Six Weeks

Just think, in one eighth of the gestation time it took to build me, I can fall in love with myself. That is what the ad promised me. The course would give me everything I need to create the outcome of loving myself and receive help and guidance from Mother Mary who is channeled by an unknown seeker. By signing up for the course, I would be giving Mother Mary permission to suggest actions to take that would profoundly affect the way I feel about myself. Loving myself, would be the result of taking the actions Mother Mary would recommend each week and help me find my inner compass. I paid $50.00.

Week one: Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom…”Let it be.” I was just about to slice off a second hunk of chocolate peanut butter pie. Enveloped in a moment of clarity, I set the server down.

Week two: Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom…”Let it be.” I was just about to flip off the driver who wheeled into the parking space I had my eye on. Nodding in agreement, I exercised restraint of tongue and finger.

Week three: Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom…”Let it be.” I was considering mentioning to an acquaintance in the nicest way possible that her bracelet, the size of Alaska, was competing with her rocket ship earrings. I suddenly realized the rattling of her baubles were drowning out the negative comments she was sharing about a mutual acquaintance.

Week four: Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom…”Let it be.” I refrained from beating an annoying salesman with a display rack. I took a deep breath, smiled and wished him a nice day.

Week five: Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom…”Let it be.” Instead of yelling at the neighbor’s dog pooping in my yard, I gently picked him up, bagged the poop and set both on their porch. No, I did not light the bag.

Week Six: Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom…”Let it be.” I looked up from my laptop and gazed around at the many writers sitting with their own laptops at the local Starbucks racking their brains to touch their reader’s soul with the perfect product review and ignoring their fellow coffee drinkers. Instead of releasing a primal scream, I asked the woman at the next table if I could get her opinion on her favorite restaurant for an article I was writing.

As I completed this course, I realized that I never need be ambassador of the world, custodian of fashion, minister of the road, or overseer of bad manners again. I need only watch my own side of the street by monitoring my own behavior, my own diet, my own clothes and simply treat others as I wish to be treated.

Who would have thought that this two-thousand-year-old direction would be the very thing to turn a hard-headed, fix-you-upper into a keep her eyes on her own paper kind of woman?

I can’t say I am in love with myself but I did give me a wink as I put on my make-up this morning. I’m toying with the idea of buying me a new outfit and next week I think I’m gonna take me to dinner. I got the skinny on a great restaurant at Starbucks.

Mother's Day

Good Morning, Joel,

It's been a while since I posted a blog and I remember how much you said you enjoyed reading them. Today is Mother's Day and I felt your presence this morning so this one's for you.

Gabrielle texted me and wanted my recipe for French Toast. She's making a breakfast in bed for her mom. She's grown into such a beautiful young lady. Age ten going on twenty. She's sensitive, loving, talented and extremely bright. You would be so proud of her.

I want you to know how much I miss you and if you were still here, I would remind you of my favorite times of being your mother, like rocking you in our chair until you fell asleep and feeling your heart beat against mine. When you were two, you loved pretending that you were talking on the phone which is why the extension was always off the hook in the master bedroom.

The day you went off to kindergarten and I thought you would be scared but you weren't, you were excited. You didn't cry, I did. You always shared whatever you had, wondered why some people were mean, loved animals and seemed happier when earned something than when it was given to you.

You said lots of things that made me laugh. "I just stuck my tongue out at God." (Age 5) "Was the world in black and white when you were a kid?" (Age 7)You watched too many old movies. "When you turn 40, do you stop having sex and listen to the WAVE?" (Age 9) "Why do they always ask that trick question when you interview for a job? Why do you want to work here?" (Age 16).

I miss taking you to Woodcraft Rangers, to the library to work on the reports you forgot were due the next day, to Disneyland, Magic Mountain, the snow, Reseda park to feed the ducks, the beach, and to play on the metal Robot at Santa Clarita Park. I miss going to 31 flavors and I remember one particular day when you asked why people were laughing at you (age 6). You had vanilla ice cream from ear to ear. I told you not to pay attention, they just didn't know how to eat ice cream. Of course, you always wanted vanilla ice cream no matter what the flavor of the day was. I order it myself now and think of you while I eat it.

I miss the sleep overs with your friends and waking up on Sunday mornings with sleeping bags plopped all over the living room, not even knowing who was in each one. I miss making you cream of wheat and watch you blazing a trail with your spoon so the butter would run down in a spiral. I miss watching you play video games on Saturday morning, skate boarding and riding your bike. I miss scrambling for money because the ice cream man was coming. I miss open house at school and your sixth grade graduation when I embarrassed you by crying so hard that I snorted when your class sang, Wind Beneath My Wings.

I miss hearing you laugh, sing your favorite songs when you thought I wasn't listening and not being embarrassed to be seen with me when you were in your teens. Thanks for taking me to see Ghost among many other movies. I loved it just as you said I would and I loved you more when we ran into some of your friends at the theater. It's not easy for a sixteen year old to tell his friends he wanted his mom to see the movie.

I cried each time you left to go to the prom. Three times! You never believed me when I said you were a hunk. I loved going with you to the tux shop and the time you chose the beige tux with the black lapels and I thought you would get criticized for being odd man out but all your friends were blown away and they loved it. I cried hard at your high school graduation but you were too far away to hear me to get embarrassed.

I was proud that you went to college and graduated with honors while you were working and supporting a wife and baby. I cried again. And again. I was proud each time you told me you were promoted and got a raise. I was happy to see you with your daughter. She's a lot like you.

If you were here today, I would tell you that life is hard, some folks will always be mean, ice cream is better when it's all over your face and there will be times when people let you down although it isn't because they don't love you. I would tell you I love you and never stop. Never stop. Never Stop.

You are always a blessing, never a loss. I thank God for giving me the privilege of being your mother and I am flattered that he trusted me with you. You were loaned to me for a time and I will always treasure that. I know you are really God's kid.

Blessings to you and yours and I look forward to the day when you will escort me into the next dimension.

I love you to the moon and back.
Momma

FUN WITH TEXT AND PAIN

Wow, the internet was buzzing with freaky news yesterday. Two articles were especially interesting. First, a woman at the Berkshire mall fell into the indoor fountain while texting and walking. Unfortunately, the security guard who posted the video on You Tube was fired. I imagine this unforgivable breach of security may lead to a career change. On a lighter note, I posted the video on my wall, as we know a video is worth a thousand words.

The second article that caught my eye was about a 44-year-old woman in New Zealand who suffered a small stroke caused by a hickey. She went to the emergency room after she found that she couldn’t move her left arm while she was watching TV.

Who would think that a love bite could be so dangerous? It seems that if someone sucks your neck close to a major artery there is a chance of bruising the vessel and creating a blood clot which is what happened in this case. The clot traveled to the woman’s heart and caused the minor stroke which left her partially paralyzed. She was treated with an anticoagulant and the clot disappeared within a week. Whew!
Doctors poured through medical literature to find an example of this happening in the past and they found nothing.

This makes me wonder…why can’t I write things like this?!! This is good stuff. Two women are finding fame and fortune because of measureless stupidity. I’ve done stupid things but they never get filmed. I’ve seen stupid things that will never get reported.

There’s definitely something to be said for being in the right place at the right time. Remarkably, in these cases, bad news is good news. The texter will most likely sue the Berkshire mall and win her case. Indoor fountains will be permanently banned. Hickey lady will begin to tour high schools with her warning about the dangers of neck sucking.

I only have two questions. What the hell is a 44 year old woman doing with a hickey? And why do you have to move your left arm when you’re watching TV?...OMG, unless of course her amorous lover was sitting there.

Current Events

Happy New Year!

I logged onto my computer this morning and a listing under local news caught my eye. It was titled, Botox: guilty of crimes against beauty? As I read the article, I experienced a strange feeling that I had read it before. I have to admit that I have had many of these types of encounters and have even gone so far as to consider myself borderline psychic. Of course, that was before I read the date of the article, Thursday, 23 September 2004, and realized that I really had read it before.

Are we running out of news? Why would this article be posted under current events? Are they trying to make me think I am crazy? Hah! No challenge there. I was prompted to scan my ancient document files and found a very short story I wrote in 2004, I’m assuming this was the article that inspired, Botox and the Three Dares. Hope you like it.

Liz peeled the paper backing from her name tag and stifled a sigh. "Marla’s such a twit," she whispered to Ruth while pressing the tag over her right breast. “I can’t believe she’s doing this.”
Ruth looked around the room anxiously. "Well, why did you agree to come if you are so dead set against the idea?"
The corner of Liz’s mouth tipped up. "You wouldn't want to go anywhere without your voice of reason would you?"
"Oh stop it. You're just mad because she thought of it first."
"You've gotta be kidding, I'm not going to let some quack shoot me up with Botulism." Liz nodded in the doctor’s direction.
"Well, personally I don't think that getting rid of a few laugh lines is all that bad."
Liz huffed out a breath."Laugh lines? How would Marla get laugh lines? She's been married to Barry for fifteen years."
“She was just released from rehab you know”, Ruth whispered. She got hooked on pain meds after her breast augmentation. Barry said it got really bad, she was flirting with death.”
Liz smirked. “I heard it was more of a lap dance. See where all this vanity takes you?”
"Look, just talk to him, he's coming this way,” Ruth said. "Hello Dr. Barton." She smiled sweetly and shook his hand.
"Ladies. Enjoying the party?" His glance drifted down to their feet and back again. "Any questions I might answer?"
Liz reached for a glass of wine from the table. "How many forehead furrows have you conquered today?"
Dr. Barton looked at her solemnly. "Not everyone is a good candidate for treatment."
Ruth leaned close to Dr. Barton as she pointed to an infinitesimal discoloration on the bridge of her nose.
"Do you know what this might be?"
He examined the area briefly and smiled. "My dear, it is nothing more than a small footprint left by time, of course the foot size will grow and won’t be satisfied until it has trampled away all evidence of your youth.” He slipped an arm around her shoulder.
“Come to my office.”
"Where is that? In the bedroom?" Liz said thrusting her face close to his.
"Liz! Dr. Barton is trying to save us from premature ageing.”
Liz rolled her eyes. "Oh good then, pass the hors d'oeuvres and consent forms."
"Tell me Dr. B, how exactly does the Botox work?" Ruth asked.
Dr. Barton pushed back his lab coat and drew a gold watch from his vest. He pressed his thumb on the catch and snapped the cover open to stare blindly at its face.
"When Botox is injected into the muscles surrounding the eyes, for instance, those muscles can't scrunch up for about six months. If an area of the body can't move, it can't wrinkle." He returned the watch to his pocket.
"Sounds great if you're playing poker, it's so hard to maintain that numb look with a winning hand."
Ruth looked concerned. "So is there a chance that something could go wrong?"
"Well of course it could!" Liz chimed in. "Your muscles will be paralyzed! I mean doesn't Brad complain enough about you being non-responsive in bed? How do you think he will like you staring back at him with a blank expression? Permanently!"
Now, Liz," Dr. Barton put his hand lightly on her shoulder. "May I call you Liz?"
Liz winged an eyebrow up.
"The injectable form of botulinumtoxin is perfectly safe.” He smiled broadly and
held up a swearing palm. ”There is absolutely nothing to worry about. Now, may I take your picture with my UV camera?"
Liz brushed past Dr. Barton. "You want another drink?" She glanced back at Ruth.
"Don't mind her Dr. B, you can take my picture." Ruth grinned.
"Just fill out the form and wait for me in the next room I'll be right with you."
Dr. Barton strolled over to Liz. "Sure you don't want to join your friend?"
"Am I the only one concerned here?" She waved her hand indicating the eagerness in the room.
Dr. Barton raked a hand through his thinning hair. "Nonsense, nothing to be concerned about, everyone is doing it."
"Excuse me for being skeptical doctor but I believe anything that has the ability to attack my muscles poses as a severe threat." Liz downed her wine and reached for another glass. "I mean if it were injected in my chest, it would have a profound impact on my breathing wouldn't it?"
He lightly touched her cheekbone with his pinky finger. "Yes, but it isn't your chest…it's those pesky little lines around your eyes."
"Dr. B, will you be injecting me soon?" Ruth rudely rattled the form next to his ear.
Marla sauntered over with a rather annoyed looking chap in tow.
"Liz…Ruth, so glad you could come to my Bo party." She had a fierce grip on the gentleman's arm. "I'd like you to meet Hunter."
"Well hello, Hunter." Liz smiled and extended her hand, but Marla jerked him aside before he could reach it.
"Hunter is an actor between pants, ah parts." Marla said. "He came to offer me emotional support. I despise needles…don't I Hunter?" She threw him a pout.
Hunter smiled wryly. "In spite of appearances," he reached out and took Liz’s hand. "Marla is not a ventriloquist and I am no dummy." Liz caught the defiant tone in his voice as he pressed his lips to the back of her hand. “As a matter of fact, I just landed a part in one of the daytime operas. I’ll be playing the part of a transient who blows into a small town and falls in love with a co-dependent debutant obsessed with giving him a make over.”
“Oh? Which soap would that be?” Dr. Barton asked.
Hunter looked at Dr. Barton and gave Liz’s hand a squeeze before releasing it. “Women Betrayed.”
Dr. Barton nodded knowingly. “Yes, I inject the whole cast of that one.”
"Hunter dear, would you mind refilling my glass?" Marla shoved her empty goblet at him.
"Happy to." He took the glass, made a slight bow and gave Liz a spectacular smile.
Dr. Barton nodded politely and then drifted away to begin treatments.
Marla sneered. "So Liz, are you still in retail?"
"Yes, Marla, I still work at the boutique in the mall."
"I just love that red dress you're wearing, in fact I love it more each time I see it." Marla's collagen filled lips quivered before forming a smile.
"Thanks."
Marla turned to Ruth. "Tell me Ruthie, is Brad still looking for work?"
"I'm afraid so, I really shouldn't spend the money for the injections but,” her voice trailed off as she twirled a lock of her hair and stared at the tops of her shoes.
"Well, he must be coming up to the last of the unemployment checks," Marla winked. "Then again, you must be ever so tired of staring at those unsightly lines in the mirror. Thank God for Dr. Barton, huh?"
Marla clasped Liz's forearm and spoke softly. "You know Liz, I have the name of another dermatologist. He works wonders with enlarged pores, I'll give you his number before you leave."
"You're too thoughtful Marla.”
"Oh, excuse me will you? Hunter is trying to get my attention." Marla scurried off toward the dining room.
Liz’s eyes followed Marla and she slowly shook her head. "Should I have offered her a toothpick?"
"She did kind of make a meal of us didn't she?"
"Picked our bones clean." Liz said through gritted teeth. She switched her attention to her new acquaintance and smiled. "What do you think of Hunter?"
"God, he's really cute and he keeps looking over at you,” Ruth said with a giggle.
"Yeah, I wouldn't mind running my fingers through that thick dark hair of his."
"Liz! What would Marla say?"
"Who cares? She's married and I'm single…all is fair in love and pores.”
"Whatever Liz, I'm going to get my injections now. Are you sure you won't join me?" Ruth gave her an encouraging nod.
"How old do you think Hunter is?" Liz asked.
Ruth leaned forward and squinted to see his features. "I would guess he's a good ten years younger than us."
Liz turned and snagged one of the consent forms from the table and regarded it carefully. She held it up and as she tore it neatly in half when her gaze met Hunter’s.
“You know Ruth, I have a hunch that not too long from now, I’m going to be feeling about ten years younger.”

A Little Bit Thankful

He was a Patuxet Indian, and his name was Squanto. When he was a young man, he went to England on a trading ship. He was made part of an Indian Exhibit on a London stage, he worked as a servant, was tricked into going on board a slave ship to Spain where he was sold.

Luckily, he fell into the hands of a group of friars at a Catholic monastery. They freed him and turned him into a Christian. By the time he located a ship captain that would agree to take him home, twelve years had passed. When he returned home, there was no trace of his family or friends. They had all been struck with a great sickness. Every one of them had died. He was the last of his tribe, but at least he could speak English, that was the important thing.

Squanto was the one who showed the Pilgrims how to build warm houses. Then, taught them when and where to plant. He showed them how to plant and use fish for fertilizer to grow corn faster. He taught the women how to cook the corn. He acted as an interpreter, guide, and gave advice on bargaining with the natives. Without him, the pilgrims would never have survived the season. In fact, half of them had already died in the harsh winter weather.

To me, this was a true act of forgiveness. To be enslaved, beaten, mistreated and stripped of his pride, and still be willing to offer life-saving help. Now that's being thankful!

This year, we have decided to celebrate an authentic Thanksgiving. Our menu will include cod fish, steamed clams, eel wrapped in sea weed, pease porridge, a variety of dried fruit and hardtack.

There is no indication that there ever was a second harvest celebration. We had to wait 280 years for the food to improve before we could truly celebrate.

We're actually having Lasagna this year, along with the usual. But what would Thanksgiving be without, cheeseballs, nutballs and footballs?

Writer's Concrete Block

Have you ever wondered how long it takes to break up a cement driveway with a pickaxe and a sledge hammer? I haven’t either, and I don’t know yet because he’s still working on it. The pickaxe resonates with a ping-thump sound as it chips away at the rock-hard gray substance that was laid down so many years ago. The sledge hammer sounds like a loud crack and then a thud as large chunks give way. The scraping sounds set my teeth on edge.

Now I am wondering if he knows that they have developed machinery to do this type of work. A Bobcat, with a front mounted jack hammer could do the work in a fraction of the time, but since this is a job arranged by the home owners association, I suppose saving money is the first order of business. One man, one pickaxe, one sledge hammer, and staggering stamina. Whack! Crack! Ping! Thud!

I just looked out the window to watch him use the flat end of the head to pry up a hefty chunk of four inch concrete. This visual is much better than written research and will come in handy for me if I ever write a story about a Mason who accepts jobs from tightfisted homeowners associations. Let’s see, what would I name him? Rock Morter? Connor (Con) Crete? Or maybe an antonym would be more fitting like, Loose Gravel. Now I’m being silly.

Somehow, this brings memories of my mother back. I can still hear her say, “you do everything the hard way.” Seems strange coming from a woman who tried to stop a car from rolling down a driveway with her bare hands rather than snatching a small child (me) dangling from the open door before dropping off under the front wheel. Good thing I was really young, flexible bones and a whole lot of luck kept me from sustaining any permanent damage.

I’ve always known that noises interfere with my thinking process which, at times, puts me at a disadvantage. I marvel at writers who sit in coffee shops to get their work done. Peck, peck, peck, they type, oblivious to their surroundings. One blast of the blender mixing someone’s Caramel, Mocha Frappiccino and I would be out the door. I just can’t incorporate noise into the creative writing process with any type of flow. It’s kind of like when reality gets in the way of an aspiration. Maybe I should write a piece on the Big Bang theory. Bang! Boom! Bonk! Scrape! No, I’m not that smart. Sometimes I wish I had a funny icon on my tool bar. Just click and everything you write is funny.

Uh oh, the chain gang just added another worker. Oh, it’s Juan, my gardener. I don’t suppose the pickaxe guy likes the cement dust being blown into his face by Juan’s leaf blower but that’s their axe to grind. The purpose of the driveway replacement is to eliminate trip hazards. I can’t tell you how many piles of bricks, dirt and cement there are, not to mention the wheel barrow sitting at the base of the porch steps. Now I’m listening to the Edgar Winter Group perform, Free Ride, in my head.

Saturday morning is my favorite time to write but there are signs that it’s time to stop. I’m thinking in broken English, my train of thought has been derailed and I am flitting from one subject to another like a hummingbird on crack. I guess I’ll take the worker some iced tea so all I will hear for the next few minutes is the tinkle of ice in the glass. Ahhhhh.

Skinny Thinking Diet?

I’ve been taught that you can’t think your way into healthy living, you have to act your way into healthy thinking. This theory has worked in several areas of my life except for one, food. I love food and there is nothing wrong with that as long as it doesn’t become a dysfunctional relationship.

Sadly, I have had a dysfunctional relationship with food for over twenty years. The way the dynamic works is on a come here - go away cycle. I admit it, I beckon the dastardly Pasta Fagioli for a one-night stand more than I care to admit, a power struggle ensues, and before I know it I am scraping sauce off the ceiling. I never mean for it to become violent but after I have already gained an unwanted twenty pounds, my thinking process is compromised.

What is so frustrating is that the disease of food-codependence is insidious and powerful and begins to fold back on me. Shame beats me up after wolfing down a complete box of Dulce De Leche girl scout cookies and then knowing that a Tommy’s double cheeseburger lies in wait only fuels the panic. This toxic, one-sided romance is taking its toll.

My boyfriend caught me having a tussle with a pork tenderloin the other night. Somehow I had become tangled up in kitchen twine. He was able to free me but sadly was unable to save the roast. With remnants of butter roasted potatoes smashed against my cheeks, I rose from the floor and expressed my gratitude. We celebrated by sharing a trough of Ben and Jerry’s Dublin Mudslide.

Unhappily, I admit defeat. Food has won the battle. I have been beaten by it until my body has swollen past the seams of my designer jeans. Paraphrasing the words of Shakespeare, ‘I have eaten myself out of my five senses.’ The course of true love never did run smooth and mine was no exception. It is time to lower the drawbridge of my wall of denial and usher in a new way of thinking, the skinny way of thinking.

I am now envisioning my body the way I want it to be. Perfectly proportioned and fit. I can see myself admiring my image in the bedroom mirror. I’m wearing that sexy little black off the shoulder dress that I didn’t think I would ever fit into again. I am smiling as I slowly turn from side to side. But, wait a minute, there is a slight bulge in one of the slit sleeves. I see myself pulling out a large Caramello candy bar. No way! I can already smell the rich milk chocolate right through the wrapper. My fingers tremble as I pull the paper away and turn from the mirror. I feel the firmness of the bar between my lips and a string of caramel drips down my chin after the first bite. I am powerless to stop until the candy bar is gone. The feeling of despair overwhelms me. It was the most disturbing imagining I have had since reading Stephen King’s, The Dark Half. I need comforting.

I will have to dispose of the large pizza box before it is found. I think I will bury this one in the backyard. I can make another corned beef casserole to replace the one I ate while waiting for the pizza delivery but I won’t have time to restore the top layer of the double layer pumpkin cheesecake. I’m sure some whipped cream can cover up the damage though. Oh my God, what am I doing? The seduction of food has overpowered me once again. Just as I feared, I am unable to think my way skinny!

There is one last option…the garlic and onion diet. It makes you smell so bad that no one can stand being close to you, but then we all look slimmer from a distance, don’t we?