Tribute to an "old" friend.

Preamble:

I wrote this in response to Kirstin's request. She very sweetly is putting together a book of memories for her mother's (Bit's) fiftieth birthday.

Bits and I became friends sophomore year of high school. Given the fact that I'd meanly maligned her to another student during a spring concert freshman year and that her mother overheard me, it's sort of miraculous that we ever managed a friendship. But chance stepped in, slapped us in a class together—Geometry, Mr. Ephraimoff with the really bad cow-pie comb over—and my unfair,  preconcieved notions about her fell away.

Bits was always bursting with juice: gossip, humor, schemes, drama--the essential elements of fun. While I had other gal pals to make michief with (toilet papering, crank calls, late night carousing—the usual shenanigans) when I was with Bits it seemed that things were more likely to go haywire or not according to plan—as if there ever was one. There was something daring about her, and at that time, I was a girl who needed a little dare to keep things interesting.

That being said, it's not like we ever did anything really bad or criminal, (although as I write this, I have to admit I'd forgotten about the shoplifting), but there were a couple of events that I shake my head and wonder about. Was that really Bits? Was that really me? Good to remember that the stuff you get up to in high school doesn't define you as a person. It just means you had your chance to be a hairbrained high schooler and you took it.

Here is the letter I wrote for my dear friend. 

"Perfection" being a subjective word of course.

Dearest, Bits, aka, Elizabeth, aka, one of a few of my high school partners in crime, aka, current day media personality The Reluctant Therapist:

I was honored to be asked to dig deep down into the memory banks—back to the olden days of the mid-to-late seventies, back to the time of goofy, cut-throat high school politics, self-involved teenage angst and boy-centric diffidence. I’ve unearthed a few items I thought you’d enjoy and perhaps a few you’d prefer to forget. Because what’s the good without the bad? Be glad I don’t have a spring-trap brain that clings to every remnant because I’m quite sure I’ve forgotten lots of stuff—probably for very good reasons.

Some noteworthy gems:

·         Your mother overhearing me say unflattering things about you at a school concert before we were friends and to my absolute horror, having the story repeated back to me by you. Have I ever told you how much I appreciated your forgiveness? My big, occasionally obnoxious mouth thanks you as well. Given our tender ages that could have so easily caused permafrost. I’m so glad it didn’t. And if I didn’t do a good job apologizing at the time, let me say again how sorry I am. Insecurity can be an ugly thing.

·         Rotating birthday parties. Surprise sweet 16s, being kidnapped for breakfast and having to go to school in pajamas—was that for 17? It began with me in January, then Denise in February then you in March.

·         Sleepovers, sleepovers and more sleepovers!

·         Monterey Dunes.  The hot tub.  Jamie’s wet jockstrap landing on my face.  Jamie, WTF?

·         Breaking up and getting back together. You and I. Several times.

·         Sophomore year I started it, then you took it up, and Denise finished it: sequential crushes on Sean Trippi. As I recall, Denise won that prize; he certainly seemed like a prize at the time. I’ve gotta be honest, I got over it then and there, but I still remember the sting.

·         Our junior year road trip to Fresno State and UCSB. Remember stopping at Anderson’s Split Pea House, Casa de Fruita, and how terrified you were of my driving? Remember your dad warning us about the dangers of Pacheco Pass? Your dark green Camero survived and so did we. Of course we did. We were 17 and invincible.

·         Being included in enough Weissenborn family gatherings to wish I was a relative rather than a friend.

·         The Dwyers. I wonder from time to time how they’re all doing. Would love to see what those boys-turned-men are up to these days. I envision Brian struggling, Billy gliding, and both of them still not liking each other very much. Reminds me of another couple of other siblings I know but I’m not naming names. Ah… Some things never change even when you wish they would.

·         A story I wish I could forget or better yet, have expunged from the record: Altos Oaks. How exactly the whole thing transpired I can’t explain. It was then and still remains completely out of character for me and for you too—to my knowledge.  In retrospect, it seems like I only watched the movie but, no, we starred in it. Leading lady, Lyn Nave, in the back seat playing tonsil hockey with two boys a year younger. Leading lady, Bits Weissenborn, with you-know-who (at least he was in our class), practicing her lip-lock and padding her make out resume. I’m blaming you, because I cannot for a second imagine such a thing happening with any other friend of mine. As far as I know this tale never made the gossip rounds—thanks be to God. I still cannot believe it was us in that car. Strangely enough, this is one of my husband’s favorite stories about me from high school.

·         And never to be forgotten (although I know you wish it would): the flaming popcorn/exploding beer babysitting event of senior year. In short story form the title would be: “How to do Nearly Everything Wrong on a Babysitting Gig”. Thankfully, at the end of the night everyone was OK, if more than a tad bit frightened.  I can still hear that little boy asking, “Is my refrigerator going to catch on fire?” And weren’t they the same Altos Oaks boys who invaded the house playing football with a can of beer? OY! The last thing any parent wants is to come home to a house smelling of liquor, burnt popcorn, and Lysol. We did the only thing reasonable—told the truth. Talk about your crunchy moments. Oof.

Darling, beautiful, friend—

Isn’t evolution a wonderful thing? With age comes all kinds of excellent things: wisdom, patience, acceptance, and ability to see things from beyond our own perspectives. I’m so glad to have had the chance to see life through your eyes from time to time.

Just remember, you hit fifty; fifty did not hit you. Be sure to keep that as your goal in the many, wonderful years to come.

In closing, I’m including the blog posting I made when I made the 50 milestone in January. You can run but you can’t hide.

Hello? Fifty's Here

Today you are 50. Five decades. Half a century.Two score and ten. No matter what you call it or how you slice it, 50 is, well...let’s say it’s substantial. It's got some heft. It packs a punch and cannot be sidestepped. It means business. Fifty knocks on your door bold and brash as life itself, because that’s of course what it is, and you have no choice to but to answer it.

I propose that turning 50 is like a knock, knock joke.

“Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Fifty.”
Your head rushes as your heart gives a funky double beat. Holy shit! Fifty?! How did this happen?you wonder. You try to gather yourself and hesitate before responding with your gut reaction.
“The person you’re looking for is not here.”
“Oh, please! Don’t be coy. YOU are the person I’m meeting today.”
“Uh…Could you come back some other time? I’m really not ready for you today.”
“Sorry, ma'am. Today is the day, YOUR day, the day you turn officially middle-aged.”
“I, uh…could you just give me a little time to spruce up and get myself together? How about tomorrow? I could meet you tomorrow.”
“Today is YOUR day. Don’t worry. I know what you look like and how together you are and are not. Just open up. I promise not to hurt you.”

You gasp. Is it possible you heard a garbled “much” at the end of that last sentence? You fear this is the case. You calm yourself by taking deep breaths and consider logically what to do. After some reflection, and seeing no escape, as much as you really don’t want to, you determine that you will meet Fifty on your own terms. You decide if you have to do this—and apparently, you do—you will do it graciously. You have your shoulders back and head held high when you open the door and look Fifty straight in the eye.

The big Five-Oh looks decidedly older than the less significant Four-Oh and somewhat more fragile and out of shape. Five-Times-Ten doesn’t seem to be bothered by the thickening of her waist or embarrassed by the dark splotches that have begun to show on her face, although you find these changes rather disconcerting. It's been a while since Ms. Fifty has been to the hair dresser. You can tell because the gray and mousy brown is showing in her part and at her exposed temple. You notice Ms. Half-Century has brought you a copy of AARP magazine, the publication which will from now on grace your mail box every month; it’s there in her jacket pocket.

And by the way, that jacket—oof! Fifty needs to get a better stylist because plaid corduroy wasn’t a good look even fifty years ago. You think you might do her a favor by mentioning this and suggesting a nice medium weight charcoal gray wool blazer instead, but you’re distracted from saying anything because you’re not sure but you think you can hear Fifty’s joints creaking just a teeny bit as she shifts from foot to foot. Her sensible shoes—Naturalizers—make you blink, trying to clear the vision. At best, the footwear can only be described as beige, frumpy and cankle-inducing. There is a definite whiff of cantankerousness emanating from the enlarged pores of her slightly sagging skin and you wonder if she’s noticed the faint budding of jowls on either side of her once charmingly dimpled chin. The chin cleft doesn’t reach the alluring depths it used to because it's been filled in with a substantial layer of subcutaneous fat. Whatever sex appeal Fifty may have possessed hit the skids at least a year or more ago. You hold back a shudder, not wanting to hurt her feelings.

She looks at you triumphantly with a certain tinge of smugness thrown in that you suppose is meant to keep you humble. You shake off your dread, tell yourself that despite any appearances to the contrary, you are an adult and will act accordingly. With a deep breath of resolve you try to make the best of the situation by smiling, extending your hand and saying,

“Thank you. Thanks so much for coming, Fifty. You’ve brought a lot of changes with you. I want you to know I appreciate the wisdom you’ve shown me in the last decade. You've offered me a deeper perspective and broader understanding of life and how it works. I have more tolerance, am less judgemental and am trying to keep an open, questing mind. There is still so much I need to learn. I want you to know I am truly grateful for your time.”

Instead of shaking your optimistically offered hand, Madam Fifty deposits the wretched AARP magazine into your proffered palm and says,
“You’re supposed to say, ‘Fifty who?’”
“What?!” You’re confused. Here you are trying to be a good sport about all this and Two-Times-Twenty-five is ignoring your good intentions. What in the hell is she talking about?
“You’re supposed to ask me ‘Fifty who?’ That’s how the joke goes. Remember? Knock, knock?”
“Oh. Right.” You want to show Fifty that despite her disenchanting presence you are still in possession of your well-developed sense of humor. You play along. “OK. Fifty who?”
“Fifty, your new decade.Geeze, woman! Pay attention. Have you gone senile already?”

You muster a wan smile, shake your head and roll your eyes. Along with being a supremely snappy dresser, Fifty is clearly one bitch of a laugh riot.

The best is still to come. I truly believe that. Hoisting a glass in your honor: Cheers, dahlink!

xoxoxo,

Lyn

GHOST IN THE MACHINE




Looks pretty innocent, doesn't it? Cue ominous, foreboding music...

 
Despite the fact that I'm a scientist and  am not religious in the traditional sense of the word, I do in truth, believe in ghosts. It’s generally not a thing I blurt out for everyone to hear because I’m well aware that people tend to think you’re a crackpot when you say stuff like that. But in light of what I’m about discuss, I think it's fair you know this in advance.

I probably wouldn't be so sure about the presence of ghosts except for the fact that I’ve seen one. I was 21 when a ghost of unknown origin appeared to me in the middle of the night. It was not a hallucination. I was not dreaming. The reason I know I was not dreaming is because I was wide awake while she—the apparition—hovered at the foot of my bed, and I remained wide awake until sunrise finally melted me out of my petrified state many hours later. While she floated near my feet, my ghostess had both hands outstretched as if wanting something from me, but I didn’t know what she needed. I was pretty sure I didn’t have whatever it was, but I was very sure I wanted her to go away. She was opaque and slightly glowing in the classical way that ghosts are portrayed in cinema. Her clothes were turn-of-the-nineteenth-century, ragged and dirty. She appeared to be a beggar.

In response to her presence, I froze. An almost full-body paralysis overcame me. In that moment I knew precisely the meaning of the phrase “scared stiff.” The only things I was able to move were my eyeballs. I couldn’t turn my head, but found I could avert my eyes. So I looked away from her as far as I could. In my peripheral vision her image persisted. She remained levitating but still for maybe another 30 seconds, arms and hands beseeching. That half minute seemed like an eternity. She faded while I remained tightly clenched, an overwrought mound of panicked protoplasm.

When enough light infiltrated the curtains many hours later, I got up cautiously and with no small amount of trepidation, crept out of my room and told my mom about it. She’d been sleeping in another room across the hall and had neither heard nor seen anything unusual. For the next four weeks I slept in the same room and, thankfully, the needy spirit left me in peace. My mom, who lived in that house another year or two, never saw her or any signs of her.

Subsequently, I worried that maybe I was one of "those" people—the kind of person to whom ghosts feel the need to make their presence known. A few years after this event, I attended a neuroscience conference in New Orleans and was lodged in the French Quarter in what used to be slave housing. In modern times the place had been refurbished—Big Easy bungalows was how I thought of them. I figured if there was any place likely to be haunted, this was it. My week’s stay was uneventful and unmarred by anything that could remotely be described as eerie. In a town overflowing with voodoo and other supernatural fallderall, I felt a sense of relief. I must not be susceptible to ghosts after all. Whew!

Nothing paranormal happened in the next twenty-plus years so I stopped worrying about it. Although I had talked to two people who'd had similar experiences, (there is some comfort in hearing other peoples’ spirit stories—makes you feel less crazy) I didn’t dwell on my apprehension of apparitions. I was over it.

Then, about eight years ago, we took a family trip to Newfoundland.  It was Tim—my husband-to-be—his two kids, Katie and Mike, and my son, Theo. The kids were fourteen, thirteen and nine respectively. Turns out Newfoundland is bursting with ghost stories. I’ve never been to a place so heavily laden with tales from the crypt. We talked about, but didn’t end up taking a walking tour of the capital, St. John’s, which highlighted ghosts and haunted places. I bought a book of collected spook stories of the island. You could say we were immersed in the incorporeal.

On the last leg of our stay in Newfoundland we rented a house in the town of Trinity. Trinity’s claim to fame is that it’s where the movie, “The Shipping News” was filmed. In addition, Trinity seems to have more than its fair share of ghost legends, even for Newfoundland. There was a high incidence of drowning in Trinity Bay and the local sentiment is that those sodden souls cling to the area relentlessly. Admittedly, by this point of the trip my spirit sense was heightened.

The house we rented was old but had a clean, modern look and had been somewhat recently remodeled. It was simple, with two stories, three bedrooms and one-and-a-half bathrooms. We stayed for three nights. Every evening the wind picked up and I’d hear knocking against the outside of the house. On the second night I asked Tim to see what was making the noise. He reported and I verified: There was nothing near or touching the house that could be responsible for making the sound. Huh, I thought. Weird.

On the last night of our stay, we watched "Casablanca" on videotape. While the five of us watched, the channel on the TV changed all by itself three separate times. We changed it back and continued with the movie. Then again, without human intervention, the TV switched off. We switched it back on and were able to get to the end of the film. I went to sleep that last night hearing the ever-present knocking apparently emanating from nowhere.

I said nothing to the kids or even to Tim until we got back to the States. Once home, I brought up how extraordinary the Trinity events seemed. I told Tim I thought the place was haunted—not in an evil way, just a sort of eerie, annoying way. Then he told me something he’d not mentioned before. When the leasing agent walked him around the house and the rest of us were out of earshot, she told him that under no circumstances was anyone to go in the basement. Oh. NOW he tells me? We discussed it a bit more and agreed—there was something pretty strange going on there.

You may be wondering why I’m bringing this up, because you know this preamble is leading somewhere. So here goes—

We moved into a new house last June. The house is only five years old and we got a good deal on it because it was a foreclosure. It’s modern, roomy and allows us to spread out and live large. We have loved the design of this house ever since we saw the model five years earlier. We feel extremely fortunate to have gotten the house “on sale” so to speak.

About a month after we moved in, Tim and I christened the master bath Jacuzzi tub. We lit candles, had champagne and enjoyed a bubble bath for two. The next morning at about seven a.m. the jets in the tub turned on all by themselves. I got up, stumbled into the bathroom and shut the thing down. We couldn't quite figure out how it had happened. Huh, we thought. Weird.

Since then things have been calm and normal—I say that even though I went through a major upheaval and changed jobs. We are settled in and loving our new house. We do wonder about the previous owner—I feel badly for him, losing such a beautiful home. Lately, we’ve been dealing with a shower leak we thought we'd dealt with in June, but other than that things are basically copasetic.

Last night we watched Paranormal Activity 2. To me, the family seemed vapid and shallow so I went upstairs before the end. Tim stuck it out to the finish and liked it. We went to bed around 11:15.

This morning at a few minutes after seven, the Jacuzzi jets powered on. Tim apparently recognized the sound right away. I heard the noise but couldn’t place it. I thought the garage door was going up. “The tub” he grumbled, as he elbowed me—apparently it’s my job to deal with anything involving the haunted tub. So I staggered out of bed and zig-zagged  toward the tub. I hit the power button and turned it off. No one has used the tub in probably two weeks. Huh, we think. Very weird.

So if anyone reading this has any idea as to what might be causing our tub to switch on by itself that doesn’t involve spirits, ghosts or poltergeists, I’d be happy—thrilled in fact—to hear about it. Please feel free to explain. I’d feel so much better knowing a power surge or lightening strike could have this effect. You have no idea how happy that would make me.

Anybody out there have any ideas about this tub?

Valentine's Day is Over. Time for the Antidote.

http://www.zwani.com/graphics/antivalentines_day/ By the way, this site has tons of most excellent anti-Valentine’s Day cards. February 15^th is the perfect day for checking it out.

As an antidote to Valentine’s Day this blog posting is meant to clear away any VD hangover symptoms you may be experiencing. Such symptoms may include but are definitely not limited to the following:

• ·         Although you got in the spirit of the thing yesterday by hauling out your one pink or red sweater, black is the only color that seems appropriate for February 15.
• ·         You’re suffering delusions of winged, hot pink hearts dive-bombing you and sucking your blood.
• ·         You’re sure Cupid’s arrow either missed you altogether (sob!) or sank a little too deeply into a vital organ and you’re feeling like you’re down a pint. Or maybe it was just those pesky vampire hearts.
• ·         The thought of chocolate and bubbly makes you nauseous and gassy—as if you were expecting anything else.
• ·         You dreamt your colored candy hearts had mean messages on them like “Give it up already” and “There’s someone for everyone—EXCEPT you” and “Good Christ. Are you still here?” and “How can I miss you if you won’t go away?”
• ·         You can’t stop thinking of that Willie Nelson quote, “Ninety-nine percent of the world’s lovers are not with their first choice. That’s what makes the jukebox play.” You think he was really on to something.  
  

The remedy I’m suggesting is this: Just go with it. Dive down, go deep, and inhale fully. Let your lungs fill with melancholy and allow despair to course through your veins. Let your arteries stiffen as they clog with gloom and heartache. Envision your blood going blue from lack of oxygen and your broken heart pausing, wondering if you’re planning to live or die. For one day, immerse yourself in the pain because, let’s face it, there is beauty in misery. Don’t be so afraid of it that you miss the sad splendor altogether.

And how do I get there? — you ask. How do I achieve such a level of wretched depression?

It’s easy. In fact, it’s super simple. I suggest listening to sad songs. 

I adore sad songs. They’re beautiful and gloomy at the same time. Most of us do like them—and please, you Pollyanna’s out there, don’t bother denying it. It’s evident every day at any time if you tune in the radio. If we didn’t love sad songs, those bluesy, wrist-slitting lyrics wouldn’t be sliding down the radio waves the way they always, always do. 

In fact, the most recent piece of evidence of love for sad songs just transpired this past weekend after I had the idea to write on this topic. Lady Antebellum won the Grammy in the best song and best record categories for their heartache song, “Need You Now.” It’s all about that person who’s not there anymore: “And I wonder if I ever cross your mind. For me it happens all the time. It’s a quarter after one, I’m a little drunk and I need you now.” The guy sings, the girl sings. On they go—yearning, bleeding out and not getting what they want—each other.  Classic heartbreak. What’s not to love?

To help you in this post-Valentine’s quest of morose inundation, I’ve compiled a list of sad songs. It is not exhaustive, in fact, it’s grossly incomplete. I am not putting myself forward as an expert. This is my personal list with help and add-ins from the Huzby who is also a big fan of sad songs.

And I’m asking for your help. Yes, audience participation is what I’m hoping for. After looking at this list, see what I’ve missed and add it into the ranks. Let’s see if we can shake the Valentine’s saccharine-sickness and get our big bad blues on.  I challenge you: How low can we go?

• In no particular order I give you:
• ·         Crazy—Willie Nelson
• ·         Wichita Lineman—Jimmy Webb
• ·         By the Time I Get to Phoenix—Jimmy Webb
• ·         Bobby McGee—Kris Kristofferson
• ·         Hot Burrito #1—Gram Parsons
• ·         Love Will Come to You–Indigo Girls
• ·         River—Joni Mitchell
• ·         Little Green—Joni Mitchell (Very sad once you find out it’s about the daughter she gave up for adoption—get’s me every time.)
• ·         Blue Bayou—Roy Orbison
• ·         Love Has No Pride—Libby Titus and Eric Katz
• ·         Someone to Lay Down Beside Me—Karla Bonoff
• ·         Suzanne—Leonard Cohen
• ·         So Long Marianne—Leonard Cohen (Apparently Marianne really put a big hurt on LC.)
• ·         That’s No Way to Say Goodbye—Leonard Cohen
• ·         Diamonds and Rust—Joan Baez
• ·         Romeo and Juliet—Mark Knopfler
• ·         Another Grey Morning— James Taylor
• ·         Fire and Rain—James Taylor
• ·         Goodnight Elizabeth—Counting Crows
• ·         A Long December—Counting Crows
• ·         White Flag—Dido (Apparently she wrote this based on letters she found in her father’s stash after he died. Until then she’d never known there was a threat to her parents’ marriage.)
• ·         I Can’t Make You Love Me—Mike Reid and Allen Shamblin
• ·         Dimming of the Day—Richard Thompson
• ·         Angel From Montgomery—John Prine (The line about how a man can go to work all day then come home and have nothing to say reminds me of my first marriage. Nothing lonelier than a bad marriage.)
• ·         Candy’s Room—Bruce Springsteen
• ·         A whole slew of songs by Lucinda Williams (But I like ‘em better when someone else sings ‘em.)
• ·         Last Kiss—Everly Brothers
• ·         You don’t Know Me—Cindy Walker and Eddy Arnold
• ·         Do I Ever Cross Your Mind—Dolly Parton (Yes. I think of you and the twins every time I’m near the cantaloupe bin, Dolly.)
• ·         Killing Me Softly—Roberta Flack
• ·         Jagged Little Pill—Alannis Morrisette (True, she’s pissed but she’s also bleeding out.)
• ·         Blowin’ In the Wind—Bob Dylan
• ·         Don’t Think Twice It’s Alright—Bob Dylan(“You kinda wasted all my precious time…” I know just what you mean, Bob.)
• ·         Cat’s In the Cradle—Harry Chapin
• ·         Taxi—Harry Chapin
• ·         If You Could Read My Mind—Gordon Lightfoot
• ·         Leavin’ On a Jet Plane—Peter, Paul and Mary (I used to play this on guitar until my son, at seven, begged me to stop. It got him misty every time. I assume it was the lyrics and not my performance of them but I could be wrong on that.)
• ·         If We Meet in Heaven—Eric Clapton (This song about his dead son is wrenching.)
• ·         I Can’t Tell You Why--Eagles
• ·         Desperado—Eagles
• ·         Best of My Love—Eagles
• ·         Please Come Home for Christmas—Eagles
• ·         It’s Too Late—Carole King
• ·         Father and Son—Cat Stevens
• ·         Wild World –Cat Stevens
• ·         I Am A Rock—Simon and Garfunkle (And a rock feels no pain. And an island never cries.)
• ·         The Boxer—Simon and Garfunkle
• ·         Wild Horses—Rolling Stones (Huzby informs me this is about Keith Richards’ son.)
• ·         She’s Leaving Home—The Beatles
• ·         Cowboys and Angels—George Michael
• ·         The Sound of White—Missy Higgins
• ·         Red Dirt Girl—Emmylou Harris (Poor Lillian!)
• ·         My Antonia—Emmylou Harris and Dave Matthews (Died of a fever, wouldn’t you know?)
• ·         Just about every song by David Gates from Bread—Diary et. al. (Please pass the tissues.)
• ·         Hello It’s Me—Todd Rundgren
• ·         Wouldn’t Have Made Any Difference—Todd Rundgren
• ·         Need You Now—Lady Antebellum

Special note: I’d like to include Jackson Browne’s songs but beating up your girlfriend gets you an automatic expulsion from my list. Shame on you, JB.

From the wayback machine:

• ·         Streets of Laredo— Frank H. Maynard
• ·         Tom Dooley—Frank Warner
• ·         Red River Valley—Harlan and Nemha
• ·         My Darlin’ Clementine—Percy Montrose of Barker Bradford

Sad songs that are over the top, pathetic or creepy:

• ·         MacArthur Park (The Cake in the Rain Song)—Jimmy Webb (Man, and it looked good, too!)
• ·         Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me—Elton John (It’s gonna be OK, Elton. Just keep taking your Prozac.)
• ·         Most of Us are Sad—Eagles (The tune is entirely too dreary for my taste which puts it in the over the top category.)
• ·         Claire—Gilbert O’Sullivan (Yikes! Dude, she’s a little girl and you’re her babysitter. Can you say chemical castration? Won’t hurt a bit.)

That’s all I’ve got at the moment. I know I’ve left out a bunch of really good, really suicide-inspiring songs. That’s why I’m asking you to contribute in the comments section.  I’ll edit the list to reflect your suggestions as they’re made.  Please, don’t be shy. Step right up, and suggest away.

It’s the perfect time of year for sad song day. In fact I propose that February, 15 become an official day of sad songs. Songs to cry with, song to lament over, songs to open up the oven and turn on the gas to. No, no. I’m kidding.  Don’t take it that far.  Just wallow for a while and let the Valentine’s sugar coating dissolve.  Woebegone songs can set you free.

Of Life Insurance and Future Scenarios

Am I the only one who starts thinking morbid thoughts when the subject of life insurance arises?

If you have life insurance it has to cross your mind. You pay the bill every month so it cannot have escaped your notice that you're paying a premium on your own and your spouse's lives. Because chances are one of you goes before the other.

Maybe I'm giving this more thought because I just turned fifty or maybe because I've got a kick-ass cold at the moment, or maybe it's merely the obvious, that I'm strange. In those moments when the Huzby brings it up-- "I got a gazillion dollar policy on you and a  gazillion one on me. That way if one of us dies..." (Allright. I'm exaggerating. It's not a gazillion.)--in my twisted, morbid way, I cannot help but play the thing out to it's natural conclusion.

Me:  I just request that when you decide it's my time, I don't have to suffer too much or too long. Make sure whatever it is you have cooked up for me is merciful and quick. I hope that'll be enough for you and Candace to buy that second home in Cabo and you'll be very happy together.

This is all hallucinatory, of course. In the first place, I have never suspected  my husband of wanting to kill me--at least not for a sustained period of time. (Who can say what horrid notion flashes through his brain in a heated argument? Only he knows for sure...) And secondly, as much as I would want my husband to be happy and well should I pass first I don't want him living the high life with that bimbo, Candace, in Cabo. Does this make me selfish?

To my knowledge, there is no Candace (bimbo or not) in our lives but regardless of the facts, I imagine Huzby hooking up with some large-breasted, wasp-waisted, thirty-something-year-old who can't keep her feet on the floor. She looks like a Candace to me. I can't help it. Really. What am I supposed to say? I just start to internally squirm. It feels crunchy talking about it and yet it doesn't seem to stop the conversation from rolling right along.

Him (understanding that I'm being sarcarstic and yet kindly trying to reassure me): It's just so if something happens to either of us we can--you know--afford to stay where we are or at least be able to sell and find something smaller. You'd probably want to find something smaller, right?

Me (hating to picture the scenario but doing it anyway):  Yeah. This house is too big for me by myself. I guess you'd stay here, though, right?

Him: Yeah. I'd stay here.

End of conversation except for the fact that it plays on in my head.

Me: Right. There'll be plenty of room for you and Candy and all of her lonely, commiserating girlfriends who feel sorry for you and want to make you feel better because you just lost your wife.

Him: Sure. A bedroom each for the other three while I share the master bedroom with whoever it is who's keeping me warm and drying my tears that night.

Me: Wait a second. How come we never talk about me hooking up with someone else? It's always you who gets to be the swinging widower.

Him: OK. Your turn to be the wild, winsome widow. Who would you go for? Some twenty-five year old stud?

Me: Ugh. No. Twenty-five? Get outta here. That's way too young. He'd have to be somewhere in the neighborhood of my age. Otherwise, I'd feel too old. And I don't want to be someone's mother's age. Ick!

Him: So...who then?

Me:  Silence

I have no answer. I am totally stumped.

How can it be that even in a fantasy I can 't come up with my dreamboat replacement for the Huzby? Am I lacking in imagination? This is not usually a problem for me. Is the Huzby (aka Mr. Grumpy) just so perfect in every way that he cannot possibly be improved upon? Hmm...This is a tempting out but in fantasies, anything is possible, so I can envision a slightly sunnier Mr. G (Mr. Not Quite So Grumpy), but he's still the self same Huzby. I am unable to conjure up a novel stand-in. I think it comes down to so dreading the vision of finding someone else, I honestly cannot come up with a surrogate because I don't want to.

What this means, I suppose, is that I truly am the one who should go first and that way I'll never be confronted with the problem. Still, thinking of the Huzby and Candace and her three friends enjoying the pay out from my life insurance policy at their Cabo condo is certainly motivating. It motivates me to take my vitamins and supplements, go to the gym, get enough sleep, eat well and take good care of myself.

Sorry Candy, but by the time you get your chance, your boobs will be sagging down to your widening waist and your feet won't be quite as prone to flight as they once were. Let's face it woman, by then Huzby's taste in women will have probably not have changed. So prepare yourself. I foresee a Veronica, Serena, Raquel, Alicia, Cherie, Romy or Babette on the horizon who's not so long in the tooth. So sad. Too bad.

Sheesh. Life insurance. What a buzz kill.



We may be getting older but we're not dead yet.



Bouncing Between the Blankets with Tigger



Who? Me? Tigger?

 You certainly can't tell by looking. By observation alone I bet you'd think my husband, Tim, is a serious sleeper. I mean, just take a gander--handsome as hell with resolute stamped all over him like a very serious USDA prime cut of beef. He's serious about so many things, surely he'd be serious about sleeping, right? Truly, it often happens that he does sleep like a normal, serious, sleep-loving person. However, on a somewhat regular basis, he turns into a night time Tigger.

You remember Tigger. From Winnie-the-Pooh? Striped, stuffed, sprightly, supple? He came spring-loaded onto the scene a little bit later (Chapter 2 of  House at Pooh Corner) than the regular cast of characters. He spelled his name T-I-double guh-err. And do you remember what Tiggers love to do and do best? Ding, ding, ding! You are correct. Tiggers love to BOUNCE.

I know, I know. Hard to believe isn't it? Anyone who knows Tim even a little bit can't imagine him bouncing. "Tim" and "bounce" go together like "Santa" and "pirouette". Or maybe I should say "Tim" is to "bouncy" as "Charles Bronson" is to "fluffy". It just doesn't follow. In fact, if Tim were an actual tiger, most of us in the know would think of him like this:


"Your answer was not well constructed and does not please me in the least."


And not like this:

Boing! Boing! Boing!

Nevertheless, the fact remains:  On occasional nights of torment, a rash of restless bounciness sets in.  Tim's inner Tigger gets triggered.

Bounce-inducing sleep scenarios:

1) Vampire dreams. In Tim's fantasy-driven psyche, vampires can assume nearly any form. So far I've experienced by proxy cat vampires, zombie vampires, and porno-babe vampires. True, I thought the porno-babe vampires were pretty funny. Ooooo! So scary!  But, hey, I get it. A vampire of any sort is horrifying even if she is hot and horny. Most of us don't want to die by exsanguination. Although surely there are some who'd volunteer if the love bites were given by Jenna Jameson with fangs. (Any takers?)

2) Alien dreams. Sometimes it's the Predator alien, sometimes it's the Alien alien, sometimes it's a robot alien but often it's left to my own imagination because the Huzby doesn't enlighten me with the details. Sometimes the generic "alien" is as good a description as I receive.

3) Ghost dreams. Details of such are vague or nonexistent which is fitting for ghosts, I suppose. Apparently a ghost is a ghost is a ghost.

4) My wife's being mean to me dreams. I'm not sure why, but I seem to be a recurring incubus in my husband's nocturnal story lines. Kind of makes me wonder what I'm doing that feeds this iniquitous hallucination. These occur about once a month if not more. In these nightmares I'm mean to my husband in a variety of ways and differing scenarios and always for no reason at all. They tend to be somewhat infuriating for me also. When I hear of my fictional infractions in the morning, I too, am shocked at the atrocities I commit in these after dark dramas. I wish I could behave myself better, but apparently no matter what I do during real life I'm destined to remain a she-devil from purgatory in my honey's dream life.

5) Dreams about missing planes and forgetting where the car is parked. A common plague for my poor Tigger who has an anal side that more than occasionally rears its ugly rear.

6) Dreams combining any of the above, i.e.,
     ~My wife, the alien, is being mean to me and forgot where she parked the car so we miss the plane.
     ~Ghosts and aliens are colluding with my wife and being mean to everyone by moving their parked cars. Everyone misses their planes.
     ~Aliens, ghosts and my vampire wife are all making a porno in the back of parked cars. Planes take off with no one inside.

7) The room is too hot.

8) Indigestion--food too spicy, food too gassy, food too mucho, drinks over poured.

9) The catch-all category: Anything else that's aggravating his overactive animus.

Of course, the vampires, aliens, ghosts, missed planes, misplaced cars, witchy wife, hot room, indigestion and suffering subconscious are Tim's first-person persecutions. I'd like to help, but there's not much I can do beyond waking him up when things get not only bouncy, but loud. The problem for me is that he does not suffer in first person, alone. When he has a bouncy night, I have a bouncy night.

We have a tempurpedic mattress which allows decent shock absorption and affords a muted experience if you have a restless sleep partner. Still, on a bouncy, trouncy night, while Tim-turned-Tigger is energetically, and athletically plopping the hours away, I'm experiencing our form fitting foam mattress as class II rapids river rafting expedition. And I'm not strapped in. It's a real life demonstration of Newton's law of motion: For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Tigger crashes down into the mattress and I am launched upwards. He flips; I flop. He clips; I clop. Good Sir Isaac, your law remains intact and in regular use at Tigger's house of bounce.

It's true, I could get up and go sleep in the other room leaving Tigger to his tough out his tortuous terrors on his own--but I don't. I can never seem to snap to full consciousness and make the move. Instead, I burrow down, hug my pillow tight and grab the covers with all my half-asleep might trying to hold down all the slumberland real estate I started with--not an easy task. I grumble, groan and huff  but never manage to remove myself from our tumultuous nocturnal tango to the quietude of the foldout couch. I suppose you could say that in response to Tim turning Tigger, I turn tick. You know how ticks are, the harder you try to get them out, they more tightly they hold on.

Uh, oh. I think I see the seed of a new nightmare.

Hello? Fifty's Here

Today I am 50. Five decades. Half a century. Two score and ten. No matter what you call it or how you slice it, 50 is, well...let’s say it’s substantial. It's got some heft. It packs a punch and cannot be sidestepped. It means business. Fifty knocks on your door bold and brash as life itself, because that’s of course what it is, and you have no choice to but to answer it.

I propose that turning 50 is like a knock, knock joke.

“Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Fifty.”
Your head rushes as your heart gives a funky double beat. Holy shit! Fifty?! How did this happen? you wonder. You try to gather yourself and hesitate before responding with your gut reaction.
“The person you’re looking for is not here.”
“Oh, please! Don’t be coy. YOU are the person I’m meeting today.”
“Uh…Could you come back some other time? I’m really not ready for you today.”
“Sorry, ma'am. Today is the day, YOUR day, the day you turn officially middle-aged.”
“I, uh…could you just give me a little time to spruce up and get myself together? How about tomorrow? I could meet you tomorrow.”
“Today is YOUR day. Don’t worry. I know what you look like and how together you are and are not. Just open up. I promise not to hurt you.”

You gasp. Is it possible you heard a garbled “much” at the end of that last sentence? You fear this is the case. You calm yourself by taking deep breaths and consider logically what to do. After some reflection, and seeing no escape, as much as you really don’t want to, you determine that you will meet Fifty on your own terms. You decide if you have to do this—and apparently, you do—you will do it graciously. You have your shoulders back and head held high when you open the door and look Fifty straight in the eye.

The big Five-Oh looks decidedly older than the less significant Four-Oh and somewhat more fragile and out of shape. Five-Times-Ten doesn’t seem to be bothered by the thickening of her waist or embarrassed by the dark splotches that have begun to show on her face, although you find these changes rather disconcerting. It's been a while since Ms. Fifty has been to the hair dresser. You can tell because the gray and mousy brown is showing in her part and at her exposed temple. You notice Ms. Half-Century has brought you a copy of AARP magazine, the publication which will from now on grace your mail box every month; it’s there in her jacket pocket. And by the way, that jacket—oof! Fifty needs to get a better stylist because plaid corduroy wasn’t a good look even fifty years ago. You think you might do her a favor by mentioning this and suggesting a nice medium weight charcoal gray wool blazer instead, but you’re distracted from saying anything because you’re not sure but you think you can hear Fifty’s joints creaking just a teeny bit as she shifts from foot to foot. Her sensible shoes—Naturalizers—make you blink, trying to clear the vision. At best, the footwear can only be described as beige, frumpy and cankle-inducing. There is a definite whiff of cantankerousness emanating from the enlarged pores of her slightly sagging skin and you wonder if she’s noticed the faint budding of jowls on either side of her once charmingly dimpled chin. The chin cleft doesn’t reach the alluring depths it used to because it's been filled in with a substantial layer of subcutaneous fat. Whatever sex appeal Fifty may have possessed hit the skids at least a year or more ago. You hold back a shudder, not wanting to hurt her feelings.

She looks at you triumphantly with a certain tinge of smugness thrown in that you suppose is meant to keep you humble. You shake off your dread, tell yourself  that despite any appearances to the contrary, you are an adult and will act accordingly. With a deep breath of resolve you try to make the best of the situation by smiling, extending your hand and saying,
 “Thank you. Thanks so much for coming, Fifty. You’ve brought a lot of changes with you. I want you to know I appreciate the wisdom you’ve shown me in the last decade. You've offered me a deeper perspective and broader understanding of life and how it works. I have more tolerance, am less judgemental and am trying to keep an open, questing mind. There is still so much I need to learn. I want you to know I am truly grateful for your time.”

Instead of shaking your optimistically offered hand, Madam Fifty deposits the wretched AARP magazine into your proffered palm and says,
“You’re supposed to say, ‘Fifty who?’”
“What?!” You’re confused. Here you are trying to be a good sport about all this and Two-Times-Twenty-five is ignoring your good intentions. What in the hell is she talking about?
“You’re supposed to ask me ‘Fifty who?’ That’s how the joke goes. Remember? Knock, knock?”
“Oh. Right.” You want to show Fifty that despite her disenchanting presence you are still in possession of your well developed sense of humor. You play along. “OK. Fifty who?”
“Fifty, your new decade. Geeze, woman! Pay attention. Have you gone senile already?”

You muster a wan smile, shake your head and roll your eyes. Along with being a supremely snappy dresser, Fifty is clearly one bitch of a laugh riot.

My birthday was a lovely evening of family, friends, paella, German chocolate cake and a flow of wine that's fine and sanguine.

Thanks to Mr. Grumpy for a near decade of fun and happiness. I guess when the wife turns 50 it necessitates more drinking .

Happy New Year and See You at the Gym!

It may be bad karma to do this at the start of the year and I may set my self akilter by giving in to a crotchety moment of pet-peevishness. But this is the time of year it all goes down. And because it is what it is, I'm embarking on my once a year tirade. So please excuse me while I mount my soap box and hold forth. You fitness wanna-bees who swarm the gym for the first six weeks after the start of the new year drive me crazy.

Let's get this straight: I want you to be healthy. I want you to be fit. I want you to avoid all the dreadful health issues associated with obesity like diabetes, arthritis, high blood pressure, and a myriad of other cardiovascular complications. These are all the things that did in my mother--a major motivating factor for me and why I strive to stay somewhere in the realm of "in shape." I do not and never will be an advocate for "letting yourself go" or embracing your zaftig side. I watched my mother's not so slow slide into morbidity from overeating and under exercising and it was ugly, sad and horrible. I don't wish her fate on anyone. At all times, under any conditions, I urge you to make time for fitness in your life.

I know you want to be healthy and stay committed to a regular exercise regimen. Great. So do it. I'm not being a smart ass. I'm not being smug. I mean no disrespect. And if it makes you feel any better, I confess that I too, have motivation issues that sometimes keep me from doing what's best for myself. Nevertheless, I implore you to be healthy and get moving. 

Exercise. Work out. Run. Walk. Swim. Spin. Ride. Glide. Dance. Prance. Trot. Pilate. Sweat. Get wet. Huff and puff. Jump and pump. Vault. Sommersault. Shake your groove thang, money maker, booty, keister, toosh, derriere, or whatever it is you want to call that junk in your trunk that keeps you glued to your couch. Do not fall victim to inertia of the gluteus maximus. This disease will kill you in the long run or possibly even the short run. Fight it. Beat it. Win.

I write this for you if you're the person who starts the year out with all kinds of good but weak intentions and half-resolved New Year's resolutions. It's meant for you if you're one of the many who gets in everyone's way at the gym for the first 4-6 weeks of the year and then finds you're too busy, tired or bored to come back. I'm talking to you if you and your desire to stay in shape part ways around mid-February, just when your body has come to terms with the fact that you mean it when you get your heart rate up. This is not the time to throw in the towel. It's the time to congratulate yourself on making it through the first grueling six weeks and start reaping the rewards of the sweat and sore muscles you've endured. You've hit the sweet spot so pick that towel back up, wipe the sweat off your brow and keep going.

What I'm suggesting is that this year you do something different. Don't just jump on the exercise bike from January to February and then slack off. Don't imagine we won't notice your absence in conditioning class. Don't let yourself off the hook now that you feel slightly more toned. Don't fall prey to gravity. Go, go, go! Do it! Keep doing it! Do it even when you're not in the mood. I'm convinced it counts even more when you do it when you're not in the mood. Yes. Extra credit for that.

Because if you do it long enough and regularly enough here is what will happen: You'll LIKE it. You may even learn to LOVE it. Your body will start to crave the release of sweat and endorphins. Your spouse, sweetie or self-image (or perhaps all three) will thrill at what happens to your body. You will sleep better. You may want to eat less. You may be able to eat more. You will stand taller. You will walk straighter. You will feel stronger. You may find yourself smiling more, laughing more, feeling sexier, funnier, smarter, faster, lighter. You may find you can leap small fire hydrants in a single bound. You will slouch less, hurt less, stumble less, lean less, and all the while you will breath better and feel tighter--in a good way. If you stick it out and get to three months you may find exercise becomes embedded in your neural nets.

Think of it: Exercise will become less like work and more like enjoyment.

My message to you is this: Regardless of your bad knees, bad back, bad shoulder, bad hip, bad day, bad headache, bad mood, bad hair day, bad fill-in-the-blank, get yourself moving and keep it up. You've got nothing to lose except those lumps, bumps and possible stow-away pounds while you gain muscle, give your heart something to pump about and get healthier.

So YAY, TEAM! YOU CAN DO IT! KEEP GOING! BE GOOD TO YOUR BODY AND IT'LL BE GOOD TO YOU!

As Gerry, one of a few fitness gurus I know says, "Take care of your body. If you don't, who will?" In my mom's case, for the last three months of her life, the answer to that question was the caretakers at Pine Ridge Care Center--a nursing home. She had recently turned 70.


Here's to a fit and healthy 2011. I'm off to do some sit-ups.