy of her CT which had been ordered and completed by surgeon #1’s hospital. So, does surgeon #2 or his minion of underlings acquire this? No, and hell no. I, with the messed up child, am suddenly accountable for getting the correct form of this record to the doc. WTF? In the process, only part of the record arrived. “Well, did you have them send the report AND the study?” WHAT? I am a lay-person, OR lay-bitch, depending on how effin tired I am. With a nasty double-legged surgery hanging over our heads, it has befallen me to know the difference between a report and a study, make sure I have all phone numbers, fax numbers and mailing address to the appropriate surgeons and their organizations! AAAAARRRRGGGHHHH! AGAIN, WTF? And I am not alone in this quagmire of crapola. A gal pal of mine who is unfortunately dealing with unwanted ‘dots in her brain’ is also playing medical hopscotch with transferring her OWN tests, scans and results and she’s a nurse, so she knows mostly what’s going on – but people with no medical background can forget about it! If she didn’t already have tumors in her brain she would likely acquire them from the stress of having the tumor board meet at the world’s #1 ranked hospital only to then reveal to her, “Uhhhh, we didn’t have such-n-such scan”. Really? Really? Even tho she made numerous calls and had things FedEx’d to their asses. ‘Course, the stuff was found later, ‘Oh gee, looks like we really did have it after all. But the disk wasn’t marked.”….(by hospital #1) Even tho it came in the same envelope with her written report they could not seem to connect the dots that it belonged to HER. Whatever, holy crap, my god. And some of these particular doctorly parties work a mere city block from each other, and even tho they are surgeons apparently their hands are BROKEN because they can’t pick up a phone and call each other. And do NOT even use the defense of medical privacy. We’ve all signed so many medical releases we have carpel tunnel. So leave ME out of it! I am not the filling to your medical Oreo. It is NOT MY JOB TO KEEP IT ALL TOGETHER. That is why you, dear doctor, drive a Lexus and I drive a Hyundai.

When you are under medical duress, there is no more helpless feeling in the world. You are forced to rely on other people, people who are trained to help you and your loved ones. We adore our good docs. We love our brilliant surgeons. And I have enuf doctor friends and family to know that they also navigate the wretched world of modern American medicine and find it less than pleasant quite often. Their support staffs deal with angry, grumpy sick people day in and day out. Sure, less than fun. But as patient’s, who have not attended a thousand years of medical school, it would be such a bloody treat if we didn’t have to be sick AND play medical errand boy, or errand bitch, whatever the case may be. Medical hell has already rung me up! Must I also answer the door, fix it a snack and rub it’s stinky feet? I am the p a t i e n t. My child is suffering. SHE needs me, you shouldn’t. And you shouldn’t even damn well ask.

The International Language

Everyone’s heard the saying about love – “Ahhh, the international language.” Well, that’s hogwash. The international language is pain.

Last week I spent some time on a pediatric ward of a very good hospital, Mt. Sinai in Baltimore. My daughter was there for surgery on both of her legs to correct complications from a horrendous lawn mower accident she had in 2006. She was barely 7 then, now she’s 9, and its still not over for her. Much of her childhood will be shaped by her mower story, but I believe it will become more of a badge of courage than a cross to bear.

So, back to the international language. It’s pain. And I know this from sharing a hospital room with a family from Greece, whose 9 year old daughter, a veteran of surgery herself, was recovering simultaneously with Estelle. They were in separate surgical suites at precisely the same time, woke up in recovery together and then suffered the same post-operative maladies. Both girls had grueling pain that was difficult to control, anguishing nausea that would not go away and low-grade fevers. It was so quiet in that room. Too quiet for two little girls and their families. There should have been more chatter, more complaining, more anything. But mostly, a stifling silence which was only broken by the sound of beeping machines, nurses inquiring about pain and then, the occasional international experience of audible pain. “Ouu”. Like ouch, but without the hard ch at the end. Just “Ouu, ouu, ouu.” Every time they tried to move poor Lydia from Greece, whom I never heard speak a word of English, we sadly heard loud and clear, “OUU, OUU”! And then something in Greek over and over, which when I asked her mother translated to, ”I can’t, I can’t”. The halls of the ward were littered with wheelchairs, machines of every ilk, and worst of all, children in pain. They reclined in wheelchairs with their legs elevated, barf buckets resting on their stomachs, their parents hovering over with pained exhausted faces and holding white, styrofoam cups with straws, beseeching their darlings to drink. Please drink. We overheard many languages during our brief stay and enjoyed a cultural array of great diversity. But what we did not enjoy was watching the children suffer. Lydia’s parents: Their English was brilliant. They come to America for her surgeries, now numbering 10 I believe (Like Estelle) and they are often here for months at a time while she undergoes physical therapy. They must negotiate temporary housing and rental cars and friggin’ MEDICAL CARE, in their second language. I felt like a heel, remembering complaining about the traffic on our 40 minute drive to Sinai. Lydia’s parents were stricken down by the travel gods and somewhere over Germany their luggage was lost. And now here they were, “Ouu, ouu” – moans of pain that were knives to their hearts. The perseverance, I can’t even begin to describe to you. A parent with a ‘child down’ will do absolutely every thing required to aid that child and themselves, be forgotten. For days, weeks, as long as it takes. The film Life Is Beautiful comes to mind now.

Anyway, Estelle forced herself to eat and began to recover. Lydia still struggled, tho on 3 anti-nausea medications plus a patch behind her ear. As we were packing up to leave I felt a wash of guilt. Our daughter was up and playing Wii Godzilla in the game room and their daughter was staring blankly at the television, her hollow eyes drifting in and out of sleep, not eating, not speaking. Awful. I gave them our contact information and begged them to call if they needed help of any kind. They had already given me their information with the sentiment, “If you ever come to Greece”…. And I know they meant it, because that’s the kind of people the Greek’s are. My best friend is Greek, tho quite American-Greek, yet she identifies with those people and culture and is extremely proud of her heritage. She even moved there, married a Greek man, became fluent and even tho she’s crossed the globe and is now “Japanese”, she misses her Greek exposure tremendously. (Tho not her first Greek husband) I wanted to help Lydia’s family, but I really couldn’t. You can’t take away your own child’s pain and you sure as hell can’t take away anyone else’s.

So this week I concluded that it’s pain. The universal word we all know is “Ouu”. The only other thing that seems to be completely universal is a smile, implied love. We all tried some of that, too.

Clean Or Dirty

And so I have decided that you can always tell whether someone is clean or dirty by their microwave. Dirty, which is not the same thing as messy, brings with it all sorts of headaches – especially if you have to live with said dirty person. Dirty also totes along with it such fine attributes like: lazy, apathetic, slothful, careless, procrastinating, remiss, and even unindustrious and self serving. Yep, sofa spud. And need we mention…..bugs.

Certainly I am famous for an absolute pile of clothing next to the bed, otherwise known as ‘the nest’. Absolutely, I will leave a suitcase unpacked for 3 months. I believe this arises from a deep seated notion that an unpacked suitcase implies the trip is truly over. However, the instant something spills over in the microwave (usually soup because I’m a soup-a-holic and I like it hot, baby) I am compelled to wipe it up instantly. For if you do not, I believe that then a bedrock of nastiness begins, wherein a crust has been laid down for future drippings. And God help the soul who does not COVER their microwaveables!!!! FIE!! Fie on you, Strumpet! Pop! Blast! Splat! Eeeewwww. People, it cannot happen that way. I say to thee, if you are looking for a roomate, a mate or cohort of any type, I beseech you to check their microwave! Why, I believe it is the foundation for all tell-tale lifestyle habits. If someone won’t even take 10 seconds to wipe down the tomato soup from the ceiling God, they didn’t cover it of the microwave, what makes you think they will EVER do their own dishes, wipe their feet on the door mat, or stoop down and pick up the ice cube that just fell out while they were fixing themselves a drink (but never offering you one) and leaving you to sadly discover Mr. Melty Ice in your freshly laundered white socks – brrrrr – and soggy – !! In fact, I don’t think it goes too far to say that a hooligan of such folly, one so narcissistic as to conduct themselves in this way, would quite qualify as a sociopath and is not to be TRUSTED! Wet socks. The grossest of the gross.

All successful places of employ have clean microwaves. On that job interview, see if you can excuse yourself (or pretend to get lost) and accidentally-on-purpose find yourself in the break room. If that microwave is starting its own colony of life, get the hell out and don’t look back! You do not want to work with those slobs. For if they will allow their heat-n-eat machine to fall into such fright, what makes you think they will double check those figures they sent you to include in your report or god forbid, file ANYthing? Yes, run for hills my underemployed friend! You are surrounded by vulgar philistines who will drag you down into the muck and mire of failure. Pigs. Besides, take a whiff of that microwave man. Nasty. You wanna be sniffin’ on that as you hungrily heat your Dinty Moore?

And with all of this now in the forefront, need I mention what this would mean for BATHROOM habits? Holy crap.

Enuf said. So, are you clean or dirty? 😉

Soupily Yours,

Feisty Housewife

A Morning Mail

Directly from my “out” box, to the darling husband.

Well, it finally happened. This morning while we were walking to the bus I noticed Estelle walking with a pronounced limp. I asked her to try to walk normal, but she could not. I asked her, “What’s wrong?” And she said, “My ankle over here feels funny,” while lifting her left foot off the ground. The she said, “I don’t know why.” So I said, “Well, I do honey. That’s why we had to see Dr. Herzenberg. Your ankle might be growing a little crooked.” Her response? “Should I worry about this today at school?” Of course I told her no and that a crooked ankle can’t kill you and so she shouldn’t worry, but you see – the instant she hears something is up she will begin to worry, and that’s why we are not going to tell her a darn thing until the day prior to the surgery. There’s no point in it.

I have already called Dr. Herzenberg’s office to try to bump up the surgery. I have called the school to speak to the P.E. guys and find out what unit they are doing right now, as I think Estelle will have trouble doing anything with vigorous leg involvement like jumping rope, running, etc. Dr. Herzenberg’s secretary is going to tell him what’s going on, but her main issue was that the calendar was not showing any open surgical time before our scheduled appt. He is booked solid. SO- I do NOT want this child in pain and if they can’t bump up the surgery then we are going to have to deal with pain management.

When she said her ankle felt funny and didn’t know why tears came burning into my eyes instantly and I had to choke them back just as quickly. I could NOT let her see me upset – and boy, where are the academy awards for Mommy’s I sure as hell would like to know…..

I am not going to pilates right now. I feel like I’m going to puke. I’ll make the self defense class and try to make the best of that.

Love,
Wif

You know, being in “the club” is so painful. The parent club. One of our local families just lost a child in a car accident last Saturday night, the older brother behind the wheel, and that should simply be illegal. I mean, God should make a rule – pass a law or something. Parents should NOT have to bury their children, period. When you have children it’s as if your heart is walking around outside your body and you can’t protect it from…from….evil and accidents and pain and crap and anything the world can dish out. The world has a LARGE arsenal full of painful trappings to hurl at your babies and you stand there, braced, with your legs planted firmly and your arms shooting out from each side of you as if you’re trying to block a mac truck from getting past you. And no matter how resolutely you stand, no matter how steadfastly you hold, you and your baby get knocked on your ass. I guess all you can do is hang on to each other for dear life, literally in some cases, and try to get back up.

Dr. Herzenberg’s secretary just called back and they’ve bumped up the surgery. It seems strange to be ‘happy’ the my child is going under the knife sooner than later – and of course the bedrock of motherhood woo’s us to NEVER have anything painful happen to our children, and stay away from her with that drill & scalpel or I’ll punch your lights out, but I just want it over. Today we are scheduling a surgery, but other families are planning funerals for their darlings. I’m going to stop now and pray for them. They must need it so.  I cannot imagine.

Join me?

Steli At Sea

Housewife Schmousewife

It has come to my attention that the word Housewife is somewhat….distasteful, pedestrian, or otherwise mind numbing to some of our strong women types. Well, and now I’ve thought about this quite a bit, there are certainly other more colorful words to encapsulate what I do. The naming of this blog was cogitated on profusely. Ending up a suburban house frau after being the chick singer in a rock band for 20 years was – uh – let’s put it like this; Holding a microphone is waaaay sexier than holding a dish rag…isn’t it? Instead of taking the stage, I take out the garbage. Finding your head in a toilet because you’re cleaning it is not nearly as colorful a story as finding your head in the toilet because your keyboard player told the bartender to double all your drinks on the sly. Tanqueray and I are still not friends. But I did learn a fascinating lesson in gravity and physics and the effects of speed vs. vomit and its repercussions to the side of a 1987 Buick while it’s in motion. Thank God for open all night car washes.

Domestic Goddess, Homestead Engineer, and slap me sick! When you look up the meaning to the word housewife it actually lists “maid” & “servant” as definitions! AAAAAACK!!! Holy Hoover, what have I gotten myself into? I used to walk into the recording studio and all the boys would know the whip was about to be cracked. The only female in the bunch and not willing to just sit there and look pretty. But I think they liked it that way. They didn’t have to engage their wee little brains as much if I were there stomping around and demanding a better take, a finer e.q. on the snare, and hoping I would bring them beer – leaning over when I delivered it. I enter the room now, “Mom, I need a snack.” I sit down to create, “Mom, where’s Blackberry?” (A rat puppet).

Night after night, there is no applause for the dinner I’ve prepared. When all the laundry is finished and put away (God I hate that part) no one wants my autograph. Hmmm. And why NOT for Godssake? Because it’s not extraordinary. It’s not special. The mundane is the death of the housewife’s brain. The same 24 chores over and over like a dumbed down robot.

Or wait. Maybe it’s not all that bad? “Thank you for the food, Mommy” chimes my darling daughter. Who, when I met her, was starving to death in a Chinese orphanage. “Mommy, we are SO spoiled! Thank you!”, during a trip to the dollar store to buy one item, says my other daughter who spent 7 years in a hell hole in Kazakhstan and never had a toy of her own until we showed up. Jee’s, toys? She didn’t have shoes or food. I am here, because they are here. Or are they here because I am here? Hard to tell, eh? I have to look at myself as the glue to this puzzle of people and chores. All women are the glue, period. Sticky stuff, we women. And strong as nails!! Granted, glue is not colorful, sometimes it doesn’t smell so hot, and it has a singular job that appears to be one dimensional. But when the glue does not show up everything falls apart. Pieces of people’s lives all over the floor, nothing cohesive. Of course I luvs me a good man, and I married one, but if the Mommy didn’t know where all the doctor’s were, what the school schedules were and how to wear – literally – a thousand friggin’ hats, the show would fall flat on it’s face. My performance now is not glamorous. I don’t have stage clothes any more. I have a home and a family to manage and I can’t watch American Idol because some of the singers are so rotten I have to fight the urge to hurl my t.v. thru the patio door. I’m too old to be an “Idol” now. Unless you’re already famous, no one wants to see a 40 something chick jump around on the stage in an attempt to be ‘cool’. That idea is embarrassing. Cringe, cringe.

I’ve set myself up in the golden ghetto. Suburban sprawl is my landscape. But to my children I’m a teacher of all things we hold dear and I guess you can just call me “Elmer” because I’ve decided that I’m fairly happy and blessed to be the glue. Unglamorous, anti-dazzling, unexciting, humdrum glue. HUMAN glue.

Please enjoy these before and after photos. #1. Recording with my songwriting partner. #2. Assembling Tsunami toiletries packs.

My my, how the times do change, don’t they? And that’s o.k. The world can do without another lousy rock star wanna-be. Love, Elmer – The Housewife

Thank You, Mr. President

This morning we are going to take our darling 9 year old girl to a surgeon. A guru of bones. She needs surgery on her legs to correct a bone growth issue that is happening due to complications from a severe riding lawn mower accident that happened two years ago. A 20 second FREAK accident, and I mean freak – because we had rules in place and the mower was NOT a riding toy and the children were not to be in the yard when the mower was being used and on and on….Anyway, our 20 second accident which cost my baby girl most of her right foot, part of her left hand and absolutely demolished her left foot and ankle and was only spared by a genius super-hero girl doctor at Johns Hopkins (Dr. Sargent we love you) has turned into 2 years. The surgery she needs is complicated and has a high risk of failure. There are scenario’s in which her outcome would be peachy-keen. God knows I have tossed in my bed, racking my brain so I could run these idea’s by the surgeons. So I threw my brilliant “what if we did this” collection by Dr. Sargent and do you know what she just kept saying to me? “Well, if we had more stem cell research this could have already been done by now.” What? “Yes, it would be great if we could do that, but not yet.” She just kept saying, “Not yet”. Not yet, NOT YET! As she sat there gestating.

SOOOOOH, 8 years of idiots! 8 years of morons who only seem to bang their drum for life before you get here, but after that baby, they’ll throw you to the hounds if it serves their wallets. (& the trumped up doctrine they carry it around in.) In the exam room my blood pressure was skyrocketing, tears streaming, rage building. I’ve been blocked. Thwarted by backwards cretins with an agenda straight from hell. I’d like to show up on the steps of the White House with a picnic basket of whoop ass, and the White House is only a short drive away….wait, you’d rather not get arrested, right?

So here I sit. My baby girl just came and crawled into my lap. She is simply the sweetest thing, a true lap child with a sensitive heart as big as the sky. She does not know what is about to happen to her. But soon we will have to tell her that she’ll be going under the knife yet again, tho I can’t quite explain to her, “But honey, it may not work.” I’d like Mr. Bush to come explain that to her. I’d like to see him get some “hands on” experience while looking deep into the eyes of innocence, and watching those eyes become fraught with fear and sadness. But that won’t happen. He’s left that to me, and appropriately so – I’m the mother, I’m the bearer of bad news, the news of his agenda and how it’s going to make her life more difficult. And then I think of the young men and women getting blasted out of their hum-v’s, tho none of them in the President or Vice President’s families, yet they are there, and may never return home and we certainly know that many of those brave soldiers will come home missing more parts than my baby girl. So there’s no accounting for ‘fair’ and there’s little control over the current state of affairs.

Mr. President, won’t you come with me today to see the surgeon? He’s going to tell me (probably) the same thing Dr. Sargent had to tell me. Not yet. Sorry. Maybe next administration…..

Too bad Stella’s too young to vote.

P.S. I don’t remember being a stem cell. Do you?

Frozen In Isle 9

And so I’m performing my wifely/motherly chore by schlepping to the grocery store to procure goods for the family. And I’m lucky. I have the health and the money to do this. Women in Sudan today? Maybe not so much – health nor wealth. But as I’m cruising the isles I find myself moving slower and slower. Gaping at a can of condensed soup. Hesitating as I toss a bag of extra wide egg noodles (no cholesterol ‘ya know) into the cart. Floundering in the produce isle then finally chucking the package of organic baby carrots onto the pile in my cart. Finally, apparently, in the meat dept. and at the top of isle 9, I froze completely. I had my behind planted against the turkey case, slightly overflowing since Easter is over, (the case was overflowing, not my behind) 🙂 staring blankly at an end cap full of Hamburger Helper. 10 for $10. Now there’s a deal for a handful of pasta and some chemicals in a pouch, but admit it, that stuff can be tasty. From around the corner comes one of the most beloved people in my zip code. She finds me in my zobie state and is worried. “Are you all right?” What a loaded question. I mutter, “Yeah, sure. I’m fine.” Then I perk up, and I put on the social face necessary to ease her mind because this gal is the epitome of benevolent and I was not about to cause her worry. She spearheaded an enormous fund raiser for my family when my most darling baby girl was struck by a riding lawn mower and suffered tremendous trauma, including amputations to her feet and hands. Um, Yeah, that’s an entire friggin’ BOOK and for today I am not going there, except to say that my paralyzed condition was partly due to a pending visit with a surgeon. A visit that will only garner bad news and force us to choose between two horrific surgeries. It’s been two years since the accident and we’ve got complications. Complications. Sigh and sweet Jesus. Anyway, the foundation of my blank stare was also due to my inability to accept the OUTRAAAGEOUS prices I was finding at the store. Sounds friggin’ ridiculous compared to what I just revealed about my daughter, but frankly, being raked over the coals at the grocery store was chapping my hide big time. And beyond that, I just couldn’t believe it- the prices I was seeing. It was like I was in denial and finally wound down like a 3 day clock heading into day 4. $1.79 for a can of condensed soup? My ass! So I guess I was like a statue, seized up with demoralization. The weight of what was happening with my child on one hand, and the trivial and irritating grocery crunch in the other. That’s what I was fighting. I was having a mini-war in my own head, and obviously the gears were grinding. To a halt. So, when we talk to this surgeon we should probably just do what he recommends….he’s the guru….people come from all over the world to see this cat. Holy crap, can you believe this organic milk costs $6.75 a gallon? She’ll be growing more new bone, I don’t want a bunch of chemical swill in her system. And how’s about those effers at OPEC anyway? The price of gas is driving up the price of every damn thing… So, do you think Hamburger Helper is really all that bad for you? I’d like to strangle those greedy bastard oil traders!! 10 for $10, hmmmm.

I’ve been shopping for my family for a long time. I’ve never seen it this bad. 4 years ago we moved to the East Coast and I had a rude price awakening then but have since adjusted. Normally, when you jaunt over to buy some mushrooms for beef stroganoff there is something on sale. Maybe it’s the packaged whole ones, maybe the sliced, maybe the bulk/loose ones, but by all that’s good and right by God, somebody’s got a deal. Nope. Apples? Forget about it. Nothing on special. Cheese? Nobody home. I kept passing items and moving slower and slower, reluctant to put anything in my cart. Well, you just can’t shop that way, idiot! Gotta eat to live, moron. And how are people on fixed incomes doing this? How? I even called the darling husband. “Hey. I’m freaking out at the store. Everything is so expensive I don’t want to buy anything.” He’s a Fed with a very level head and he said, “Try not to let it get to you. You can’t do anything about it.” YEAH, And I can’t do anything about my baby’s GD legs either and I think my head is going to explode right here in this grocery store because having no power, no control, has left me stonewalled. Yes, like an Austin Powers Fembot, it did not compute! And instead of ‘going postal’ or terrorizing the place with an attitude from hell, I simply froze. Housewife, frozen, Isle 9.

The angels had sent my benevolent neighbor to gently tap me back to life, and she offered her prayers when I told her of our medical complications, and my goodness – what a tonic. We chatted for a while, I asked about her kids, and a small connection with a caring soul became my saving grace for the day. The din in my head of prices and scalpels and what is in the checking account anyway had been replaced with a kind voice, a friendly smile. Support. We can all do that for someone, and I’m sure my fund raising angel really has no idea from what depths she pulled me yesterday. I’d like to hope I’ll be paying it forward, or even back to her, but I’ll need to find a way to keep the love rollin’ on. Eeegad, I sound like a big honkin’ sap right now! I believe God expects me to use that love to benefit another. So if I can cheer you up in any way, or help you, please write me. Even if your hands are frozen. I’ve pried my backside out of isle 9 (with a little help from my friend) and am looking to count my blessings. You too?

Qualified Crapola

And so my baby brother (the Golden Child) asks, “What makes you so qualified to blog? Do you have anything of real value to blog about? I mean, why would anybody care about what you have to say?” I had come to him all revved up about entering “Blog-World” and hoped to strip him of some know how. I’m a SAHM, (Stay At Home Mom) Damn it! Ask me to do 5 chores while simultaneously herding semi-cooperative children, but don’t ask me to purchase a domain name!! Qualified, eh? I felt my ire perk. Good question, he’s playing devil’s advocate, don’t knee jerk him into the next yard. And so I began: “Well, I’m half done. If I live to be 90, my life is already half over. My qualifications come from surviving a lot of crap.” For those of you who wish to continue reading (and you know you want to), I’ll quick like throw you an introductory laundry list.

I slam dunked ‘insurmountable’ cancer, fell off an airplane at 3,000 feet (yes, off of one, not out of one), was the chick singer in a rock band for 20 years, lost a 2nd trimester baby (We miss you Elaine), was trapped underneath a flipped canoe in a flooded river, was engaged to 4 different guys (married one 13 years ago and he’s still wondering what the hell happened there), I saw an angel once, in 3 years of waiting tables I never had one customer complaint (try that anyone, I dare you). I’ve helped several people die, one year I moved 13 times, I’m educated enuf to know that you don’t have to be formally educated to succeed, I traveled the world and adopted two orphaned girls, once I took an overdose of Xanax and had to be taken to the hospital, I regret not serving in the military when I had the chance, and finally – everyone from professors to housewives (who are every bit as qualified as professors) have been telling me for 30 years that I should be a writer. The aforementioned glib advisors were probably hoping that I would write instead of speak so….often….and voraciously. And so I write. I figure this is the perfect time, as I still have the perception of myself as “hip” & “cool” but garner quite a load of experience under my skirt. Here’s how I figure this. I have Green Day and Linkin Park loaded on my i-pod and I know who Korn is, but the nice young man who bags my groceries now calls me “ma’am”. Jee’s I’m screwed. Ma’am? No, PUNK – that’s my MOTHER! Of course, one of my favorite vocalists of all time is Jo Stafford and if you’re old enuf to know who she is, I’ll give you five bucks. (Not really). Also, I secretly want to be Courtney Love. Gawd, she’s so messed up yet simultaneously brilliant it’s almost beautiful. You’re shaking your head. Do your research. Plus, no one can wear smeared mascara like that bitch can. I tried it once and absolutely looked like a homeless psychiatric patient. I’d also like to be Madeline Albright. See? Whack.

In 1993 I met Deepak Chopra and he agreed with everything I said. So there. I’m qualified. My plan is to simply share life experiences and some strategies I’ve used that have not only helped me survive, but have led me to find myself humming while I mop. If you decide to continue reading this blog, it’s going to be a mix of bliss and rage. (Because sometimes I cuss a blue streak while I mop). Want to come have a sippy-pooh of the cocktail which is my life? Perhaps you’ll find something helpful, something hurtful, something ha-ha. At any rate, I’m no expert. I’ve just survived a lot of crap – like many of you – and I’m happy about it. Not happy that you’ve had crap, happy that I’ve survived the crap…..and obviously you’ve survived it too, up until today anyhow…..

And so, Little Bruthuh, you’ve made it into my very first blog. As always, it’s all about you darlin’ – the Chosen One. Maybe he can fly 1,000 miles and help make my blog page fancy. Those Chosen types oughtta be good for somethin’.