Tag: musings

Actually, I’m not a big woman…

Published on by cmglife

Last summer my “sleep” doctor said to me, “You are not a big woman, but you could stand to lose 5 to 10 lbs.”

But weight (Freudian slip) …a triumph!  I have lost 13 pounds since August.  Why is this significant?

Well, other than I may be looking a little bit “hot”*, it gives me some comfort that maybe my new life on medication is finally working and maybe I will be alright after all. An awful lot of maybes in that last sentence.

What am I doing you ask?  I know it’s unconventional…diet and exercise.  It’s a new feeling for me to be in control of anything.  I don’t think I’ve ever experienced control before anywhere or in any way. Yeah for drugs!

* Parentheses and an asterisk must be used by me for the word “hot” because I am 47 and still haven’t quite adjusted to this word that has been substituted for the more appropriately descriptive “good looking”.

Romance is Not Dead: It’s Just Hacking up a Lung

Published on by cmglife

The other night John was supposed to be home early(ish) so we could go out for a drink.

He called around 8 to say he wouldn’t be home until 9 and then called at 9 to say he wouldn’t be home until around 10. That was alright, I said I would be here anyway, but it was too late to go out. I put Allison to bed and Tristan went downstairs to watch a movie or something.

John came home shortly after 10 and I was all ready for bed sitting there watching Survivor and drinking a Mike’s Hard Lemonade. I love them, it is more like a dessert than a drink so since I am watching my calories, it is better to drink than to eat. Even though they say you shouldn’t drink your calories, I don’t care, I just love a Mikes’ Hard Lemonade at the end of the day. As you can see why I am still needing to lose that 10 lbs., my body is carrying around 10 lbs. of rationalized fat!

John seemed to be in a better mood than the situation warranted. He came into the room with a grin on his face and a black plastic bag. For some reason I thought it was maybe a stuffed raccoon at first, I don’t know why. Well, yes, I guess I do know why. He’s done this before, but with pheasant tails, an old stole made out of ferrets (and their faces), a long horn’s skull and just a bunch of various pieces of fur. They weren’t for me personally and I wasn’t sure this was either until he said with a grin, “I’ve got something for you”.

He began the story, when a story begins “I was in a bar in Cheyenne” the rest can’t be good. There is always a story, it can’t be “I picked something nice up for you”.

John says, “I was in a bar and these ladies were having a lingerie sale”.

“In the bar?” I say. He is very sensitive so I have to choose my words and tone carefully.

He laughs pulling out a black and purple corset thing with big bows on the hips.

I’m having a really hard time hiding my dismay, because I can smell it from where I am sitting, and, of course, I can see it. It has been in a bar for god knows how many hours and obviously the bar didn’t have a “no smoking ban”!

“I love it!” he says.

“Then why don’t YOU wear it?” I think.

“I’m going to have to wash it before I can wear it you know.”

“No you don’t, I don’t mind”, I think at this point his mind is seriously on that old one way track, and I have to put my foot down.

“No, I really have to wash it”

“How are you going to wash it?,” he asks.

“I suppose on the delicate cycle on cold.”

“No, I mean so the kids won’t see it.”

He thinks that Tristan is more involved in our laundry than he really is and Allison is pretty much oblivious to almost anything that is not hers. Needless to say I will not be setting the alarm for 2 am to do a clandestine delicate laundry run.

Forehead Forward

Published on by cmglife2 Comments

My father told us once that the reason people are photogenic is because they have faces with sharp angles and high cheek bones.  Well, thanks for your round-faced nonexistent cheek boned DNA, Dad! And thanks for the observation, was it even solicited advice?  No, it wasn’t.

After that I have taken it upon myself not to have my photo taken with anyone, anywhere at any time.  The only time I was “caught” was my wedding photos and some obligatory ones over the years to prove that my children had a mother and my husband did indeed have a wife.  I have luckily not passed down my round-faced nonexistent cheek bone DNA to my children; they have their father’s who is sickenly photogenic.

My oldest daughter is a photographer and just recently showed me a way to make my face look not so round, etc. in photographs.  As you are smiling, slightly move your forehead forward.  It works! No kidding!  So, look out I’m going to be hamming it up whenever there’s a camera around from now on.

So, last month I went to the DMV with a new confidence.  My last license had expired after 10 years.  Back then I had lied about my weight and subtracted 3 lbs. That’s how delusional (and vain) I was back then. My weight still matters to me, so this time I’ve decided to subtract 20 lbs! Don’t think I’ll get away with it?

After getting there at 8am and waiting two hours it was finally my turn.  I knew I looked good.  Full makeup, hair straightened and a flattering top.

“My picture will look great with my new protruding forehead move,” I thought to myself.

The DMV lady said, “Stand in front of the blue screen and look directly at the red light. Push your bangs away from your eyes and put your hair behind your back.”

Well, okay, I did as I was told, thinking, “This isn’t going to do much for my photo.”  Undaunted, I moved my bangs, my hair, put my forehead forward and gave a pleasant smile.  She snapped the photo and I felt confident.

“You closed your eyes, let’s take another one” This happened two more times.

At the last retake I was so strung out trying to keep my hair out of my eyes, hair behind my back, eyes open and forehead forward I didn’t care what happened anymore.

Well, that devil may care attitude got me what I deserved.  The license came in the mail two weeks later and the only one to see it has been my husband, Allison and the guy at the liquor store (I did apologize to him).

When Allison saw it she said sadly, “Oh, were you hot? It looks like you were sweating.”

In the end it was the same round-cheeked, boneless faced, deer caught in headlights look that I have come to love.

Nitrous Oxide

Published on by cmglife

“Now, you want the nitrous oxide, right?”, asked the dental hygienist.

Hell, yeah!

“Yes, please”, I responded.  My hands were already balled into fists.

Wikipedia: dentophobia or individuals with post-traumatic stress disorder, caused by previous traumatic dental experiences.

The latter is the category I feel I fall into.  I’m not going to bore you with horrific old stories of needles hitting a nerve or anything like that, just suffice it to say, I have “dentophobia”.

I like to think there is an upside to everything.  This particular silver lining is called nitrous oxide. It’s not exactly a high, just a nothing feeling.  So much so that the 45 shots I got in my gums and cheek  for a recent root canal didn’t even faze me.  Even when I think the dentist did hit a nerve and a jolt of electricity went through my tongue, I didn’t flinch.  Amazing stuff.   I would enjoy my life so much more if I could wheel a canister of it around during the day the way oxygen patients do.

10 Reasons to Sleep Alone

Published on by cmglife

I’ve been married now for 20 years.  You don’t have to be married for 20 years or married at all if that is your preference.  Here are my pet peeves when sleeping with someone.  I mean really sleeping, not having sex or anything. 

1.     “Leg zaps” I like to call them.  Restless leg syndrome is what the experts call them.

2.     Sleeping diagonally. 

3.     Being “dead weight” and being too small, weak and tired to move your partner no matter how much lower body strength you can muster with both feet against the back of the person that is intruding on your personal sleep space.

4.     Snoring, enough said.

5.     Leaving the TV on and falling asleep on the remote. 

             Me:     “Give me the remote before you fall asleep.”

             Him:   “Oh, I’ll turn it off before I fall asleep.”

             Me:    “Yeah, and I just crawled out from under a rock.”

6.     Being hit in the face with a partner that is flailing around in a violent dream.  It happened to me one night.  It really was pissed me off!

7.     “Spooning”.

8.     Coming to bed after I’ve already fallen asleep.

9.     Cold feet.  His cold feet always somehow find their way into the arches of one of my feet.  They are like heat seeking missiles.

10.   And the number one pet peeve: Cracking ankles and toes. Oh wait that’s me, never mind.

17 Years

Published on by cmglife

Recently I thought, “I think Alex would have loved Adam Lambert.  I think he would have thought he was beautiful.”

I miss my best friend Alex.  I don’t think about him every day anymore, that bothered me when I realized it.

He did not think he could take life anymore and killed himself 17 years ago.  I remember the day like it was yesterday, but on the other hand it shocks me sometimes when I realize he’s really not here anymore.  I don’t want to write about a lot of sad things and try to extract deep emotions from you, except maybe a giggle.  Alex would not have minded, he was irreverent to say the least. This was the man that dressed as a pregnant Linda Ronstadt for Halloween.  Those size 13 pumps were really something to see!

Missing Alex made me realize I miss having a gay friend.  I think I’ll have to go out and get one.  It can’t be that hard.  I am a girl after all.

I miss that sense of fun and joy that only a gay man and a straight woman can experience.  I think, for me, it is finally feeling understood by a man.  And for the man maybe an intimate look into femininity? Come on gay men, help me out here, what is it?

A couple of weeks ago I thought my luck had changed and I had fallen head over heels for a gay man again. Alas, it turned out he is just a nerd and a married nerd to boot.  I mean from the Big Bang Theory nerd.  He is a live action role playing (LARP to those of you that are in the know), War Craft on line, making swords for his outfit for the “ren” fair nerd.  If shortening The Renaissance Fair is not a dead giveaway of a through and through nerd I don’t know what is.  Though I am strangely fascinated with him, it’s not the same.

I’m not a spring chicken hanging out at the clubs anymore, so where does a seasoned mature woman find a man of the “musical” persuasion (Alex’s terminology, not mine)? It’s hard to meet anyone interesting when all you are doing is working with children, coming home to children, carpooling children, you get it.  I can’t just walk into a gay bar and start picking up men. Or could I?

I wonder if Adam Lambert is lonely.

Whiner

Published on by cmglife

Can

anyone

out

there

relate

to

the

pain

of a paper cut on my mouse finger?

Pomander. What? Who?

Published on by cmglife

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Definition of a pomander: a ball made of perfumes.  The pomander was worn or carried in a vase, also known by the same name, as a protection against infection in times of pestilence or merely as a useful article to modify bad smells.

They may have had serious applications during the days of the plague centuries ago, but now they are just pretty!

I drive myself crazy the way I approach a project.  I never have all of the ingredients together.  This time  I had the oranges, but didn’t have the cloves. It was a week before Christmas (I know, shouldn’t I have been doing something more worthwhile than making a pomander?) and all of the inexpensive cloves were sold out at Wal-Mart. I guess there were a lot of people in my area making pomanders that Christmas when they should have been doing something else too.  The only cloves left were $7.39 a bottle! I bought them, after all I was on a mission.

I got down to business and began my pomander, the instructions I had were illustrations. Not always a bad way to go as far as instructions go, but these were not the best – I like photos – good ones like they do in the DK books.

I took the orange and drew dots in the places I would push in the cloves, seemed easy enough.  After half of the cloves were in I took my bloody finger tips and rinsed them under the sink, muttering all the way something about “ this better be @#^$(*@% worth it”!

To make a long story short, the pomander looked decent, I think.  I didn’t really have much of an idea what it was supposed to look like.  I apprehensively put it into a brown bag and placed it on a shelf in the furnace room, as the instructions directed.  And then, of course, forgot about it. Not completely, I would remember every other week, but forget to follow through on that memory and retrieve it from downstairs. Really, how often does one wander past or enter into the furnace room?

I did manage to bring it upstairs last week. Although it smells gorgeous, I can tell you that looks aren’t everything to a homemade pomander.

Operation Rescue

Published on by cmglife

Having just left work, I flipped the lock button in the door of my car to unlock the hatchback to get out the snow scraper I have back there. I have unlocked and locked my doors maybe thousands of time since I’ve had my 2003 Outback. Then why did I flick it the wrong way and lock all the doors this time?

That is the main question I thought of as I went around to check each door hoping against hope that I hadn’t really done what I knew I had done. Oh, and yes, the car was running!

Inside were my phone, purse and inside my purse were my spare keys!

I tromped back to the school in my sorrel boots from 1993 through the falling snow, wind and slush. I felt the students looking at the boots and snickering.

My sorrels are the only thing left over from my five years in North Dakota (don’t ask) that I can actually appreciate. This morning I got up, took a shower and put on my regular work clothes. Then on my way to the kitchen for coffee I passed by the sliding glass door to see at least 5 inches of snow on the deck and it was still snowing. I didn’t feel like getting changed into jeans so I said “Screw it!”, and went to the garage to dig out my trusty 20 year old sorrels! Good to go.

This is not a story about my sub zero, clunky old boots by the way, although you might think it is with all my goings on about them.

I finally made it back to my desk trying to remember my daughter, Allison’s, cell phone number. I pick her up after school everyday and it is only ten minutes until her bell rings. Now if you remember I left my phone in the car, and since I live in the cell phone age I never actually have to dial a phone number. Instead I called John to see if he could run up the keys to the school. He says Tristan is home and he will. That’s good, but now how am I going to pick up Allison?

My very good friend and office colleague, Geri, offered to drive me to Allison’s school. I accepted and headed out the door with her. We got to the car and I reached in her back seat to get the snow scraper. By opening the door I inadvertently disturbed an overhang of snow that fell on my head and down my coat into my neck! I had to take my glasses off and sit in Geri’s car melting and thanking her profusely while she laughed and shook her head at my predicament.

As we pulled up to get Allison at her charter school, Geri laid on the horn (which is never done) and started to wave her arms frantically to get Allison’s attention. I do the same because she won’t recognize Geri’s car. We looked like a pair of orangutans.

We arrived back at my school just in time to see Tristan as he was arriving with the spare keys. Geri drove us back to my car, I unlocked the doors, put the car into gear, peeled out of the parking lot and drove home.

I felt compelled to write about this day not because of the series of unfortunate events, but I felt really blessed. I don’t realize often enough on a normal day what great people I have around me until I end up really needing it. I guess when I feel lonely or unloved I will remember this day. One of the days when I needed the troops and they rallied. Thank you troops!

What fresh hell can this be?

Published on by cmglife

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a surviving victim of the catholic school system.  When Allison came home telling me she was assigned St. Catherine of Bologna as a history project, I almost choked on my mouthful of  Lean Cuisine.

After getting myself together, she told me the class was learning about important figures from the Renaissance.  The other kids were assigned fabulous characters like King Henry VIII, Queen Elizabeth I and Joan of Arc.  What evil forces were at work when she was assigned a nun? Allison was far from pleased to have to wear a nun’s habit when  the other girls were going to be decked out in all the Renaissance splendor that the era is known for.

Not only did she have to research St. Catherine, but also dress up like her, memorize and recite an entire page of a single spaced typed biography. Oh, yeah, spoken with an Italian accent, oh mio Dio!

No, she is not enrolled in a college preparatory school.  No, she is not in an arts school or even a gifted and talented program.  Just a little ‘ole 5th grader in a charter school that take themselves far too seriously.

The preparation it took for the final presentation was more labor intensive than the summer Olympics in London last year.  Hours of researching, typing, memorizing and  practicing a renaissance era Italian accent with just the right Bolognais dialect.

We started looking at photos of St. Catherine on the internet.  I found some perfectly lovely drawings of her, but all Allison could focus on was the mummified body of the actual original nun preserved and sitting in the chapel of the Poor Clares in Bologna, Italy.  I do not exaggerate.

And then there’s me, catholic PTSD every night I have to think about sewing that damn costume! I am not usually a procrastinator, but with this particular project I could not get my act together and left it until the last minute, or until the Saturday before the Monday she was going to present.  Off we went to store to buy a few yards of white, brown and black broadcloth.  I then proceeded to drape and cut and do a little (very little) sewing.  I thought she looked fabulous, for a dead nun.

That morning I was on pins and needles wondering how it was going. Was she going to choke? Was the wimple staying in place?  Did she remember the rosary?  Was the Little House on the Prairie book wrapped in brown cloth believable as a bible?

She ended up choking on the speech part (cazzarola!), but got an A for effort.  Phew! I’m glad that is over. Yesterday I got an email from the school announcing a “Civil War Re-Enactment and Ball” for the 5th and 6th graders in April.

Oh, what fresh hell can this be?