Tag: stories

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”.

A Little Taste of Crazy

Published on by cmglife

Lately I’ve been feeling a little manic.

I don’t seem to have much of problem at home because everyone there is more used to the “old” me than the recently “normal” and medicated me. In my old manic state I would be solving the world’s problems, finishing the laundry and writing the next great American Novel all in an afternoon.

It’s at work around other people that I notice I’m beginning to interrupt and be the queen of the one-liners (because I am so funny).

The other day, our Campus Monitor, Mark was helping me find my daughter’s phone that had been lost in the grass during lunch.  Did I mention that Allison goes to the same school I work at now?  I know, too bad for my blog, no more charter school escapades.

“Where was the last time you saw it? “I asked.

“I put in in my pocket at lunch.  I think it fell out when I was rolling down the hill.” Eleven year olds…what are you going to do?  One minute they are too cool to be seen with you getting out of your car and the next minute they are rolling down hills at lunch.

Next thing Mark said he found it and held it up.  I was so excited or manic that I sort of walked/skipped over to him and said,” Oh, I could just kiss you!”

As soon as I said it, I regretted it.  What? A kiss?  What the hell?  I mean I’m glad I didn’t do it (I’m not that crazy) but why did I say that in the first place?  Well, because in a manic state, either I can’t help myself or I am just one step ahead of fantasy.  A split second between thinking something in the head (which we all do) and not saying/doing it.  That gap is breached in my manic state quite regularly unless I am really focused.  When something happened like today, I used to promise myself that I would “hold it together” the next day.  That would last about an hour or so until I forgot and got comfortable making a “one- liner” jokes with each person that came by my desk.

At home it’s just a matter of me having a cutting edge opinion on everything from a pair of shoes to the contestants on the Voice.  All of a sudden I become an expert fashion designer and a vocal coach.

The mania is not quite as intense as it used to be and I’m not experiencing the depression. I am enjoying the high that I haven’t had in a few years since the medication.

I’ve mentioned this to my sister and asked her to keep track of this mood and let me know if she notices anything disturbing.  She said, “Great, I can’t wait to go on this roller coaster ride with you.” She says it feels like I’m playing with fire.

I’ll mention it all to my doctor, but I’m not sure if it will make a difference.  I’m still at the wait and see stage. It’s a difficult place to be in.  I want to do the right thing, but on the other hand I have been level for so long that a taste of crazy is hard to resist.  Can I have my cake and eat it too?  Something tells me no.

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.

Catholic Facebook

Published on by cmglife

I was looking through Facebook the other night. Bored with it, I decided to bring up my old catholic elementary school. Sensing any danger here?

I don’t know why I have to torture myself. The other day I took a picture of my stomach because I wanted to look at it every time I was debating whether to exercise or not. Now I’m sure you are saying to yourself, she doesn’t sound Catholic at all.

I describe myself as a “jaded ex-catholic”. I really have to take that hint of pride out of my voice when I say that. If you have been what I have been through at the hands of the nuns and students of my old school it’s easy to feel self-righteous.

Back to Facebook, I was amazed that the school actually had 99 likes if any at all. They must have forced the “out to pasture” old nuns to “like” them.

It took and is taking all my strength not to post “YOU RUINED MY LIFE, YOU BASTARDS!” Harsh you say? You have no idea the venomous hate I have for that sanctuary of God.

I went through their page and shuddered when I found photos of the playground/parking lot and the front of the school. I definitely have some PTSD. My upper lip broke out in a sweat when I clicked on the website to find the list of faculty members. I was expecting to see Sister Sean Joseph, Sister Rosemary or Sister John Vienna staring back at me. I wasn’t thinking rationally. The nuns were obviously dead after 30 years, remembering that made me feel better.

After a few more minutes of this, I had a revelation, as if a voice whispered to me saying “You don’t have to keep looking at this!” and I clicked out.

(thanks, God)

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.

Cat Guts

Published on by cmglife

Last week Allison came home from school with her “story of the week” I like to call it.  I’m always afraid of these because I wonder how much this school is affecting her psyche. After all I’ve tried so hard not to let my psyche affect hers.  It’s complicated.

This is the story this time:

Allison:    Today in science class Mr. Ross passed cat guts around the classroom.

Me:          What? Did you say cat guts?

Allison:    Yes,  and we could touch them if we wanted to.  I touched the kidney and it made my fingers tingle even after I stopped touching it.

Me:          Yeah, formaldehyde will do that to you.  You washed your hands after this right?

Allison:    Then I touched the liver, well I thought it was the liver, but it turned out to be the bladder and it was full of urine!

Me:          (dead silence, but with a horrified expression).

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!