A Poem For The State I'm In

(One, two, three...)

Oh yes I'm BORED (two, three)

Out of my GOURD. (two, three)

Between the COUGH,

And the HACK,

And the WHEEZE.

And every MED

That I've been FED

Just makes me TOSS

Money I LACK

At WalGREENS.

But then there's Lungman,

Dear Doctor Lungman,

Who is all of sixteen

If he's a day...

And Doctor Lungman,

Dear Doctor Lungman,

Has this, only this, thing to say....

"Could be virus,

Could be cold,

Could be asthma,

Could be you're old.

Let's try this drug,

Let's try that.

Let's try so many you won't know just where you're at!"

And so we try them,

Each one by one,

With ample doses

Of steroids

Just for fun.

We try inhalers,

We try nose sprays,

We try pills,

Breathing treatments, gamma rays.

And one day perhaps we'll find

The perfect combination.

The one which blends heart, soul and mind

in one big conflagration.

One which causes lungs to work

As lungs are meant to do

And rid this kid of hackwheezecough

So she can write about something else other than being sick all the time

for you.

(curtsy)

There's A Mouse In The House

Yes, we have another visitor. An unwelcome one, who will soon know just how unwelcome he is.

We've christened him Joe. He is the original cordless mouse.

Joe follows in the footsteps of his ancestor Hercules. Hercules was with us for no less than six months before he was dispatched to that Great Hunk O' Cheese In The Sky. That varmint outsmarted our best attempts at capture and/or termination, and will live in infamy as The Little Mouse That Could.

And what he COULD was also infamous.

He left little calling cards all over the carpet. He scared the dog. He chewed a hole in one of the Lazy Boy chairs, and tried to nest in it. He ate all the bait from the traps. He evaded every attempt of capture and/or certain death.

Then I left with the kids for a three-day trip out of town. Before leaving, I put down a couple of glue traps. When I got back in town and opened the door of the house, I was met with a stench like no other.

"Uh, dear? Did you check the traps?"

"Why?"

It seems that if you actually LIVE with the smell, you don't notice it as much. I checked the trap in the bathroom, and found Hercules had met his Waterloo.

Or something like that.

And so we come to the life and times of Joe.

Hubster first met Joe as he was reclining on the couch in the basement, watching football. Joe introduced himself by running along Hubster's back before disappearing into the recesses of the dark. Hubster warned us to keep the door to the garage firmly shut at all times to keep our newest visitor out, but the children didn't heed his warning. Hence, Joe made it up to the office/kitchen/living room level.

The Girl saw him first, running across the office area. And today, just before I started this little post, he was kind enough to introduce himself to me by running from somewhere in the office to under the buffet in the dining room and then back under a chair in the office. Knowing how I feel about mice it really is a wonder I didn't scream.

So today I'll make a trip to the local hardware store and purchase more of those wonderful traps. We'll check them daily to make sure the house doesn't get that telltale odor. If we're lucky, Joe will be history in a day or so. If not, we'll just have to get Mom, The Mighty Mouse Hunter over here to do her thing.

Because I'm not sacrificing another Lazy Boy to the Rodent Gods any time soon if I can help it.

In Which It Is Obvious I Have Been Felled By A Force Of Great Magnitude

There are bad things out there in the world, children.

Bad, EVIL, things that will get you when you aren't looking.

And they hide in weird places.

I am firmly convinced that the aforementioned evasion of liquid substances from my body has mostly to do with one of these Evil Beings. You may remember that I blamed it on the consumption of the Equally Evil Corn in my previous post, but I now see things in a new light.

I'm blaming it on the pedicure.

You see, I went for a pedicure this weekend during a break in All the Excitement of working. I had a gift certificate burning a hole in my proverbial pocket, and ingrown toenails to match. What better time?

At the particular salon I frequent, there are these wonderful, lovely, shiatsu massage chairs for clients to sit in whilst their toes are pampered. It is truly a small slice of heaven for the entire body right here on this very earth.

However, something went wrong this time. Very, very wrong.

One of the wonderful massage ball thingies (and I do believe that is a technical term) hit a muscle in my back on the left side, causing it to spasm. I let out a groan that scared the peewadden out of the nail tech, because she thought she'd done something to make me scream. She dropped those tootsies like they were hot potatoes, splashing water everywhere.

Picture it: An elderly fat lady, grabbing her back and moaning while splashing everyone in sight with dirty feet water as the Asian woman wrings her hands and cries, "You hut? You hut?"

It was quite a sight.

After everyone got calmed down and the water got mopped up and the muscle stopped its death grip, all was fine and dandy. We finished watching Rush Hour 3 and my toenails dried.

Fast forward to today.

The back began the spasm thing again. Then Montezuma decided to get his revenge. ALL DAY LONG. So I decided Montezuma must be directly related to the back spasm, because there's no way God would do this to me all in one fell swoop on purpose. Right?

It really was the most pleasant day I've ever had. And did I tell you I invented the internet?

So tonight I'll be making a trek to the local Urgent Care to pick up some muscle relaxers. I'll be spending the evening on the heating pad, and hopefully not running up and down the stairs all night.

And I'm never getting another pedicure again.

Why Yes, I Do Believe I Would Like A Monkeywrench With My Plans, Please!

You know how it is.

You have this wonderful four-day weekend planned. A weekend when you're going to get all kinds of things done. A weekend when you're going to clean like a banshee, do laundry like a servant girl, and above all, PUT UP THE WALLPAPER IN THE HALLWAY.

Oh yes, the plans, they are many. The goals, they are lofty. The heights to which you will fly will require oxygen just to keep you breathing, because this, my friends, is YOUR WEEKEND TO SHINE.

And then the first call comes.

"We really need you to work Friday night, all day Saturday and all day Sunday on a special project which will pay megabucks to your dwindling bank account, and, oh yes, provide you with a means to pay the speeding ticket you got a month ago that is already overdue. Are you interested?"

So there goes two of the four days.

But hey, there's still time to complete those tasks, right???

And then you work the two-and-a-half days in a row. And you decide to sleep in on Monday, because you are WORN SLICK from All The Working. And "in" turns out to be ALL DAY. And so another day is gone.

And then the second call comes.

"I'd really like to spend a couple of days at your house if it wouldn't be too much trouble...." says the Dear MIL. At 92 you know there won't be all that many more chances for her to spend a couple of days with you. Besides, she's cooped up in her house and lonely. And you can still get things done with her here, so you get Son's bedroom ready for her and Hubster picks her up.

And you sleep in on Tuesday, confident in your plans to still accomplish something with the weekend.

And then you get another visitor. One with revenge in his soul. One with a singular goal of making you empty your entire body of every fluid known to man by way of the south end. One brought on by that demon of all demons to the over-fifty crowd.....CORN.

Still determined to salvage something from the weekend, you manage to do a couple of loads of laundry before collapsing on the couch. Gone are the grand aspirations for the weekend. Gone are the dreams of sweeping and mopping and dusting and polishing and wallpapering. Gone are the hopes for a cleaner tomorrow.

But it isn't all bad.

Where else could you have a reason to lounge around on the couch all day and be taken care of by Hubster?

Nope, it's not all bad at all. Even with a few monkeywrenches thrown in.

The Face I Love

I'd like to show you a face.

It's a good face.

It's the face of someone who was in the seventh grade in 1953.

It's the face of someone who taught me to look beyond the hurt that people can cause to what lies beneath. To find the spark of goodness in even the most vile people. To forgive without being asked. To love without being loved in return.

It's a face that taught me that love is not equal to judgement. That love can be meted out with grace. That God offers each of us - EVERY SINGLE ONE OF US - the exact same love, no matter who we are or what we've done. That there are those who are the hands of God on this earth who can do that very same thing. The person who wears this face is one of those people.

It's a face whose ears have listened to my innermost hurts and sorrows. Whose words have counseled me through countless pains and grief, and each time led me right back to where I belong - at the feet of God.

It's a face that's seen beauty in all the things of nature that usually go unnoticed by the human eye. From bald eagles to blackeyed Susans, the eyes of this face have seen and appreciated it all as a wonderful, sacred gift from the Father. The person who wears this face is such a gift to me.

It's the face of someone who doesn't deserve all she's been put through the past ten years. From the time her first bout of pneumonia set in until today, her health has been steadily declining.

Scleroderma is an insidious disease. Please go here to read more about it, and pray that it never attacks someone you love.

While you're at it, please say a prayer for my dear Aunt Joyce. She's the face I love so very much and cannot imagine living without. She is 68 years old, and in the last stages of her fight.

She is the face of scleroderma.

Wanna Swap?

I have just come from watching yet another riveting episode of that epic wonder of what we in this country, however loosely, call entertainment.

Yes folks, I'm talking about Wife Swap.

And really, could there BE any finer viewing out there for the consuming public?

When I first heard of this show I refused to watch it, thinking it was some kinky sort of perverted type of what I'll refer to as "family p*rn." You know, the things most sitcoms pass for nowadays. The stuff they get away with showing during the supposed "family hours" of television.

While it didn't end up being much better in the language department, it certainly did show me how other families live. It also showed me that even though my house may be somewhat of a pigsty, it isn't nearly as bad as other homes. On the other hand, it pales in comparison to some of the clean homes, as does our consistency at discipline and chores with the kids. The main point of the show is to show extremes and happy mediums, and they do it well.

As they say, anything taken to an extreme is not good.

Tonight featured an OCD drill sergeant mom and dad who made their children do exercises for punishment if there was a piece of paper left on the floor, in the front yard where all the neighbors could see. They traded with a sloppy mom and dad who only believed in having fun in the realm of food fights and driveway parties, and showed it by the dirty clothes, dishes, cat hair and feces all over their home.

After tonight's episode I asked the kids if they'd like for us to volunteer to take part in the show. They both said they'd rather be hung by their toenails in the closet.

Well, not in so many words, but I got the idea.

The Girl said she didn't want some OTHER bossy woman coming in and telling her what to do, and besides that, the show would be on in this area and she just COULD NOT HAVE THAT. No. No way. No how. Not now, not ever, NEVER.

The Boy, being a shy, reticent type, simply said, "NO." Every time I asked him why, I got the same answer. Over and over and over again.

Hubster, being the everloving, honest man he is, had his own ideas. When asked if he'd like us to join the Wife Swap team, his answer was another "no" vote. When asked why, he said "Gee, we'd have to actually CLEAN the house....wouldn't we?" When I answered in the affirmative, he answered in the negative.

"No way."

End of story.

And so, my hour of fame has been rudely ripped away from me. I can't say as I mind. I actually kind of enjoy the clutter we've come to call home.

Trippin', Trash, and Tracks

First of all, let me just say this: Premarin is a wonder drug.

For me, that is. Perhaps not for those of you who have decided to go another route, but for me. The "personal summers" and general mood swings I was experiencing....oh, let's get real, shall we? The sweltering hot flashes and the constant hatefulness I was experiencing due to certain hormonal changes of women my delicate age are now under control.

Well, as much as they can be.

But along with that comes a price.

I have always been one to get my yearly checkups without fail. Having had two aunts die from breast cancer and/or the spread of it to other places, I have always been one to get a yearly exam and mammogram like clockwork. I know the results of letting things like that go. And with it running in my family, I can't take the chance.

Or can I?

My last mammogram was over two years ago.

At the time I went in for the usual self-imposed torture, I had no doubt everything was going to turn out just fine, just like it always had. I did the usual vice-grip views of each side, then sat to wait as the technician checked the films.

And I waited.

And I waited.

And I waited.

And then I got worried.

And the longer I sat, the more worried I got.

Finally the technician came back in and told me there was "just a little shadow on one of the films, so the doctor wanted to re-take that one just to be sure."

And my heart dropped into my stomach, which then threatened to spew all over the exam room.

We took the extra film, and the technician left again, promising to be right back in a few minutes.

The "few minutes" seemed like four years. It was all I could do to hold it together while I waited in that room with that little cape covering me. I kept thinking "What if???" I was 49 years old. My daughter was 14. My son was 12. My grandchildren had not yet been born.

What if???

The technician came back into the room and told me I could get dressed. It was, it seemed, just a shadow after all. I thanked her, and as she left I burst into tears. I don't ever think I've been that scared in my life.

And so I did a stupid thing. I didn't go back.

Until today, that is.

In order for me to keep getting the prescription of Premarin, I have to have a regular mammogram. That's the rule. And the prescription I have is about to run out. No mammogram, no Premarin.

So I went.

Yes, I explained to the technician my fears. Yes, I got teary-eyed as I did it. Yes, she was ever so kind and ever so sweet about the whole thing, and did not keep me waiting at all for results. If there was the slightest delay, she made sure to explain it to me so that I wouldn't worry. She was a gift from God.

And speaking of a gift from God, Xanax, People Magazine and the iPod Shuffle are wonderful inventions. Let me just say that. Because, Brethren and Sisterns, there is no way I would have survived this ordeal today without major tranqulizers, the distraction of Patrick Dempsey, and the podcast of Joyce Meyer speaking about confidence all at the same time.

As it turned out there was no need to fear. Everything turned out the way it should, and I got a clean bill of health until the next time. I'm hoping this will alleviate my fears for the next go-round, which I plan to do without the use of pharmeceuticals.

But Patrick and the iPod are staying.