Today, my blog is about poopy. And a little bit about pee pee. But mostly poop. So, if you don't want to read about, think about, or hear about poop or any of it's derivatives, then no hard feelings, I'll see you next time.
-----------------------------------------------
Welcome back.
When I was pregnant with my first child, I had to do one of those tests where you collect your pee for 24 hours in an orange container. Then, I loaded up the container in the back of my car and headed out for the doctor's office on my way to work. Well, I took a sharp curve and apparently the lid was not on tight, and guess what? Urine for a treat. Half the container spilled in the floorboard of the car. I rescued the other half and presented it hopefully to the nurse - won't this be enough? No, she said, you have to start all over.
Sigh. We do what we have to do. But over the years, I have developed such an aversion to bodily fluids, perhaps stemming from that incident, that I have to do things like close my ears in public restrooms so I won't accidentally hear someone else "go." Or if one of my dogs has an oopsy in the house, I have to carefully get a paper towel, lay it on top of the offending materials, and patiently wait for my husband to get home and deal with it. If someone talks about a booger or a small child sneezes out some goo, I involuntarily gag and my eyes water up.
Just another one of my issues. This week, however, I had to put my big girl panties on and deal with poop. One of my children has been quite ill for over a month, and in the process of discovering what is wrong, we have had to undergo multiple tests. After our last visit to the doctor, I was sent off with the "home stool sample kit." I knew when the lab tech handed it to me that I was going to have to dig deep, but, of course, I would do what I had to do. The frustration at seeing my baby going through so much pain, discomfort, and stress overrode any silly aversions.
I started out poorly. They give you these little bottles with little spoons attached and you have to scoop and store the stuff in a bottle with the special solution. My body reacted to the situation even though I had toilet paper stuffed up my nose and I was chanting in my head. I would scoop, gag, move the collection bin to the side so I could throw up in the toilet, and repeat. In doing so, my arm jerked and I spilled some of the solution. So I had to go to the kitchen and get some spatulas so I could corral the solution and drip it back in the bottle. Needless to say, the process took some time.
I finished the job and headed off to the lab with a freezer bag full of fun. I knew the route by heart and marched straight up to the lab door to find it locked. They were on their break for lunch for another 30 minutes. As I stood there, trying to decide what to do, a courier came up and knocked on the door. The nurse opened it, let the courier in, looked at me and my bag, and closed the door. I heard the lock click and knew we would never be friends.
Another tech came out to get herself some Reeses cups, assuring me it would be just a few more minutes. People were walking past and the bag was starting to smell - I could tell they thought it was me. When they finally decided their precious break was over, I walked in, handed over the goods, and told the friendlier tech that I was just dropping off. She held the bag up in the air, looked at it, and then looked at me. It's a stool sample, I explained, to which she made a "that's nasty" face and grunted. I was apologetic and slunk out of the room. But very indignant when I got back in my car.
Sigh. I guess I don't care, because I need to know what's going on with my child. We do what we have to do. Plus, I believe in karma, and I know the lab tech will encounter poop again, in a more unwelcome way. Perhaps it will be via a surprise handshake, or in a special cheer.
In that spirit, I give you my favorite Olivia Lee video, which is completely inappropriate and offensive.
Until next time, keep crowin' and doing what you have to do!
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Yes Santa Claus, there is a Virginia
My house is filled with love. And dirt. After several years without outside cleaning help, I finally acknowledged that I wasn't cutting the mustard. So, I asked around and hired a woman named Virginia.
It became clear from our first interaction that Virginia was going to be the alpha in our relationship. She not only told me the day and time she would come to my house, she then subsequently called me just before her arrival to say she went home after another client forgot to leave a key. And Virginia didn't feel like sticking around.
But I was desperate, so with a promise that she would show up next time, we tried again. The following week she was there, bright and early, and without conversation, headed straight upstairs.
What happened in the next few hours was nothing short of a painful miracle. It was like being interviewed on the sidewalk by a roving reporter about fashion and suddenly realizing you were the unwitting subject of "What Not to Wear."
As I sat at my desk listening to the sounds upstairs, I felt a mixture of curiosity, fear, and concern. Obviously, they were in my closet, which was off-limits to all living things except the air conditioner man, because the attic entrance was located on my closet ceiling. My messy closet is my dirty little secret, my scarlet letter, my shame. For someone to go in there and start poking around was the equivalent of tucking my skirt in my underwear and sending me down the runway.
Things were being slammed and clanked and tugged --- and then the avalanche began. One after the other, trash bags were hurled down the stairs. The first one startled me, but when I saw what it was, I relaxed. We have three trashcans upstairs, so naturally there would be a bag of trash. But then another one came rolling down, and another. What on earth were in THOSE bags?!
That's when my inner hoarder took over. I kept devising reasons to walk by the bags, to peek at what was inside. One bag, the length of a human body, was completely full of shoe boxes. If a stranger is willing to throw out someone's empty shoe boxes from their private closet, what else were they capable of? I broke out into a sweat and began to plan how I would make sure she didn't take the trash with her so I could sort through it later under the cover of darkness.
After hours of scalping my upstairs, Virginia and her assistant moved in for the kill downstairs. Their mops were fully loaded and ready for battle. With a sheepish grin, thinking of all the horrors they must have encountered upstairs, I tiptoed to my bedroom and hid from their judging eyes.
Truly, they beat the hell out of my house. I swear I heard my knickknacks screaming. But after 5 hours and 15 minutes, I got the call that the war was over, and Virginia had won.
Virginia: "Bye!"
Me: "Thank you Virginia. How much do I owe you?"
Virginia: "2,000."
Me on the inside: Sh!t.
Me on the outside: quizzical look nervous laugh?
Virginia: "Oh sorry, 200."
(Because in Spanish, her first language, 200 is pronounced as if it is 2,000)
Me: "Can you come back in 2 weeks?
Virginia: "It is better for me to come back in 3 weeks on a different day."
Yes ma'am.
After she left, I danced around the house like Julie Andrews on the Von Trapp mountain, breathing in the Pine Sol scent. I was alive again!
I walked into the kitchen to admire the stove top, when disaster struck. There, on my terracotta tiles was a large discolored splatter stain, clearly visible by the sink. The illusion was shattered and the dream was over.
I texted Virginia with the news. She called me that evening and promised to come by the following day to fix it.
I thought this would be when the tide would turn, and I would take back control of the relationship. Virginia walked in the next day, spoke to her assistant in their mother tongue, and got down to look at the problem. I got down too, thinking it would reassure her that I wasn't angry, I just wanted it fixed.
Virginia looked at me dead in the eye, and said, "This floor was very dirty. I had to clean it two times. It is showing stains that were hiding under the dirt."
Yes ma'am.
Shame, shame, double shame, everybody knows your name! This moment reminded me of when my mom took my sister to the doctor when she was a baby because she had a rash on her neck. The doctor took a cotton ball, swabbed it in alcohol, and wiped the rash off. "It's dirt" he said. And my mom tucked tail and ran.
That night, as my family continued the clean house celebration, we began examining the garbage. Apparently, Virginia did not care for a pair of my slippers, my daughter's immigration project, a souvenir newspaper from a Gator football championship, and one of my musical theatre scores. I laughed and faked indignation at her choices, but inside I was asking myself, "What message is Virginia trying to send me? Does she think I am unstable? Are these slippers ugly?"
Sigh.
As I now sit in my house and actually entertain the notion of hosting parties and teas here once again, I am reminded of a passage from a famous newspaper article by Francis Pharcellus Church, "Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS."
Yes Virginia, my house is a pit and I am a crazy white lady who has never vacuumed under the bed. But that is why we pray, so that God and Santa Claus will grant our wishes and give us faith for another year.
Until next time, keep crowin' and cleanin'!
It became clear from our first interaction that Virginia was going to be the alpha in our relationship. She not only told me the day and time she would come to my house, she then subsequently called me just before her arrival to say she went home after another client forgot to leave a key. And Virginia didn't feel like sticking around.
But I was desperate, so with a promise that she would show up next time, we tried again. The following week she was there, bright and early, and without conversation, headed straight upstairs.
What happened in the next few hours was nothing short of a painful miracle. It was like being interviewed on the sidewalk by a roving reporter about fashion and suddenly realizing you were the unwitting subject of "What Not to Wear."
As I sat at my desk listening to the sounds upstairs, I felt a mixture of curiosity, fear, and concern. Obviously, they were in my closet, which was off-limits to all living things except the air conditioner man, because the attic entrance was located on my closet ceiling. My messy closet is my dirty little secret, my scarlet letter, my shame. For someone to go in there and start poking around was the equivalent of tucking my skirt in my underwear and sending me down the runway.
Things were being slammed and clanked and tugged --- and then the avalanche began. One after the other, trash bags were hurled down the stairs. The first one startled me, but when I saw what it was, I relaxed. We have three trashcans upstairs, so naturally there would be a bag of trash. But then another one came rolling down, and another. What on earth were in THOSE bags?!
That's when my inner hoarder took over. I kept devising reasons to walk by the bags, to peek at what was inside. One bag, the length of a human body, was completely full of shoe boxes. If a stranger is willing to throw out someone's empty shoe boxes from their private closet, what else were they capable of? I broke out into a sweat and began to plan how I would make sure she didn't take the trash with her so I could sort through it later under the cover of darkness.
After hours of scalping my upstairs, Virginia and her assistant moved in for the kill downstairs. Their mops were fully loaded and ready for battle. With a sheepish grin, thinking of all the horrors they must have encountered upstairs, I tiptoed to my bedroom and hid from their judging eyes.
Truly, they beat the hell out of my house. I swear I heard my knickknacks screaming. But after 5 hours and 15 minutes, I got the call that the war was over, and Virginia had won.
Virginia: "Bye!"
Me: "Thank you Virginia. How much do I owe you?"
Virginia: "2,000."
Me on the inside: Sh!t.
Me on the outside: quizzical look nervous laugh?
Virginia: "Oh sorry, 200."
(Because in Spanish, her first language, 200 is pronounced as if it is 2,000)
Me: "Can you come back in 2 weeks?
Virginia: "It is better for me to come back in 3 weeks on a different day."
Yes ma'am.
After she left, I danced around the house like Julie Andrews on the Von Trapp mountain, breathing in the Pine Sol scent. I was alive again!
I walked into the kitchen to admire the stove top, when disaster struck. There, on my terracotta tiles was a large discolored splatter stain, clearly visible by the sink. The illusion was shattered and the dream was over.
I texted Virginia with the news. She called me that evening and promised to come by the following day to fix it.
I thought this would be when the tide would turn, and I would take back control of the relationship. Virginia walked in the next day, spoke to her assistant in their mother tongue, and got down to look at the problem. I got down too, thinking it would reassure her that I wasn't angry, I just wanted it fixed.
Virginia looked at me dead in the eye, and said, "This floor was very dirty. I had to clean it two times. It is showing stains that were hiding under the dirt."
Yes ma'am.
Shame, shame, double shame, everybody knows your name! This moment reminded me of when my mom took my sister to the doctor when she was a baby because she had a rash on her neck. The doctor took a cotton ball, swabbed it in alcohol, and wiped the rash off. "It's dirt" he said. And my mom tucked tail and ran.
That night, as my family continued the clean house celebration, we began examining the garbage. Apparently, Virginia did not care for a pair of my slippers, my daughter's immigration project, a souvenir newspaper from a Gator football championship, and one of my musical theatre scores. I laughed and faked indignation at her choices, but inside I was asking myself, "What message is Virginia trying to send me? Does she think I am unstable? Are these slippers ugly?"
Sigh.
As I now sit in my house and actually entertain the notion of hosting parties and teas here once again, I am reminded of a passage from a famous newspaper article by Francis Pharcellus Church, "Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS."
Yes Virginia, my house is a pit and I am a crazy white lady who has never vacuumed under the bed. But that is why we pray, so that God and Santa Claus will grant our wishes and give us faith for another year.
Until next time, keep crowin' and cleanin'!
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Varmints
"I caught the mother tonight."
This sentence does not work for me in any scenario.
In this case, it was my husband telling me that he had dismissed an unwanted house guest from the basement. It has taken me a little while to write about this, because I am still traumatized. First of all, I wasn't aware that we had a rat community in the house - I thought it was just one stray critter. Second of all, I had a face-to-face with what apparently was the "small one," and I am still dealing with it.
It started with a typical day in my life. I walked into my pantry to get something, and found some soft black beans on a shelf. "What are these?" I asked out loud. But I knew. I knew what they were but thought if I asked the question, God would give me a different answer.
Later that day, my son came up to me with a "I'mnotsupposedtotellyouthis" look, and said, "We have a rat."
Yes, I knew.
And I assumed that my husband would handle it.
The next morning, as I approached the pantry, I saw a note on the door:
This sentence does not work for me in any scenario.
In this case, it was my husband telling me that he had dismissed an unwanted house guest from the basement. It has taken me a little while to write about this, because I am still traumatized. First of all, I wasn't aware that we had a rat community in the house - I thought it was just one stray critter. Second of all, I had a face-to-face with what apparently was the "small one," and I am still dealing with it.
It started with a typical day in my life. I walked into my pantry to get something, and found some soft black beans on a shelf. "What are these?" I asked out loud. But I knew. I knew what they were but thought if I asked the question, God would give me a different answer.
Later that day, my son came up to me with a "I'mnotsupposedtotellyouthis" look, and said, "We have a rat."
Yes, I knew.
And I assumed that my husband would handle it.
The next morning, as I approached the pantry, I saw a note on the door:
DO NOT OPEN
RAT INSIDE
(MAYBE)
After a brief pause to digest this missive, I calmly turned around and went back to bed. When my husband got home that night, I asked him what the "maybe" meant. "Well," he said, "it was in there when I closed the door, but there may be a hole it's coming in and out of."
Sure, that makes sense. Now go get a @#$!&*<?:} trap and handle it, my love.
Another day passed. Beneath the pantry door, wood dust and scratch marks began to appear. The children were getting hungry. Neighbors were questioning me at the bus stop. I started calculating all the food I was going to have to throw out and how long it would take to burn down the room and rebuild it. And then I hit my breaking point.
One night, my son busted his finger at football practice and needed ice. I walked downstairs to the pantry to get an ice pack, totally forgetting that that room didn't belong to me anymore. I opened the door, turned on the light, and came face-to-face with this:
Apparently, "The Secret of Nimh" had taken up residence in my closet.
The bulbous creature had a long, winding tail that flicked fire when it saw me, as it slithered up the wall like a snake. It had red, beady eyes that emitted evil, and I could feel its devil curse upon me.
I returned upstairs without the ice pack.
Me: "If you want the ice pack, you'll need to get it yourself."
Him: "What happened? Why did you scream?"
Me: "I met the rat."
Him: Ha ha hee hee.
Me: "You need to take care of that immediately."
Him: "I know Hon."
Me: "No. I'm not kidding. Handle. It. Now. Or else I'm not going to live here anymore."
Him: "Gotcha."
The next day a cage appeared, and it seemed that progress was made. The pantry was sanitized and food disposed of without another word. And then I got the news from my husband, "I caught the mother tonight."
I slowly began the process of recovery. But I believe the animal kingdom is not pleased. Since this event, I have made contact with a roach on top of my kitchen trashcan, and a Biblical swarm of gnats on the football field. I am not sure how to do penance, but I am starting with a cleaning crew.
Until next time, keep crowin' and don't eat the soft beans!
Thursday, September 27, 2012
A Tale of Two Cities
It has to be a pretty special reason for me to get on an airplane - hurtling through the air near Jesus' feet in a metal cigar tube is not my happy place. But, there are times when I am able to suck it up and make it work. This weekend was one of those times.
I have a friendship that has spanned the ages, covering childhood father-of-the-year contests, teen Chorus boyfriend angst, collegiate debauchery, and now, the crap shoot of adulthood. Although we lead very different lives, we always find our common ground, and truly have a connection that transcends everything else. Plus, we are hilarious.
We're like Hillary and C.C. in "Beaches"; like Edina and Patsy in "Absolutely Fabulous"; like Oprah and Gayle on "vacation." And so, when my friend's husband invited me to come surprise her for her 40th birthday, I said, challenge accepted.
Because it was a challenge. Preparing for this trip was an exercise in futility. I live in the 'burbs of Georgia; she lives in a gated community in Florida. Two Buck Chuck is a common vintage in my house; she has a wine cellar. My neighbor has a minivan; hers has a yacht parked out back.
So, as you can see, the issue of what to wear to the party went to a whole other level. I spent an entire day going to all the boutiques in town, and after 20 tight mod dresses and the disapproving glance of more than one sales twit, I cried uncle. I tucked tail, packed my bag, and headed to the Lollipop Guild in my Ann Taylor Loft separates.
Once I landed, the adventure began. I rented a car, and navigated the turnpikes --- white-knuckled and mumbling to myself --- to my grandmother-in-law's retirement home. There, I spent a lovely hour over tea and cookies with a remarkable woman in her 90's, who is pen pals with my 9-year-old son and gives me a piece of original art every time I visit. I also got to see my husband's aunt, uncle, and the grandson they are raising. We talked about the latest family foibles - who didn't have a job, who was a bitch, and the fact that a grandchild was about to welcome a grandchild.
After hugs and kisses, I headed to the apartment of my friend's parents, to hide out until the party. There, I received an Obama bumper sticker and an afternoon of tales about tree rats and Irish priests dying of cancer. They were absolutely delightful and welcoming, as if no time had passed. It felt like home.
At the appointed time, we collected my friend's kids and headed to Club. I call it Club, because it was like being on Vulcan, or Mars. Walking into the venue was like Neil Armstong's first steps on the moon. Houston ...
As the guests arrived, it became clear that I had utilized too much fabric in my outfit. These stunning ladies were in Saran-wrap inspired prints, doilies with high heels and new boobs ripe for the picking. They took one look at me and the confusion was evident on their faces. How could our fabulous friend be besties with the help?
But as I accepted their limp handshakes and began asking questions, the energy in the room changed. "Ah" I could see them thinking, "she's the funny sidekick, the Ethel, the Laverne, the smart friend who works for a nonprofit and buys off the rack." And then I was in. I was so in that I got enough dirt to sink the annual fund at their private school. I was so in I could decimate at least one woman's credit at Neiman's, and out at least 3 secret nose jobs and one pending divorce.
Before you judge, let me tell you what else I learned. I learned that rich women are just the same as poor women. We all love our families, worry about our kids, and think our butts are too big. While I am cornering the rat in my pantry, another woman is keeping an eye on her pet leopard in the pool. It's all the same.
When my friend opened her birthday gift from her local friends, it was a Gucci purse. From me, it was a Vera Bradley tote and a Tshirt of our deceased high school tennis coach. I didn't feel inadequate, because I know that my friend values both sides. There is room for all of us in this melting pot.
The rest of the weekend was a happy mix of recaps and family fun. We took a walk on the beach and then said our goodbyes, pledging to run a half marathon together soon. And as my plane landed back in my world, I knew that while we would never run that half marathon, we had already done something bigger and better. Like Sonny and Cher, like Simon and Garfunkel, like the Roadrunner and Coyote, we will always be connected. I got you babe, like a bridge over troubled waters, bleep bleep.
Until next time, keep crowin' and being thankful for girlfriends!
I have a friendship that has spanned the ages, covering childhood father-of-the-year contests, teen Chorus boyfriend angst, collegiate debauchery, and now, the crap shoot of adulthood. Although we lead very different lives, we always find our common ground, and truly have a connection that transcends everything else. Plus, we are hilarious.
We're like Hillary and C.C. in "Beaches"; like Edina and Patsy in "Absolutely Fabulous"; like Oprah and Gayle on "vacation." And so, when my friend's husband invited me to come surprise her for her 40th birthday, I said, challenge accepted.
Because it was a challenge. Preparing for this trip was an exercise in futility. I live in the 'burbs of Georgia; she lives in a gated community in Florida. Two Buck Chuck is a common vintage in my house; she has a wine cellar. My neighbor has a minivan; hers has a yacht parked out back.
So, as you can see, the issue of what to wear to the party went to a whole other level. I spent an entire day going to all the boutiques in town, and after 20 tight mod dresses and the disapproving glance of more than one sales twit, I cried uncle. I tucked tail, packed my bag, and headed to the Lollipop Guild in my Ann Taylor Loft separates.
Once I landed, the adventure began. I rented a car, and navigated the turnpikes --- white-knuckled and mumbling to myself --- to my grandmother-in-law's retirement home. There, I spent a lovely hour over tea and cookies with a remarkable woman in her 90's, who is pen pals with my 9-year-old son and gives me a piece of original art every time I visit. I also got to see my husband's aunt, uncle, and the grandson they are raising. We talked about the latest family foibles - who didn't have a job, who was a bitch, and the fact that a grandchild was about to welcome a grandchild.
After hugs and kisses, I headed to the apartment of my friend's parents, to hide out until the party. There, I received an Obama bumper sticker and an afternoon of tales about tree rats and Irish priests dying of cancer. They were absolutely delightful and welcoming, as if no time had passed. It felt like home.
At the appointed time, we collected my friend's kids and headed to Club. I call it Club, because it was like being on Vulcan, or Mars. Walking into the venue was like Neil Armstong's first steps on the moon. Houston ...
As the guests arrived, it became clear that I had utilized too much fabric in my outfit. These stunning ladies were in Saran-wrap inspired prints, doilies with high heels and new boobs ripe for the picking. They took one look at me and the confusion was evident on their faces. How could our fabulous friend be besties with the help?
But as I accepted their limp handshakes and began asking questions, the energy in the room changed. "Ah" I could see them thinking, "she's the funny sidekick, the Ethel, the Laverne, the smart friend who works for a nonprofit and buys off the rack." And then I was in. I was so in that I got enough dirt to sink the annual fund at their private school. I was so in I could decimate at least one woman's credit at Neiman's, and out at least 3 secret nose jobs and one pending divorce.
Before you judge, let me tell you what else I learned. I learned that rich women are just the same as poor women. We all love our families, worry about our kids, and think our butts are too big. While I am cornering the rat in my pantry, another woman is keeping an eye on her pet leopard in the pool. It's all the same.
When my friend opened her birthday gift from her local friends, it was a Gucci purse. From me, it was a Vera Bradley tote and a Tshirt of our deceased high school tennis coach. I didn't feel inadequate, because I know that my friend values both sides. There is room for all of us in this melting pot.
The rest of the weekend was a happy mix of recaps and family fun. We took a walk on the beach and then said our goodbyes, pledging to run a half marathon together soon. And as my plane landed back in my world, I knew that while we would never run that half marathon, we had already done something bigger and better. Like Sonny and Cher, like Simon and Garfunkel, like the Roadrunner and Coyote, we will always be connected. I got you babe, like a bridge over troubled waters, bleep bleep.
Until next time, keep crowin' and being thankful for girlfriends!
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Something Wicked This Way Comes
I don't do scary. Not in the movie theater, not on TV, not in books, not on Halloween. For.get.it. Because what happens is that I see black magic and then I can't sleep for 2 days and I am 100% convinced that Jason or Freddy or an escaped convict are going to get me. I can't even watch ghost hunting or psychic shows because I will work myself into a frenzy, sure that there is a poltergeist or dead old lady in the hallway.
I have been a scaredy cat my whole life. But I have never known true fear until yesterday. It started innocently enough. I was surfing Facebook, liking posts and reading inspirational verses. And then, like the devil riding in on a flaming demon, was this photo, posted by a sorority sister who was doing recon for a friend.
Let me preface this by saying it is real, it is alive, and it has TEETH. And it is not a Muppet. It was on someone's deck. And I ask you, in the name of all that is holy and good, what the HELL is this?! Do you see it's eyeball? It is like a little cartoon booger that jumped out of the TV and escaped into our world. Is it an alien scout looking for new water sources? Is it a mutant turtle from the sewers?
Whatever it is, homey ain't playin'. And I encourage anyone who encounters it to run like the wind. Because it will eat your brain.
Until next time, keep crowin' and wear closed-toe shoes at all times!
I have been a scaredy cat my whole life. But I have never known true fear until yesterday. It started innocently enough. I was surfing Facebook, liking posts and reading inspirational verses. And then, like the devil riding in on a flaming demon, was this photo, posted by a sorority sister who was doing recon for a friend.
Let me preface this by saying it is real, it is alive, and it has TEETH. And it is not a Muppet. It was on someone's deck. And I ask you, in the name of all that is holy and good, what the HELL is this?! Do you see it's eyeball? It is like a little cartoon booger that jumped out of the TV and escaped into our world. Is it an alien scout looking for new water sources? Is it a mutant turtle from the sewers?
Whatever it is, homey ain't playin'. And I encourage anyone who encounters it to run like the wind. Because it will eat your brain.
Until next time, keep crowin' and wear closed-toe shoes at all times!
Friday, September 14, 2012
Inappropriate Laughter
"If we couldn't laugh we'd all go insane." --- Robert Frost & Jimmy Buffett
I will start at the end of the week, with the death of my husband's uncle. He was hospitalized shortly after he and his wife celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary with a surprise vow renewal ceremony. They never had a proper wedding, because his aunt became pregnant at 17 and his grandmother had to sneak the young couple over the state line for a secret rendezvous with a justice of the peace. My husband's mother, then just a teen herself, played the piano during the nuptials.
So they got married, had a son, and then Uncle lost a testicle. I know this because when I met my future husband's grandfather, this was the first thing he said to me. After the shock wore off, I realized this was his way of welcoming me to the family. That story still makes us all laugh until we cry.
There is nothing better, in my opinion, than a full-body, completely-in-tears, mouth-open-without-sound, snorting, laugh fest. You can't force it or plan it, but it is such a gift when it comes.
I had one of those moments this week. My company put on a conference, with a former US Surgeon General as the keynote speaker, which required me to work around the clock, getting signs and booklets and last minute emergencies handled, asking printers to do the impossible and then finding out they would be happy to if only their machine hadn't just broken. Fingers crossed they'd find the right part to fix it (smiley face)!
Once the conference was up and running, the staff was required to be downtown at 7:00 a.m. This was utter hell for me. Waking up at 5:30 a.m. was like coming out of an alien cocoon to discover I had been turned into a zombie. By 4:00 that afternoon, my co-workers and I were coasting on fumes. As we gathered at the registration table and waited for the last workshop to end, we regaled each other with stories:
Me: "This lady from the "majorgovernmentorganization" sat on the snack table for the session I moderated, and when she tried to get down she fell flat on her face and then ran out of the room."
Giggle giggle!
Co-worker G: "I fell once in middle school - my backpack was so big I went down face first and it went over my head. And no one helped me up. I just laid there for a really long time."
Ha ha ha!
Co-worker B: "I remember being so embarrassed when I was talking to a boy while walking out from lunch and he didn't tell me there was a wall and I hit my face and my teeth fell out. And we were so poor I couldn't get new teeth for 5 years."
Um, heh heh, well, ok.
Co-worker D: "You know B, that's not an embarrassing story."
Co-worker B: "It's not?"
Co-worker D: "No. You always tell these stories that you think are funny, but they are actually sad."
Co-worker B: "Well, what about the time that my twin and I got in a fist fight with a girl for calling us bastards, and then our momma broke it up and asked us why we were fighting and we had to ask her what bastard was. And she said it's someone who doesn't have a father. And then we said, but we don't! That's funny, right?"
All Of Us: "No, it's very, very sad."
And it went from there. We laughed about Debbie Downer, we guffawed about Co-worker J who wanted to go to the hotel bar to pick up an aging doctor from the oncology conference (she likes old men's butts that form a little triangle) and we became completely unhinged when the photographer we hired stopped by to say hi and Co-worker J was so worked up she started unconsciously stroking the camera lens which hung at his waist.
We were delirious - tired, stressed, overworked, underpaid, and desperate for relief. Tears rolled down our cheeks and some of us might have wet our pants. It hurt so good.
At the wake this weekend, I hope my husband and his uncle's family and friends can find those moments - when the pain and grief give way to the joy of good times remembered. And maybe a chuckle or two.
Until next time, keep crowin' and laughin'! And God bless the memory of Uncle Tom.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Delightful Words and Phrases
I had inside bank business today. I had to get my notary renewal notarized so I can keep notarizing forms for a neighbor and get my ATM card linked to my savings account. This would usually warrant a meeting with a personal banker, but she was super busy with a very important man in a suit with a briefcase, so I was assigned to a teller.
While I was waiting for the teller to process things, my eyes took a tour around her cubicle. And there, taped to the fabric wall, was a 3rd generation Xerox copy of "Delightful Words and Phrases" by Bank of America.
Delicious.
It then became my job to see how many I could elicit from Teller Angie. I couldn't read them all due to my aging eyes, but I saw enough to know that "Absolutely" and "I understand" were part of the repertoire. She hit a few; I was impressed.
I have been known to turn a word or phrase. Sometimes they are Carson-show caliber quotes, sometimes it is Kathy Griffin gutter talk. But I am always delightful.
Like today, in the grocery store parking lot. An able-bodied woman in a van cut a hard right in front of me to get a handicapped spot. And then backed up at me to realign. Which cause me to jump back and let my grocery cart roll over my bunion. I stood for a moment and gave her the "You done?" look, and then pushed on. She apologized and I said "It's OK."
Why did I let her off the hook? Because I am delightful.
I was pleasant in my first post-grad school job (that's M.A., not B.S.) which paid $19,000/year, no benefits, when I told the hospitals that it was my honor to provide their on-hold messaging systems. I was pure joy when as PR Director at a prep school I forgave the past-due football ad payments of celebrity-TV judges' kids. I exuded mirth when a crony for my current boss' ex-husband fired me from a major TV network by asking "What is it exactly that you do for us?" I was a model of happiness when dealing with fellow Christians who needed mission brochures yesterday and then brought me apology bath salts after they yelled at me in staff meeting. I was simply giddy when the boss from hell told me that I was her first problem employee in 65 years.
What I am trying to say is that I felt Teller Angie's pain. Often in our lives, we have to put on a happy face, either because we're being paid to, or because we are on auto-pilot for the high road. So, I smiled broadly, thanked her profusely, and wished her a good day.
Delightful.
Sometimes being nice is a bitter pill to swallow. But most of the time, it is the right and Southern Lady thing to do. And it feels good to be right, especially if someone else is really, scandalously, obviously, wrong.
Until next time, keep crowin' and be sweet!
While I was waiting for the teller to process things, my eyes took a tour around her cubicle. And there, taped to the fabric wall, was a 3rd generation Xerox copy of "Delightful Words and Phrases" by Bank of America.
Delicious.
It then became my job to see how many I could elicit from Teller Angie. I couldn't read them all due to my aging eyes, but I saw enough to know that "Absolutely" and "I understand" were part of the repertoire. She hit a few; I was impressed.
I have been known to turn a word or phrase. Sometimes they are Carson-show caliber quotes, sometimes it is Kathy Griffin gutter talk. But I am always delightful.
Like today, in the grocery store parking lot. An able-bodied woman in a van cut a hard right in front of me to get a handicapped spot. And then backed up at me to realign. Which cause me to jump back and let my grocery cart roll over my bunion. I stood for a moment and gave her the "You done?" look, and then pushed on. She apologized and I said "It's OK."
Why did I let her off the hook? Because I am delightful.
I was pleasant in my first post-grad school job (that's M.A., not B.S.) which paid $19,000/year, no benefits, when I told the hospitals that it was my honor to provide their on-hold messaging systems. I was pure joy when as PR Director at a prep school I forgave the past-due football ad payments of celebrity-TV judges' kids. I exuded mirth when a crony for my current boss' ex-husband fired me from a major TV network by asking "What is it exactly that you do for us?" I was a model of happiness when dealing with fellow Christians who needed mission brochures yesterday and then brought me apology bath salts after they yelled at me in staff meeting. I was simply giddy when the boss from hell told me that I was her first problem employee in 65 years.
What I am trying to say is that I felt Teller Angie's pain. Often in our lives, we have to put on a happy face, either because we're being paid to, or because we are on auto-pilot for the high road. So, I smiled broadly, thanked her profusely, and wished her a good day.
Delightful.
Sometimes being nice is a bitter pill to swallow. But most of the time, it is the right and Southern Lady thing to do. And it feels good to be right, especially if someone else is really, scandalously, obviously, wrong.
Until next time, keep crowin' and be sweet!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)