SINVILLE CC

Silly But Fun

2011-01-13T06:08:00.000-08:00

Reminds me of Benny Hill

2011? What Happened To The Year 2000?

2011-01-01T00:23:00.000-08:00

Is anyone else freaking out that it's 2011? My daughter just mentioned it is January, and it hit me like a ton of bricks. Weren't all the computers supposed to crash in the year 2000? I thought civilization would come to an end, and we would return to our pre-industrial roots.

I have to confess I was a little crazy leading up to the turn of the century. Pregnant, forty, with a toddler, and a tween makes for a TNT combination. The millennium news made me just that much edgier. The fuse was added when I innocently asked a delivery nurse what that 4" AMA meant that I noticed stamped on all my paperwork; Advanced Maternal Age, she replied. Well, I can't remember if I had a fit but Dr. Icantakeinafight said: I swear Mary; they do that for anyone over 27.

Anyway, I can remember going into survival mode, and purchasing canned food for the end of the world at 01 01 2000.

The good news is that the church pantry appreciated the stash.

Happy New Year!

What I Like About Christmas

2010-12-26T23:05:00.000-08:00

Funny, I realize now that none of the art is mine on the walls

An electrician once laughed that I capped off the chandelier and hung a wrought iron candelabrum.
I love that I light candles for dinner. I'd never have fake light above a dining room table

...And what I don't like

I'm embarrassed to say that this is only one direction of a three-way intersection of empty boxes.

When I was little, we received only what we needed at Christmas. My sister use to go to my parent's closet, and unwrap gifts but I never wanted to know-it's called hope!

She would announce I received a pink top, and that meant my gift would be the matching blue one. However, my biggest disappointment was never receiving an Easy Bake Oven. I think I've written about it before! To this day I still feel annoyed that my father purchased one for me as a joke years later.

I love to ask people their favorite childhood gift. I'm always fascinated to watch their faces as they recall that present, their official Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle! I love that movie! It is my secret thrill to vicariously live what made them feel special.

This year we helped a family with a dad fighting cancer but because it was a classmate they wisely made it a secret between parents only. It reminded me of an Angel tree gift I gave years ago when I first moved here. A little girl wanted jeans but I hid a necklace in the pocket, and I always hoped that it was a surprise that made her feel special.

File This Under: I Wish I Took a Picture

2010-12-14T11:42:00.000-08:00

The doorbell just rang, and of course that's not unusual this time a year. In fact, my oldest has done all the Christmas shopping, and like anyone in their 20's, the majority was over the Internet, and thus the non-stop deliveries.

The statistics on Internet purchases seem to be all over the place but all indicate an increase, and we have crossed over to the dark side has mortar and brick retailers would sadly refer to our departure.

What was so unusual then? The UPS man was on what I would describe as a golf cart pulling a wagon of boxes. Only in Texas...

Christmas At The Griswolds

2010-12-10T13:25:00.000-08:00

Having just returned from snowy, and frozen London, I was more than happy to see the Christmas decorations up. I'm over having the perfectly decorated house, or clean one for that matter. My youngest was no doubt the catalyst to encourage my Mr. Griswold to get the ball rolling. Barely finished with one holiday, the next is targeted till we give in, and find the accoutrements of celebration.

Mr. Griswold is easily ~~led by the nose~~ terrorized by the estrogen perfumed air, and this has led to our own Clark disasters.

We recall our holidays by our little calamities. The Clang Clang Cataclysm refers to the year he suspended the flashing, hanging snowflakes from the roof line and the wind proceeded to bang them relentlessly into the second floor bedrooms windows. I'm not sure if the strobe effect a la The Manchurian Candidate had any effect on the girls but if dead snowmen start showing up all over town, it ain't their fault. Don't you think Angela Lansbury was fabulously creepy in that role?

This year, we have gone decidedly Scifi; Which I love but Mr. Griswold cares nothing for, and it always irks me because he wrote his thesis on the possibility of life on other planets. Frankly, it makes me a little bamboozled that I was played but then again, I made dinner on one of our dates, and that led to the impression that I cooked; tit for tat?

Our Reindeer Landing Pad

View from space

View from earth

My favorite gift every year is a fresh wreath that reminds me of

Canada

I love to have fresh branches on top of armoires

My kids are always disappointed if the tree doesn't reach the 2nd floor banister rail

Ye Old Cats Are Smarter Than Dogs Debate

2010-11-28T12:52:00.000-08:00

Pro kitty

Tufts University School of Veterinary Medicine, researchers have found that the structure of a cat's brain and that of a human brain are very similar. To quote the article "the physical structure of our brain and that of cats are very similar: they have the same lobes in the cerebral cortex (the seat of intelligence) as we do. Our brains function the same way, conveying data via identical neurotransmitters."

Who the heck paid for that study? Ernst Stavro Blofeld?

Vs.

Pro Pooch

"Cats do not understand cause-and-effect connections between objects," the researcher says. Perhaps that explains how they can sneak up and scratch you, again and again, even though you make it clear you do not like it. Dogs, well, they learn to please, don't they?
A study in 2007 found dogs could use touch-screen computers to accurately classify color photographs by recognizing the concept of a dog vs. a photo with no dog.

Anyone who has ever loved a pet knows that dogs reciprocate your devotion. I have a nasty feeling that the old lady who dies in a lonely state of isolation, and is pet food for sweet kitty, is based on fact. OK, my dog would have taken a leak to get rid of the smell but he wouldn’t have gone Donner on me-I think.

I still miss him terribly, and I am not embarrassed to say: I cry over him. He was my constant companion, not a show dog. Despite his breeds' reputation, he hated grooming, and I acquiesced by cutting his hair at home.

I miss him but I know that dogs mourn people too. The panic they experience when you return after a long day or a short trip is not just an anxiety over being left home alone.

Last year when my daughter came home for a short visit from shopping in Europe AKA Grad school for you naive parents, my sweet dog did the emotional dance. His emotional reaction is one of my favorite memories of him, and all the proof (I don't need) that my dog was smarter than any cat.

You're Never Too Old To Learn About Swearing Or Sex

2010-11-20T18:10:00.000-08:00

My 13 year old received the talk at school last Friday. I forgot to ask how it went, but I know it wasn't anything she hasn't already heard, or more importantly discussed. We have that talk at the dinner table, breakfast table, or when we are driving them to school, IOW, my girls have never called a penis a pipi, or a vagina a vajayjay, except when they heard Oprah say it, and "vajayjay" became the fun word of the week. I always think it is some sort of embarrassment, or shame issue when we relegate our sexual organs to euphemisms.

We have what I refer to as a girl's house. My husband tries not to smile, and my youngest tries to shock us. I have a secret defense against her weapon, and it's called experience honey; heard it all before from the one who will not be named.

Anyway, she summarized the talk by reporting that the boys giggled, and it struck her as funny because the "don't have sex lecture" was held in church. Catholics have an interesting sense of irony.

This year has been interesting for me too; I learned something new about sex. What, you ask? A secret position only known to a recently discovered indigenous tribe? Nope! I discovered that boys in grade seven like to hump desks. Need I say more?

Not to be outdone, IG told her dad she learned a new word: Fugly.

Fugly? her mark (AKA daddy) replied.
Yes, it means fucking ugly, sweet IG smiled as she knew he was in her web.
Well that's just ugly! her diptera responded with all the dignity a soon to be devoured meal could muster.
Yes, agreed our little arachnid It's fugly.

“"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the Spider to the Fly; "'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy”

While watching Dirty Dancing, I informed IG that's the girl on Dancing With The Stars. I find it interesting when they see movie stars when they were young, and the reality of time surprises them but not IG. She made me laugh with her atypical reply: OMG, is that the girl who cries!...

I always thought of Jennifer Grey as the girl who ruined her career by having a nose job. Why that was, I could never figure out then, but now I think they wanted Baby to just love herself the way she was. Isn't that the message of the talk? Be who you're supposed to be , and you' ll know when you are ready to play doctor...I mean have sex.

Be Careful What You Wish For IG

2010-11-12T00:43:00.000-08:00

The wedding party

My youngest loves weddings, but unlike her sisters, she has never been a flower girl. Somehow that is just as well, because Emma Hollywood can outshine any gal on her big day. My antique armoire is filled with costumes, and accoutrements for pirates, Princesses, Nobel Prize winners, and of course, brides.

When I was a kid, we made our own Halloween costumes, and truly I would have enjoyed the creativity, if we had anything to use! Hence, I was a hobo every year. Isn't that politically incorrect now? I don't recall if there were any costumes in retailers, but I hardly ever saw the inside of a store either. Today, the good news is I don't like to shop, and hence I am a cheap trophy wife (it's a joke because my kid's ages are spread apart!), but the bad news is, I don't shop for anything, and hence I don't do groceries either.

IG, my youngest (so named because the hospital registered her legal name as Infant Girl!), loves to have a wedding ceremony, and she is not Vegas about it. We all receive handwritten invitations, and are required to dress formally. The garden is raided for fresh flowers, or suitable props are found. The middle sister plays the flower girl/maid of honor/and minister. My husband wears a magician's hat, and walks her down the staircase. We, the guests, wait for her at the landing, and dutifully sit in our dinning room chairs. The ceremony with the invisible groom is brief, and the fun part is the ending: she always says no!

It doesn't look good for the groom

IG turned eleven, and decided her new dream was to be proposed to. The one who shall not be named got her going on this new theme with the retelling of a funny incident: A friend kept asking her to marry him in public, and she would clearly turn him down.

Dressed in her crown and sash, we all arrived to the have the hostess greet IG with your table is ready, your royal highness. Our waitress found the suitable candidate; every restaurant has the fun waiter!

Hmm, someday I'll write about my middle child thinking it was her birthday every weekend.

                                                  The bouquet catch

                                                              and

                                                        the proposal

I Thought I Saw A Puddy Cat. Actually, They Did

2010-11-09T06:29:00.000-08:00

My husband and daughter spotted a bobcat in our local wooded trail park. He thought it was as big as our plastic Santa that my youngest insisted on pulling out of storage as we put Halloween decorations away. Guesstimating it was 75 pounds, and well fed!

They aren't supposed to be friendly to people ....I won't be saying come here kitty either.

Update: He told me this morning he thought it was as big as a St-Bernard. My oldest wants to quit walking there. You're more likely to be hit by a car, than eaten by an ambitious bobcat, or Sasquatch. OTOH, that kitty's been eating something.

Friday Night Lights and Saturday Morning Autopsies

2010-11-08T08:27:00.000-08:00

Last night my husband drove our seventh grader to her first HS football game. A Texas tradition for families, but I hate watching sports, and my European husband, while recently following baseball, (at least during the World Series), knows very little too.

He dutifully dropped them off, my daughter and her friend, and returned to regurgitate their conversation:

OMG, OMG, and OMG!

OK, they also did talk about who is dating who and whom can't be there because they are grounded. Mine says she doesn’t have time for boys because she is busy studying for college! Yippee! This quiet, and studious child is bookended by kinda sorta twins visually and personality wise, but separated by eleven years. Nicknamed Emma Hollywood, our youngest once convinced a sixteen year old boy he would be fired from his lifeguard position if he annoyed her. I've been known to say we have college money for the first two, and bail for the third. (BTW, her blog has hit 1000! views)

Of course, one's duty chauffeuring teenagers is to ignore all conversation (God help you if you're inexperienced and bring it up later), and don't dare put on the radio to your station. Our thirteen year old broke the pact when she teasingly asked daddy, doesn't it make you feel old to drop your little Darcy off to high school? Hmm, I would have crashed the car ;-)

Two hours later, I rode along for the pick-up. We arrived as they announced the score, and crowds spilled-out from the only entrance/exit. Of course, her cel phone was turned off; after all her friends were with her!

I could see the de rigueur activity was for the cool kids to hang around the hill, and when my husband’s phone finally rang, it was our baby, and yes she was on that hill. Wave, her dad said, and I looked at the now dispersing crowd of running, necking, laughing, hugging, and no doubt broken-hearted tteenagers for that hand in the air.

I saw a group of girls with a tall model, wearing a French cut coat, and looking like a highschooler taking a younger sister, and her friends’ home. She resembled my oldest, a 22 year old with a double masters, excellent taste in clothing, and unemployed. In fact, she has that very coat in her wardrobe, purchased in Montreal, London, or France where she pursued her college education, and shopped naturellement!

The model-like teenager waved to us. I could not see the forest for the trees, and it was as if I was seeing my little girl for the first time. She looked too sophisticated next to her friends, but as continued to wave furiously, starting to slip, she landed on her hands and knees. Yes, she may look like she's in HS but no one can mistake her 13year old klutziness. I wish I could freeze time for her, and let her enjoy her fleeting childhood.

The car conversation was geared toward the relationships, the drama, and the classmate’s HS brother who teased a seventh grade boy.

The autopsy of the football game continued the next morning with Facebook posts, text messages, and phone calls. I heard her say did you hear what they did at the game? He just needs to be a woman and stand up!

I couldn’t help smile. My little girl is ready for the world, and no, she had no clue who won the game. Life is more than football, even in Texas.

Open Letter To Cher

2010-11-02T22:12:00.000-07:00

Dear Cher,

Don't break my heart. I read the Drudge link to your Vainnitty Fair interview:

Cher on Sarah Palin and Jan Brewer:
“I got so obsessed with [C-SPAN] that it was kind of interfering with my life. Sarah Palin came on, and I thought, Oh, fuck, this is the end. Because a dumb woman is a dumb woman.” On the subject of Arizona governor Jan Brewer, Cher says, “She was worse than Sarah Palin, if that is possible. This woman was like a deer in headlights. She’s got a handle on the services of the state, and I would not let her handle the remote control.”

First, that magazine is borrrrring. OK, I loved Dominick Dunne but I never understood why he didn't come out of the closet. Were you afraid to be bullied at ~~school~~   cocktail parties? I have no clue how he spent his time, but rock what you are kids.

Next, about the broken heart thingy: Cher, I thought you knew the secret rule? (only father's with daughters can read this secret) Women need to empower each other, and I don't care about their politics, their size, their age, their plastic surgeries, their indiscretions in college, their dabblings in witchcraft, their rookie political errors, their pregnant teenage daughters, their affairs (come on, men in politics are the sluttiest), their choice of giving birth to a DS baby, or who they hired as a nanny.

We need encourage our girls to take the baton, and run faster than we ever could (or thought we could). I know the power of words, and a little girl placed in foster care must know it too. A teenager with undiagnosed dyslexia, who dropped out of high school, surely must understand that encouraging each other is a woman's duty.

I remember the Sonny and Cher show, and I loved you at eleven years old. You were what I thought a woman should be: confident (which I wasn't), smart (which I know I wasn't either), and most of all, you were nothing like my mother. I had never seen a strong woman before. The icing on this child's cake? You were the alpha, and he was the beta. You have to understand that girls had been watching Lucy running around like a chicken with her head cut-off to avoid the wrath of Dezi.  Cher was magic, and let's face it, that wardrobe was sexy before I knew what that even meant.

Upon your return to your show, post-divorce,  I remember watching with anticipation.  You still sang with affection, and somehow it was personally re-assuring you still closed the show with I've got you babe. I understood then you loved Sonny, and your eulogizing reminded me of  love's grace.

Cher tells Vanity Fair ...she can’t believe “Sonny and I still aren’t in the [Rock and Roll] Hall of Fame, and it just seems kind of rude. Sonny was a good writer, and we started something that no one else was doing. We were weird hippies before there was a name for it, when the Beatles were wearing sweet little haircuts and round-collared suits…. We influenced a generation, and it’s like: What more do you want?”

I agree. Isn't there a joke that after the final nuclear war, all that will be left is cockroaches, and Cher?

Regards,
Mary

PS. What the hell do you mean you wouldn't let that woman handle the remote control? It's dangerous to let your ~~babe~~ man handle it!

Mirror, Mirror On The Wall

2010-10-29T21:53:00.000-07:00

What is it about turning fifty that makes a woman panic? Do men feel the same way? Or, am I from the generation whose teen years are irrevocably influenced by the proliferation of female fashion magazines? Am I having my own Manchurian Candidate moment? I think I am onto something, between the pictures, and the advice, I've been hypnotized!

To start off with, I should tell you I cared nothing for beauty. My mother was such a woman, and frankly, my childhood embarrassment was to see her next to other mothers, all of whom looked like mothers (Appearance wise, this photo doesn't fit the neighborhood ladies, but this woman looks so cool. A woman who rocks her life!)

Mom dressed conservatively, and the only wild outfit I can remember was the purchase of pink palazzo pants. My mother was beautiful, and I don't think it served any purpose, but to make other women envious of her looks. If you think teen girls are mean girls, try woman approaching their freshness date. IIRC, forty was downhill in their day!

My mother was quiet, and spent her time in school throughout my childhood, as did my father, but all part-time. I can recall panicking thinking I would have to go to school for the rest of my life. It was traumatizing enough to realize that despite the wondrous impression kindergarten gave me; I was not in art school.

Waking through the Toronto central train station, my future mother caught the eye of the Crown Prince of Japan, losing his concentration resulted in his tripping over his own feet. I have always wondered if a photo existed. Media protocol and the gentleman's agreement would have ensured the photo would not be run, and likely all negatives destroyed. My dad once told us the story, and my mother confirmed it by saying I think I giggled.

Yesterday, I visited a spa open house and decided to have a consultation. OK, I think I need Botox! The physician asked me where I had my cheeks done. I have never had any work up till two days ago when I convinced another Dr. to fill in my laugh lines. She laughed at me when she saw I was there for Botox and was stunned when I told her my age. Hell, I bought the treatment at an auction (and competed against a man bidding for himself! I think I won because I told him I was going to spread a rumor, starting with his wife, that he had a boyfriend. He graciously let me win!) Well, it turns out I have two thousand dollar cheeks! The doctor called the spa owner over to look at me and she too thought I had work done. She's fifty the doctor exclaimed. I loved her reaction. Ego boost!

I can't figure out why I care about looks all of a sudden. I once heard Judge Judy interviewed, and she spoke of how her dad told her constantly: beauty fades, and dumb is forever. It made such an impression on me that I have repeated this idiom constantly to my three girls. When my oldest was in elementary school, a classmate’s cousin joined them for lunch. This girl who wore horn-rimmed glasses, unkempt hair, and had a scar from what could have been a cut lip was in fact a supermodel. I don’t mean how that term is loosely used today. Similar to how celebrities and reality show participants are called stars, and basically their claim to fame is they forgot to wear their underwear while exiting a car, or they just happen to be caught in a sex movie that they accidently-on purpose filmed in full make-up, professional lighting, and multi-cameras.

Anyway, I am not naming the supermodel but she was in Sports Illustrated wearing a famous bikini not made of cloth, and happenned to be the sweetest person. More importantly, my daughter came home and said Mom, you're right. Those magazines make you beautiful with make-up and tricks!

Now, all I need to do is find Dorian Gray and ask him to return my painting.

Update on before shots!

I need to practice posing. All my pictures look the same (henceforward called the PP). Guess that's one happens when you have a lifetime of taking pictures.

Ok I Am a Little Jealous of My 11 Year Old.

2010-10-18T21:29:00.000-07:00

Not really! I am proud of my very individual children. My oldest doesn't like it when I write about her but she is pretty special too. My 13 year old is really my doppelganger but truly a lot smarter. A 4.0 in a Catholic school is the equivalent to a Navy Seal in the military (except you have to be a lot tougher in Parochial school). My youngest is the most artistic, and it manifest in creating fashion. When she was in pre-school she would stack laundry buckets, and put clothing on them. I honestly didn't understand what she was trying to accomplish. Emma asked for a dress dummy in kindergarten, and her oldest sister bought one for Christmas.

Yesterday, Emma started a fashion blog, and as I look her page, the count is over 200 hits in one day.

I am always tempted to ask blog writers how they manage to get comments and participation on their blog. I have never tracked on mine (I confess, I don't know how) but I suspect I receive very little. Who knew I should have asked an 11 year old?

I may have mentioned that no piece of fabric is safe in our house. If clothing is to be tossed, or given to Goodwill, she stakes her claim first. This year Emma started using unconventional products for her design-including Hershey wrappers.

Her couture line named "Bowzilla" is made from candy wrappers, and boxes.

Her brilliant sister with the Double Masters at 22 (crap, why are all my kids smarter than me?), helped her set up the blog, and her designs were posted on Hershey's Facebook and voila! Success AKA traffic.

Of course it helps that Hershey's commented on her designs!

HERSHEY'S wrote:

> "Those are awesome! Very creative. Thanks for sharing!"

Feel free to visit. It really is fun to hear her yell her numbers and ok, I'm a little jealous but really, really proud.

http://eastoffashion.blogspot.com/

I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME...

2010-10-08T16:31:00.000-07:00

What was that advice women were told?

To keep a man a woman must be a maid in the living room, a cook in the kitchen and a whore in the bedroom?

I am certain my mother never gave me that bit of advice, but I know what I will tell my girls:

Toughen up, if you want to grow-up and be a politician

Jerry Brown and his staff are the latest to personify the war on woman. Is it a war? I wonder about the use of such a strong word. Is it more hostility? Aggression? Bitterness? I am surprised by the amount animosity towards woman in the blogosphere.

Are the likes of Jerry Brown, et al just spilling the beans on how men really view today's women? Why do men resent successful females? Do they feel emasculated by a wife who makes more money, or has greater career success?

Interesting, I have stayed home since I had children, and ergo career has never been on my radar, and yet woman like me feel disappointed in their choice too. Men don't realize women who make either decision have regrets. We are lucky to have more possibilities than our mothers, but we also have an unfair biological burden of pregnancy, childbirth and nurturing of children. Biologically, all a man has to do is ejaculate.

I think boys are feeling obsolete more than anything. They are growing up in a world knowing a woman can choose motherhood without a man, or an independent life, with a satisfying career.

I think woman are equally afraid to trust men in this changing world. The frightening statistics of divorced woman who are likely to live in poverty when they have the burden of motherhood. Television, and movies remind us every day that woman have a freshness date, and your happiness and success is tied into youth and beauty.

I want my girls to be well educated, and be free to choose their fate. As for myself, I hate cooking and cleaning but I have been married 26 years so I guess I'm doing something right.

ART IS ART AND MEDICINE IS BUSINESS

2010-10-01T12:44:00.000-07:00

After reading this blog

http://allbleedingstops.blogspot.com/2010/09/physical-exam-why-bother.htmlmade,

I wondered if this doctor was asking the right question:

"The the dying art of the physical exam"?

I think it is more the dying art of patient care. In fact, there is no art in it, but just cold business.

Yesterday, I went to my Ob/Gyn complaining of pain that was similar to what I had experienced this May pre-surgery. I was pleasantly surprised to be given an appointment in a week, because I am certain I've waited 2 months for check-ups.

I arrived promptly, and always bring a good book as I expect to wait when a Dr. has an Ob practice too.

I signed in, and checked-off insurance change, and included the notation "cash patient". The front desk immediately called me up to inquire on my new insurance, and I replied that I wrote in I was paying cash. I could see she had the sheet, legibly written, but commented that I guess my writing is not as clear as I think it is.

She announced loudly: "cash patients need to pay up front. $250 please". I was shocked that she knew the cost beforehand, because when I called to make this appointment, I had asked 3 times for the price, the base price, or a ballpark figure. I was told it was impossible to determine because unknown test or procedures would take place.

I repeated this info to this unpleasant woman but preceded it with: "it is a bit annoying that you can tell me the price without hesitation." She responded coldly: "I don't know who you talked to, but I'm front desk!" I guess there is a cast system that defines authority in doctor’s office, but I don't understand the lack of communication in a practice of less that thirty people.

I retrieved my wallet and handed her my MC. After returning to my seat, I heard “you need to sign it!” Honestly, I assumed it would take time to process the transaction, and I wanted away from her, but I hardly sign credit cards anymore. I don't know why, but a clerk will mostly tell me “no signature required”.

I don't know if this thought was in my head then, but at some point, I realized this must be how poor people are treated. I have lived my adult life in a privileged world (certainly compared to my childhood), but for the most part I reject the cloakatively of it. I no longer belong to the country club, and see few of those friends.

I was immediately called by a nurse. I remarked I have never been on this side of the office, and she said something to the fact that I was a new patient. I replied, I have been with the doctor for 14 years. She brought me to an examination room, and told me Dr. “Redacted” will be with me soon. I burst into tears. I don't know this man. I am having a hard time in my life. I’m in pain, and it is emotional too. She was very comforting, but I was never told it was not with the doctor I am comfortable with, and he would have known by looking at me that I was not well.

Most woman feel vulnerable undressed, but really that was the least of my concerns. I am an avid coffee drinker and was not given any after my last surgery. Upon hearing that news, my ten year old announced: “Mom would show her vagina for a coffee!” I could write a book with the stuff she says, and does but the way I explain that child is to relate that I have said since she learned to put sentences together: “we have college funds for our first two, and bail for the third.”

My predicament relates more to the anxiety I have, and how I practiced in my mind what I would say. Do doctors realize patients worry about what is charted? I know that a diagnoses of depression could impede me from new insurance. Dr. “Comfortable” knows me from the club, our kids go to the same school, and most importantly I would feel not judged.

I waited a long time but lost tract, really, I was in a state. At some point, a nurse came in to tell me he was delayed with an emergency in the sonogram room. I really understand, but it was just another stress for me at an inopportune time. The good news is that I must have written a chapter for my book, because it was likely over a half an hour.

The doctor arrived and I knew he had been told. I wondered what they call women like me?

FUOA (fucked up on arrival)?

MWIT (menopausal woman in tears)?

He was rushed. You can’t hide it, and it made me more anxious. I nearly forgot to tell him one of my symptoms. He dismissed it as hormonal and recited circumstances under which a woman loses her hair.

His examination was brief, and he immediately informed me I would need no further test. I saw his obvious amandation MO, and I panicked. I hadn’t told him I can’t sleep, I am so anxious, and I can barely function. I wondered if he thought I was “doctor shopping”. Is that what they call prescription drug users? Dr. “Comfortable” knows I don’t take anything. I can count on two hands the amount of aspirin I have had in my life. I delivered a baby without an IV, and hence no drugs. I don’t drink alcohol, and the only pill bottle I ever finished was because the doctor warned me to adhere to his directions, or end up back on the table.

He inquired about the sources of my stress, but honestly, I felt I was looking at someone who was curious, and not for my benefit. Do they have an office pool to see who wins the guess what’s wrong with this one contest? Gynecologists see everything in their practice and must master the art of the blank expression early. I remember life before HIPPA, and I think that it has been the most efficient killer of gossip.

I could not open my mouth. I only looked at him. I wish I was clever enough to use a word that had meaning, but I could not. If only I remembered cagastric afterward. In fact, I had to look it up in my list of obsolete words. I play an amusing game with a fellow blogger, and it gives me a slight thrill when I win a point with the words of defeat: what the hell does ________mean? Language disappears with obsolete functions, or with the growth of knowledge. I have always loved words.

He gave me a prescription for Zoloft, and a paper with the billing information on it. I told him I don’t know what to do with it, I’ve already paid. He was annoyed with me; I guess I interrupted his ritual. It is my observation most doctors have raging cases of OCD, and God bless you if you interrupt a fucking compulsion. I departed as quickly as I could dress.

The nurse who had told me of the delay called after me to check-out at the desk. “I’ve paid, thank you”. “You need to make an appointment for two weeks”, she said loudly. I never turned my head, but replied “I will call, thank you”.

I have never run out of a building so fast. Upon reflection, it is more than interesting that I have been in a house fire, and stopped to look a the burning damage. I have experienced a Hotel fire, totally uneventful in my mind. Finally, I was on a plane with an emergency landing, the deplaning felt like any other time.

I will never go back there again. My best friend is the wife of an OB/Gyn, and wanted to resolve my experience through the most efficient channel: the DWN (doctors wife network).

I really don’t want anything said. I don’t know this front desk woman’s life. I may have been the straw that broke the camel’s back. I know working with the public is tiring. The initial appointment lady was more than polite. If I was bamboozled, I’m too stupid to know it. I am certain of two things: I won’t go to any office that doesn’t practice medicine first, and this has been my annus vicissitudo.

My Library Adventure or How I Thought I Was Going to Alexandria, Travelled to Quebec, and Ended Up Drinking Brazilian Coffee

2010-08-10T08:07:00.000-07:00

A friend wrote about his day at the library http://rrrrodak.blogspot.com/2010/08/religion-hard-sayings.html and it inspired me to write mine. I had also decided to get my ass out of the house and go to the public library, but my adventure was a metaphor for my life, and not a a zen experience of sitting, reading and escaping reality. I was pulled over at the entrance, and I am sure, checked over to determine that I was not involved with the bomb scare. I parked near a building across the street, and waited for the library to reopen. The officer had informed me the procedure would take a half hour, and since I was already there- I waited. I observed that the library's occupants had gathered in front of the synagogue too, the manager approached my car, and we chatted about the process: the waiting for the dog to give the all clear. He spoke of the 70's, and how he had experienced many library bomb scares. He told me it was always a shock to receive such a call, and would inevitably ask them to repeat what they were saying. I can't help but think that I would ask to speak to their mother. I have no question that the majority of these calls are bored kids, and part of the ritual of youth for some, but what a waste of tax dollars!

The conversation made me recall my own experience with terrorism, but I was a young girl and thought It more of a kidnapping, and not the greater context of political story. http://canadaonline.about.com/od/octobercrisis/p/pierrelaporte.htm. Having just googled , I am stunned that I was able to remember the victim's name. I would have turned ten, but I can recall thinking the kidnapped man was being held nearby. Sweetly, I thought I could rescue him. Montreal would have been a two hour drive but I lived half an hour from the nation's capital and there was major concern over possible bombing targets. My father was a friend of the Lieutenant Governor of Quebec. and a definite target as the representative of the Queen. One day, as we drove up his long driveway, we were suddenly approached by the military. I remember being surprised because it was a quick, sudden, and guns were definitely pointed. My father was an RCMP , because of his career and the fact he was an an avid hunter, I was familiar with weapons and did not panic. Today, I can only recall the man was eventually murdered, and talk of terrorism faded from my life.

I thought of the irony that only in Texas would they pass on the much more ubiquitous synagogue threat and go for the place with all those damn books. I tried to log on to the but failed to pick up the unsecured network, and compromised by parking on the street next to the library. I worked on my computer and was immediately approached by a reporter who wanted to know my view. I told him, I thought it was kids but the most interesting part would be the bomb sniffing dog. He said you look so familiar to me. I knew I did not know him because I hear those words all the time. In fact, It makes self-conscious to be stared at constantly. I have been told I look like someone quite frequently or I know you, don't I? I eventually gave up waiting and settled at the Starbucks down the street. It was my first time bringing my computer to a public place and I wondered does this mean I have joined some club of annoyance: The people who have nothing better to do but play on their computer club? The NBTD club? I confess, I liked it.

Why Motherhood Sucks

2010-07-10T14:25:00.000-07:00

Of course there is joy in being a mother, but It isn't always happiness. We have all seen that perfect mother. Her hair styled, dressed beautifully, elegant, and children identical in perfection. I am not that way, and neither are my children. I love It when a child looks like they dressed themselves. In truth, I could throw away all my clothes and be damned happy to wear the same pair of jeans everyday. The irony is that my most comfortable pair are used. They have had an interesting life involving homophobia, punishment, travel and crossing foreign borders as stolen goods. They were left at a toga party in Montreal by a boy who made homophobic remarks, and taken by a girl who wanted to punish him. I inquired if she had left him her small pair ( I thought, a fitting punishment for an insensitive remark, to be forced into cross-dressing), but her response was that a white sheet, in the middle of winter, served its purpose. This pair of jeans made their way across to Europe, and finally to Texas. I sit in them now, and smile that I am part of a travelling pants journey. I don't know if the student was taught a lesson, but I know life is full of karma for our transgressions. I don't know what the poetic justice should be for saying hurtful words. I was furious with the original theft, because I knew the jeans were most likely paid for by a mother, and not her rude child. But, secretly I admire this girl's actions, her resolve. How many times have people said horrible words, and we have ignore it? Some social understanding that this person is from another generation, another culture, and It is their way. I have found myself in such a position, sometimes too shocked to reply, wondering did I really hear that word? Ashamedly, I have not been strong enough to just say: shut the fuck up. Mostly, I have handled unpleasant situations with humor. I once read a self-defense expert say that a timely joke is your best weapon. He went on to explain that humor relaxes the body, mind, and if you can use it, do so, because It never failed him. My children hardly ever see me dressed to perfection, and should I die accidently, everyone knows that my house will require emergency maid service before anyone has permission to grieve. I agree, humor is a saving grace, and I have seen it in my children.

Writing My dreams à la Jung

2010-07-09T02:29:00.000-07:00

I know I was dreaming as I awoke, but I could not remember any images, or any words. I had carefully placed a paper on my bedside table. It was cardboard, more than paper. Thinking about the solidity pleased me, it will be easier to sit up and write on it. I placed a pen carefully to the right of the paper, reasoning It would be a natural movement to pick it up. My preparation did not yield any results, but I like getting up alone in the house. Even my dog did not stir this morning. He is old, and I know, near the end of his life. He follows me without fail, and quietly sits next to me. If he looses tract of me, he wonders from room to room searching. He shadows me like a child who is afraid of its mother leaving. But unlike a two year old, he awaits patiently for me to reappear. I don't recall my dreams, but I am sure I give it all my worries. I am trying to train my brain to remember, and perhaps control it. Maybe I am not meant to premeditate chimeras, and my unconscious is serving its purpose.

We Had Drunch Today

2010-07-06T09:09:00.000-07:00

My 10 year old made dinner but for lunch. She planed her menu, and used a recipe card from Target. She insisted on buying their house brand products, because she wanted to follow their recipe to the letter. It was rather cute: how she made a list, and sent her dad to the store. She wore a MY NAME IS sticker on her apron already calligraphied with her name. She christened her restaurant IG LE MUR, and wrote it on my antique chalkboard. My daughter's legal name was Infant Girl, and we still refer to her by this acronym. It has made for some interesting school conversations when she would insist on using IG. Legally, we are required to keep her original BC, because a name change includes disclosure on certain documentation. LE MUR is an attempt to be humorous, and is a phonetically spelled french word that I have used on occasion. The dinner began with drink orders, and an explanation of the buffet. Our hostess decided on the order of diners to her buffet station, and her oldest sister was made to wait as a punishment for arriving late. She prayed and thanked God for the great chef (not a confidence issue with her) and her protestant assistant. Since we are not protestant, I concluded she meant Assistant Sous Chef, and used whatever word came to mind. The dinner was not a huge success, but it was fun. She took our dessert order of fruit a la boring or chocolate chip cookies. Every one decided on the cookies, and she then announced they had not been made. The dessert was delivered an hour later, and the cookies were delicious. My favorite part of the dinner was the conversation, and the game of complementing the person to your right. (It takes practice!!) Mine was from IG, and she said, that ealier, I looked like a teenager curled up on a wing chair.

Painting Words

2010-06-27T21:40:00.000-07:00

Darcy, my daughter

Today, I spent time reading the story and enjoying the paintings of Edward Hopper. His insight into women

is fascinating, and yet he struggled with his female relationships. I think his quote says why:

If you could say it in words there would be no reason to paint.

This painting I did reminds me of his work:

Edward Hopper's

New York Movie 1939

1939 (110 Kb); Oil on canvas, 32 1/4 x 40 1/8 in;

The Museum of Modern Art, New York

The Dark Room

2010-06-27T10:35:00.000-07:00

I don't know why, but I seem to be reliving my childhood. Do we have some sort of mental restart button? Have I have triggered it with my clumsy nature? Lately, I have been thinking of the deep dark secret game. A late at night, lights out game of conversation kids have where they tell their deep dark secrets. I am not sentimental for my childhood, and the truth is, I was deeply unhappy and lonely. As an adult, this strikes me as completely at odds with the reality of living in a house with nine people. I have been thinking a lot about my teenage years, and the persistent insomnia that is twinning the present. What the heck did people do before the internet? I suppose they also watched television, read magazines, or books. I can remember when tv would sign-off late in the evening. Kids would freak now if they knew how little we had control over our technology! Presently, I love to wander on the internet. It is like having the a personal set of keys to a library, and enjoying the silence of a huge building while pulling any book, and deciding without hesitation to read or not. Am I the only one who feels observed? (I just asked my 13 year old for the right word for feeling nervously observed, and she responded with paranoid! I swear, I cannot go out in public with seeing someone I know) At 18, when I lived on my own, I would eat at a diner downtown. It was magical in that it really did not belong there, and I mean, It did not belong to reality. It was one of those dated row of vinyl bench style diners, with the matching long counter. It always seemed to have the same people, and the oddest thing would happen: the diners would carry on conversations with other tables, and not move their bodies to make eye contact. It was as if they were all in play and conscientious of the audience off the stage. I had wandered on the stage, quietly observing, part of it, but not participating. It was crazy weird and I loved it. I can't remember the cast of characters but I have a feelings associated with all of them. Was it a dark room game for them? I have decided that is what this internet is. Yes, it is a library, but It has become mostly a place where people can play the deep dark secret game.

My Memorial day

2010-05-31T16:23:00.000-07:00

Memorial day celebrations have always struck me as a little disrespectful. My honest thought is the association with parties, food and games is inappropriate. I made up my mind that I would participate in the culture as It is, and I have. Starting over in a new country can be exhausting and at times frustrating. It is rather like hearing a joke, watching people react hilariously, and the humor is lost on you. I have to confess, I found it so difficult, that I announced, as a new immigrant, I was going to throw a 'I Hate Texas Party'. Some of my Texan friends thought It was a fabulous idea and were disappointed that it was in jest. It is important for my children to be part of the definition of an American, and they are at the club participating in the dive, racing and pie eating contests. I can remember when Remembrance Day was a solemn day, and adults would pin poppies on their clothing, to signify respect for the dead. As a child, I would watch the commemorative ceremony on television, including the firing of the cannon gun salute; only to run outside to listen for the echo, as it travelled across the river into the province of Quebec. I know that when stores started to open on memorial day (I either viewed on television or perhaps actually saw), an old man protesting emotionally, because he thought It was not a day for commercialism. I remember thinking, I will not forget. Today, I was reminded of their sacrifice: One of my neighbors placed American flags at the end of the walkway of every house on our street. This touching act is symbolic of why I love this country.

She Was A Red Chief

2010-05-12T13:18:00.000-07:00

Today, I learned a little girl, I used to know, died. She was 21 and I knew her when she was in kindergarten until perhaps age 10. I have forgotten the names of many of the kids I have known through volunteering but some you remember because they wear that flashing sign. Her death was likely the result of drugs and I can't help but think her fate was sealed, even as a child. I still volunteer with kids that age and I can tell you that I can see that a child is baked (I need to clarify that this is a metaphor for baking a cake) by the time they reach grade 4. I don't know why that is, it is a magical year, but it seems that our self-esteem and our future happiness is somehow cemented into our personalities by that time. This was a child that a teacher, or a volunteer would complain about, but also the one they would grow to admire. A spirit, that was bursting with emotion. Frankly, I love the kids like that. They give you a run for your money and are the most fun, not to mention memorable. My daughter worked a summer at the Y , and I know the boy she spoke most fondly of, is the one she would literally have to race to the door during one of his many escape attempts. While shopping one day, I met him with his sister and grandma. He asked her what she was doing at Wal-mart. I told him I was buying art supplies for my troop and he so sweetly asked my 20 year old daughter, If she was a Brownie too. This summer, I plan not to volunteer for a year or so. I have decided to work on paintings ( that I have promised to finish, years ago. Eek!), and to focus on myself. It is hard to give up working with kids but I really thought about this sabbatical for over a year and I need to focus on my own family. I hope that I have helped kids in the time I have spent. I figure out that I am considered the nice volunteer, because when I went on a camping trip, every child that needed to go to the bathroom woke me up, instead of the other mothers. Years ago, I can remember a student shyly telling me that when he/she (can't remember now) grew up they were going to be an artist. I replied strongly with: You, are already an artist! Afterward, the art teacher told me that was the greatest answer. Yet, It took me to just a few years ago, to see that words can be so soul enforcing. I try to remember to single out a child to say something positive and It really is the easiest thing to do. Most kids are sincerely trying to be great at something, kind or find their way. My daughter, emailed me from France, about the death. Initially, I could only whisper my shock and sent a short email back. My second response: "It really hits me hard because she was a flashing 'Help Me' sign as a little girl." RIP

Three Reasons Why.

2010-04-14T12:01:00.000-07:00

I was up on a ladder thinking about writing. I am the typical artist, in that I completely disengaged from what I am doing creatively and focus on other thoughts. I think of this process in the same way people who arrive at their destination and will say that they don't even remember driving to their destination. I know there is a name for this phenomenon but who knows what it is? Anyway, I've come to the conclusion, inhibition stops me from achieving my goals. I know this would strike those who know me as humorous because it does not fit my public persona (witty people are solitary by nature when alone a la Johnny Carson). For years, I have wanted to write about my life as a 'country club wife' (more bitching and competition than any trashy TV show, ever) but frankly, no one will ever talk to me again. On the other hand, I rather like that aspect because familiarity truly does breed contempt. Jackie Collins always maintained people never recognized themselves in her novels and that one 'character' actually approached her at a party to ask about the character she was unwittingly based on. I always promise my friends, that I will add a 'B' to their first names and that should do the trick but partially I don't ever want to hurt people. The curse of any artist: what makes you good is what also kills you emotionally. Who wants to be a Kitty Kelley? I really want my book to have thought behind it. I love anything that I read that makes me ponder. In my estimation, It is the ultimate compliment for a writer, that his words were not thrown away, like a movie you can't remember the day after you saw it. Sometimes, I wonder, if I have an overwhelming fear of failure. Again, not what people would say about me. I rather love my mistakes and truthfully, it is the only way I seem to learn. I remember an art teacher telling me there are no mistakes but an opportunity to learn to do something differently. I have quoted this so many times that I have heard children repeat it to each other and I always think it funny that they may have used that view in their classrooms. I attended school in french and I can distinctly remember, (around five years old) realizing that I spoke one way to one person and one way to another. It was the first time that I understood English and French were not the same language. In effect, I taught myself to write in English by the age of 12. To this day, I really have to think to discern the difference between your/you're, were/where and a host of homonyms. Funny now but as a child I would confuse remember and December. I am so sympathetic to ESL people and I hate to see criticism on a blog about grammar and not the idea, unless the bastard deserves it. Anyway, I have decided to write whatever comes to mind and surrender control to the universe. Don't slap back too hard cause you know I'll cry but comment because I am starting to feel like Will Smith in I Am Legend.

Really, my blog does

2010-04-13T18:28:00.000-07:00

-s-u-c-k-...needs work. I thought, I would write a ton when my daughter visited from her school in London. Alas, that floodgate of creativity never happened. I can't tell you why but I have a feeling it is related to having kids. My ten year old just asked me if I had filled out my census form. Why? I don't know but my 12 year old said Dora Explorer was singing about it on early morning cartoon shows. I digress, my point...My ten year old announced she'll be able to fill it in, next time around and now my 12 year old chimed in with she'll be 22 by then. Now, what was I talking about? I need to go, my ten year old needs to know who made words.

NAUGHTY POLITICIANS ARE SOUTH CAROLINA’S BEST FRIEND

2009-11-02T20:42:00.000-08:00

　
WHAT IS IT WITH ALL THESE BAD BOY POLITICIANS? I DON’T KNOW IF THEY ARE WORSE IN SOUTH CAROLINA BUT YOU CAN’T BEAT THEM FOR CREATIVITY. FRANKLY, SEX IN A PUBLIC BATHROOM BRINGS TO MIND “YUCK!” BUT A GRAVEYARD? NOW THAT SOUNDS INTERESTING! BETTER YET, THE I WAS INCOMMUNICADO “ON THE APPALACHIAN TRAIL” EXCUSE. I WONDER IF ALL THESE SCANDALS ARE HELPING SOUTH CAROLINA TOURISM. WHY GO TO VEGAS ANYMORE? TOURISM IS IN DECLINE AND STATES ARE HAVING TROUBLE BRINGING IN CONVENTION DOLLARS . STOP BRAGGING ABOUT BORING GOLF COURSES TRY THIS IDEA FOR A CHANGE
　
　
　
NEW S. CAROLINA TRAVEL DEAL:

CUM HIKING IN THE APPALACHIAN TRAIL & VISIT R CEMETERIES WITH R "JUST IN CASE" TOURIST STIMULUS PACK.

YOU KNOW YOU WON AN ARGUMENT WHEN...

2009-10-17T12:19:00.000-07:00

THANKS FOR THE GOOD LAUGH! IT’S MY STYLE TO USE CAPS AND I AM KEEPING IT. WOW, “bad form, whether you’re a male, a female or a really advanced lemur”. DON’T INSULT ME, I WILL NEVER STRIVE TO TYPE LIKE A MALE!

WELL THAT’S THE REPLY I KNOW I PUT UP FOR THE RICHARD ROEPER BLOG THAT WAS A RESPONSE TO MY TAKING OBJECTION TO HOW HE DESCRIBES SALLY KIRKLAND AND PAM ANDERSON. FRANKLY, I AM NOT A FAN OF EITHER WOMAN. THOUGH I HAVE ALWAYS THOUGHT PAM WAS PROBABLY ONE SMART GAL AND THIS HAS BEEN ONE LONG PERFORMANCE (DON‘T YOU ADMIRE ANY WOMAN THAT CAN FAKE IT THAT LONG?). AS FOR SALLY KIRKLAND, WELL THEY ARE STILL TAKING ABOUT HER. YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE IN SHOW BIZ TO KNOW THAT YOU COME STAMPED WITH A FRESHNESS DATE AND YOUR CAREER IS GOING TO EXPIRE ON IT. THE GIST OF MR. ROEPERS REPLY IS THAT I AM “misinterpreting the post and projecting things”. I AM STARTING TO THINK I AM LIVING IN THE 60’S WHEN I HEAR ANY MAN TELL A WOMAN THE WAY SHE SHOULD ACT, THINK, TALK . I SWEAR THE OTHER DAY, I SAW A MOVIE THEATRE ADVERTISING THE GRADUATE. ANYWAY, I CANT HELP BUT THINK I WON THIS ARGUMENT WHEN MY POST DISAPPEARED. THEN AGAIN, COULD THE MYSTERIOUS VANISHING WORDS BE THE RESULT OF THIS TIME WARP WE ARE LIVING IN ? OR IT COULD BE SOMEONE IS AFRAID OF A 49 YEAR OLD MOTHER WHO DOESN'T WANT HER THREE GIRLS TO EVER THINK THEY HAVE TO RUN INTO A CAVE AND HIDE AT FILL IN THE BLANK ( ) AGE.

RR BLOG TITLED: The Sally Kirkland of our time.

LOCATED AT www.richardroeper.com/