What Me Worry?

Growing up, I learned many valuable things from my mother. Things like, the television gets really clear just before it blows up and if you swallow a fingernail it will puncture your intestines and never eat a banana before going to bed. The most beneficial piece of advice though, has carried me through most of my life; always expect the worst and you’ll never be disappointed.

Of course, there are things that have to be taught by example, words just aren’t enough. There is an art to worrying that has been developed primarily for aesthetics rather than utility. Hands must be wrung dramatically. My mother had brick-red knuckles. I have tried, but have never been able to achieve the same shade although I’m happy with my current skin tone which borders on unripe watermelon. Crossing oneself is helpful if of the Catholic religion. I have crossed myself just to see what it is like but I’m not Catholic so it doesn’t count. When the back of the hand is pressed to the forehead coupled with a facial grimace, the effect can be inconceivable. This stance is usually to induce guilt in others but can also foster compassion. If someone tries to reassure the worrier, they may receive a look that suggests something bad is going to happen to them. Pacing can be effective but only if done while muttering.

“You’re always the one who gets hurt,” has stuck with me since childhood. Funny, it sure seemed that way when I was little. I realize now that probably all children get hair brushes tangled in their hair and have to have them cut out, and have been knocked down by a stray dog leaping through a screen door and I’m sure there are plenty of kids who have been run over by the family car.

If you don’t tell someone to drive safely, or be careful, they will be in a horrible accident. I don’t know what the statistics are on this, in fact, I don’t know what the statics are on a lot of things but “they say,” by not cautioning someone before they set out may cause them to become unstable and make poor choices. I don’t take any chances, I tell loved ones to be careful. It always makes my mailman smile.

If you don’t tell someone you worry about them, you will be in a horrible accident. I think my mother confused love with worry. If she didn’t worry about you, she didn’t love you. If she didn’t love you, she didn’t worry about you. It made sense to her.

I’m still not sure if anything bad will happen if I eat a banana before going to bed but I don’t intend to find out.

Tarts, Sours, and Crème de Poo Poo

I saw children in the Walmart aisle today, laughing and pointing up at the familiar February landmarks. Their father glumly followed after them, glancing up at the big red hearts suspended from the ceiling.

Valentine’s Day is hard to miss, with reminders stuck on every window. Must buy… candy, cards, flowers, jewelry… or suffer the consequences, which of course would be at the least a big, fat, guilt trip or a wound big enough to need treatment by an electric cauterizing wand. I read sometime back that a woman killed her thoughtless husband with a single blow from a 16” enamel, cast-iron, Panini pan. You wouldn’t want to suffer death by cookware, would you guys?

It’s come to this, the words I love you, mean nothing more than paper or plastic. That is, paper meaning money, and plastic equals’ gift card. When did love turn into, “if you really loved me, you’d…?” Buy me a, diamond, take me to Oistins fish fry in Barbatos, or how about a CL550 Mercedes? When presented with these options, it isn’t so hard to pick out a mushy greeting with a $20.gift card for itunes, now is it? A word to the wise…come along peacefully.

When I start sponging up the feelings that commercialism tends to project…you're nobody till somebody loves you…I dig into my home improvements file, and pull out my divorce papers. Incidentally, I received my final papers from Van Nuys court, in the mail on a certain Valentine’s Day, years ago. No kidding. I imagine some court clerk laughing maniacally and calculating the correct date to mail out hundreds of final decrees so recipients would receive them on that particular Valentine’s Day. Thanks.

If the divorce papers don’t work, I remember the special Valentine’s Day when I received an oak toilet seat, which was just one of the grounds leading up to the divorce in the first place. I was a good sport about it though. I installed it in the oval room where it still resides.
The history channel claims Valentine’s Day is marked by the beginning of birds mating season. This confirms my suspicions that Valentine’s Day is truly for the birds. If you want to know more about the history of Valentine’s Day, just click on this link:
http://www.history.com/minisites/valentine/viewPage?pageId=882
You will learn about the Roman ‘lottery’ system that paired couples. I believe this ritual has been resurrected by sites such as, match.com, cyberdating.net, and e-harmony.

St. Valentine was beheaded in the year 269 A.D. or thereabouts. But it just goes to show you, whether you lose your head over love or get struck by a cast-iron Panini pan…you just can’t win.

Building Self-Esteem With My Bare Hands and Dr. Weakly

It’s time to get down to brass tacks and find out why I keep shooting myself in the emotional foot. I want to address my neurosis once and for all. It’s time to do away with low self-esteem and repression and begin to feel good about myself. Since I like people, 28 % of the time, and I consider myself public-spirited, I have decided to share my process with anyone it may benefit.

Following are the actual transcripts of my recent visit with my Psychiatrist, Dr. Neil Weakly:

Dr. Weakly: Let’s assume your self-esteem is just not what it needs to be right now.

Me: I think we can safely assume that.

Dr. Weakly: There are a few things you can do to improve your self-esteem.

Me: That’s why I’m here.

Dr. Weakly: What we have to do is get you to put on your self-esteem colored glasses, set goals that will make your life a wondrous adventure and weed out those deep-rooted inadequate self-conceptions. You must believe that you can rid yourself of that debilitating anxiety and self-defeating behavior. You may not even be a person that people enjoy being around. You’re probably disorganized and don’t manage your time well. You may sit quietly and let other people do all the talking. This could literally put you in a position that is one mishap or stupid decision away from a complete emotional breakdown or worse. You’re not alone. I have many patients who look down and think how skinny their legs are. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Lots of people are short but they don’t let that interfere with their self-image. Compared to successful people, you may feel as if your life is insignificant, but being indecisive isn’t as serious as you may think. If you continue to believe that you aren’t an attractive woman, you’re a sitting duck for any neurosis.

Me: (Crying) But what can I do about this horrible mess that I am?

Dr. Weakly: Now see? Stop referring to yourself as a mess. I mean, even if your hair is sort of a train wreck, and you have large pores and oily skin, you must acknowledge your strengths. Even though nothing you do is good enough, you mustn’t allow your past mistakes to haunt you or you will only impede your progress. Backing away and avoiding challenges has caused your self-esteem muscles to become flabby. In fact, they’re downright pendulous. Fight back, even if you’re not worthy of praise.

Me: (Crying harder) Help me, doctor!

Dr. Weakly: I believe I can. You must begin to listen to your inner dialog. Are you telling yourself that you are a whiny little failure? Do you chide yourself for being lazy? Do you tell yourself that people are laughing at you behind your back? Do you think you have an odd odor about you? Do you lie awake at night counting your weaknesses and wishing you could think of one single talent that you possess?

Me: (Sobbing) Oh my God! I had no idea I was such a basket-case!

Dr. Weakly: (Frowning) Stop indulging yourself in this panic-stricken display of feebleness. I want you to take that flaccid excuse for a backbone and give it a stiffy. Get into the control booth of your mind and allow your thoughts to be the Viagra that will cause you to straighten up, erect and proud! No wonder you’re depressed, always acting helpless, unable to cope and just waiting for someone to come to your rescue. Have you spent your whole life looking for guidance from others? When are you going to accept that you’re not the idiot that you think you are? You’re not an imposter! You’re not stupid! You’re not always going to be alone! Get up off that floor and stand up!

Me: (Clutching his pant legs) Please! Tell me how to stop this insanity!

Dr. Weakly: (Looking at his watch) Our time is up. We can discuss a firm course of action next time.

If Someone Is Driving You Crazy, At Least You're Being Chauffeured

Things sure have changed since I was a kid. Nowadays, they buckle up for safety and sit in the back seat in a special booster chair complete with belly pad, plush seat cover, head pillow and a three-position, crotch strap. I remember standing up on the front seat of our Ford Fairlane, next to my mother. More than once, I was pitched head-first into the metal dash board when she had to make a quick stop. I’m fine though, honest.

Then there was the little, blue, enamel pot she kept on the floor in the back seat for emergencies. God forbid, we actually try to find a rest room. That would have required making an unscheduled stop. I sometimes wonder what happened to that pot. I hope it never made its way back into a kitchen. My sister referred to us as the squat team because it took a lot of skill to make use of that pot in a moving vehicle without tipping over.

Mom was a very serious driver. I can’t ever remember her turning her head from side to side. Her face was filled with determination as she glared at the road ahead. If I pointed to something of interest, she would say, “I can’t look now, I’m driving.” I thought this was particularly amusing when we had reached our destination and she was zooming right past it.

Mom refused to drive on the freeway. She said she was just too nervous. Therefore, whenever we went any distance, we would have to negotiate the side streets, stop lights, traffic and add several minutes per mile respectively. I remember clearly, it took quite some time for her to get my Brownie troop from Canoga Park to Los Angeles to see a theatrical performance one fine Saturday afternoon, which turned into the evening performance.

Aside from not driving the freeway, mom never made left-hand turns. She was afraid to inch her way into an intersection and stop. Her workaround was to only make right-hand turns. It made sense to her. However, when I was a teenager, I did a stupid thing. I tried opening my bedroom window by pressing my hand against the pane instead of the sash, and it went right through the glass. I got a very nasty cut and my mother’s face drained of color when she saw the bloody towel. She grabbed her purse and keys and ordered me into the car. The closest hospital was fifteen miles away. I pressed the towel against my hand to stop the bleeding, and felt the cloth getting warmer and heavier. I pushed harder, fearing that I had cut my wrist too. I looked over at the determined look on my mother’s face as she screeched the tires around her right-hand turns.

At this rate, I figured it would take us a good forty-five minutes to get there. I was trying to remember how much blood the human body holds, but I never listened in biology class. I was too busy watching the white saliva globules collect in the corners of Mr. Morley’s mouth and guessing how long he could talk before licking them away.

“Mom, how long does it take to bleed to death?”

Know what she said?

“I can’t look now, I’m driving.”

One Thousand, Eight Hundred and Ten

I’ve just finished watching Julie and Julia. It occurred to me that success seems to be achieved while you’re busy doing something else. At least, that is what I gleaned from the movie, which must be why I liked Forest Gump so much. That happens to be my most treasured fantasy…you know, where success literally smacks you in the back of the head when you’re frantically trying to make something else work. So, here is a young woman who sets a goal for herself to prepare all of Julia’s rather difficult French recipes within a year. I’ll be darned if she didn’t do it too. She’s also a frustrated writer. Very inspiring.

Well, I thought, I’m a frustrated writer, musician, artist, chef, ice skater, ballroom dancer, gardener, poker player, horse trainer, and knitter. Maybe that is what the problem is. I’m just not focused enough. Maybe I should just pick something and jump in with both feet. After all, it’s the perfect time of year to set a goal.

I set my sights on my list of partially developed hobbies. I realized that I have been playing the guitar for the last thirty-five years and have never advanced further than, The Puppy Song. I don’t think I have enough time left to master the guitar. I rendered portraits a couple of decades ago and turned myself inside out to please people and get their images young enough, having the right style and quantity of hair, and with attractive noses and teeth. I felt like a cosmetic surgeon. No thanks. My mother wanted me to skate in the chorus line of the Ice Capades. Even with the bar lowered, my Axel jump was a disaster. I’m an Arthur Murray dropout, my garden was eaten by enormous, green-black bugs, and I’m too old to turn a saddle sore into a callus again. Yes, you do have to grow a callus on your tailbone to ride a horse. I don’t think my tater-tot, lima bean casserole will make it into a cookbook, so now I am toying with a different idea.

Since it was mentioned in the movie that Julie thought she had A.D.D. (Perhaps I do too, ya’ think?) and that was the reason she never finished her novel, I thought, as an intensely focused hobby, I might collect five thoughts per day from those suffering from A.D.D. If we start tomorrow, by the end of 2010, I will have collected one thousand, eight hundred and ten thoughts. And that’s a very impressive number. Of course, if you submit a thought, that would mean you are granting me permission to use it. Incomplete thoughts are welcome and the more humorous, the better. Keep it clean and original. If you use someone else’s thought, give ‘em credit.

Maybe suffering doesn’t have to be a symptom of A.D.D. Maybe if we have fun with it, the spell will be broken and A.D.D. will become nothing more than an unpleasant partial memory. Since it is more fun to participate in a group, I will expect everyone to pull their own A.D.D. weight. Don’t make me take up the slack, my brain may explode.

Comments are welcome….uh….now.

Ending 2009 'n Stuff

Another year is ending. The fireworks will be over, the ball will drop. Time to put away the sweets, leftovers, white elephants, party hats, stretch pants (holiday wear) and get back to a more healthy and balanced way of living. I've been promising myself that since New Year's eve, 1993.

It seems I have been doing New Year's all wrong. After a bit of research, I found a few tidbits about tradition and warding off evil spirits or attracting luck. I've been told that what we do on New Year's day guarantees our fate for the rest of the year. When I reviewed the traditional, must-do list, it's a wonder I'm still alive.

It seems if you fail to kiss your significant other at the stroke of twelve, this insures a year of coldness. Ah, yes, I've experienced that. But when you're stinking drunk, how do you recognize your significant other? You may think you kissed your one and only, but did you? This creates what is known as auld langxiety. That is the horrible feeling you wake up with when you can't remember what you did on New Year's eve.

I guess you're supposed to stock the cupboards too. This guarantees prosperity, but I don't see how having shelves full of Top Ramen and Jiffy Pop has much to do with the rest of the year.
All bills should be paid off by New Year's day. The year should not begin with the household in debt. Which year? I've been in debt since I was seven.

Letting the old year out. At midnight, open all the doors in the house to let the old year escape without obstruction. Really? Since I have never done this, I must have decades rotting in corners, in the furniture cushions, and under the bed. It must be 1982 that has been smelling up the laundry room.

This year, I'm going to do something I have never done before. I'm going to make a time capsule and bury it in the back yard. This will help me and anyone else who forgets, to remember what all the fuss was about. The first thing that will go in will be a letter to myself.

V. (a name I call myself)...

It's now, (barring any nuclear holocaust, personal disaster, death, or discovery made by some goofball with a metal detector) January 1, 2035. You are most likely holding this letter in your fat, sausage-like fingers, realizing that you never did lose the weight you so earnestly promised to lose. Damn your eyes.

I've enclosed the following items:

A pencil rendition of, Francine, Sylvia Brown's spirit guide.

A receipt that proves gasoline sold in Blythe, CA on 12/23/09 was $4.93 a gallon.

A photo of Bernie Madoff as he was sentenced to 150 years in prison.

A photo of me running a red light (expensive photo shoot)

An unused portion of, Happy Camper, an attitude food and herbal supplement I found online that claimed to brighten your spirits.

Droppings from Barack Obama's campaign trail.

Eight years of toenail clippings from Aunt Lolly's jar.

Video of my flexible sigmoidoscopy.

An unused gift card from Victoria's Secret.

A copy of each of Stephen Hawking's books, A Brief History of Time and The Universe in a Nutshell.

A wedge of fruitcake, just to confirm that time has no effect on its form, function or taste.

A hot-pink, low-rise thong from Victoria's Secret. Yes, it's clean.

A take out menu from Wok's Cookin'.

A Viagra tablet in a test tube.

The $300. cell phone that mysteriously slipped into my ice chest on the way back from Phoenix.

A sealed, white chocolate, mocha frappuccino blended decaf coffee from Starbucks, with whipped cream topping.

My December, 2009 Visa statement. Sigh.

A recording of my first yodeling lesson.

The first season of Family Guy on DVD.

I will close and hermetically seal the capsule with Preparation H. This event surely will override any New Year mistakes I've made in the past. I hope.

Of course, I'll be sure to serve black-eyed peas just in case.

Post Holiday Depression

All the trash bins are overflowing with wrapping paper and boxes, Christmas trees are drooping and all the chocolate eating has mysteriously prevented me from fitting into anything other than my holiday stretchy pants. Nothing has changed from previous years.

As in classical mechanics, p=mv, or the product of the mass (me) and velocity of an object (me), i.e. meeting year-end goals at work, shopping, cooking, wrapping, driving, mailing cards and gifts, and don’t forget to call everyone who will be offended if you don’t.

The natural side effect of all of this momentum is what I refer to as post holiday depression. Strangely, it feels as if time has stopped. Newton’s Law can’t touch the emotion that one experiences by flipping from momentum to inertia. Inertia meaning, that an object (me) will always continue moving at its current speed and in its current direction until some force causes its speed or direction to change (the party’s over).

But, enough of that, this blog isn’t about physics and it’s not really about depression. I just needed to get that off my chest.

I’d like to talk about the endless hours of computer use that go on around the world. I’m afraid in time, there will be an announcement that long term exposure to electromagnetic fields definitely causes, brain tumors, leukemia, chronic fatigue, headaches, cataracts, heart problems, cancer, stress, nausea, chest pain and forgetfulness. Oh, and before I forget, there is a public service announcement I heard. Saliva causes stomach cancer but only when swallowed in small amounts over a long period of time. Will I ever get to the point?

I’m sure I’m not the only one who has experienced a conflict of interest, especially where computers are concerned. One of the presents my boyfriend (BJ) received this year is the computer game put out by Blizzard, called StarCraft. I know, it was actually released in 1998, but I haven’t been into video games since Ms. Pac-Man and I think I became obsessed with that because it involved eating dots and chasing after bouncing fruit. Nevertheless, my boyfriend loves his StarCraft game and asked me to try playing because if I can get up to speed, we can play online with others. Heh.

He sat with me, offering helpful tips as I completed the first two missions, which took me three hours!
It went something like this:

BJ: Okay, click on your SCV.
Me: What’s that?
BJ: That’s your energy collecting vehicle.
Me: Where?
BJ: Down at the bottom of the screen.
Me: That little thing?
BJ: Yeah, left click on it and then right click on the minerals.
Me: Oh! He responded to me.
BJ: Yeah. Now build another worker.
Me: I wish I could have done that a week ago. How do I do that?
BJ: Go to your menu, then click on build and select a worker.
Me: That’s easy, now what?
BJ: EXPAND, always expand! Don’t be afraid to.
Me: Do I look like I’m afraid of expanding? I pulled at the waist band of my sweat pants.
BJ: Okay, now you want to collect gas for energy.
Me: That isn’t hard after aunt Birdie’s green bean casserole.
BJ: You’re gonna need all your resources to defend yourself while you’re being attacked on your next mission.
Me: I’m gonna be attacked?
BJ: Big time.
Me: You know, before we get into the attacking mission, I need to switch over to FarmVille and harvest my Pattypan Squash.
BJ: Squash!
Me: Yeah, I have to plant rice too. I’m just forty points away from level one of Rice mastery.
BJ: Okay, baby, but look, you’re being attacked by the Zergs.
Me: Oh my God, this is worse than being attacked by the Goldman’s at my office holiday party. Where’s my SUV?
BJ: No, you have to build Marines and bunkers.
Me: I’ll bet my squash is starting to wither.
BJ: Defense, defense! Where are your firebots?
Me: What are those?! I was madly clicking on the enemy, not realizing that it was a useless exercise.
BJ: Those guys throw flames. Build some!
Me: Does it have to be so violent? My marines are being splattered all over the ground.
BJ: What is your SCV doing just sitting there? Mine more minerals. Go, go, go!
Me: They’re demolishing my power depot!
BJ: You need minerals to build more. You should have been doing that all along.
Me: Now you tell me.
I kept clicking on the Zergs knowing it was futile.
BJ: That’s okay baby, you’ll get ‘em next time.
He patted me on the head and went to our hobby room to work on some music.

I just sat there panting, and reliving the stress I had just experienced from my total annihilation. With a shaky hand, I opened my browser and went to Facebook. I clicked on the FarmVille icon and there it was, my peaceful little farm. All the cows, chickens, goats and horses were in their places, right where I left them. All my ducks were in one straight row, and my Pattypan squash was ripe for harvesting. There’s no place like home.