The Cadillac of Purchases

Today I birthed a cow.  How you ask, since number one I am NOT a cow, and number two it is physically impossible for a human to give birth to a cow.  Okay, so I didn’t birth a cow; however, I DID purchase contacts and glasses for the low, low price of $800!  Now do you see how I basically birthed a cow, since dropping $800 is also very painful?

Many years ago, when I was in 3^rd grade, I had my eyes checked in school like everyone else.  Well, guess what, I needed glasses.  My mom thought it was probably because everyone else in the family had glasses.  Turns out, I have the worst vision of EVERYONE in our family.  Yes, what a joy to have to wear glasses as a girl.  We aren’t talking about the cute glasses they have now.  Oh no, back then I got to sport coke bottle glasses that would slide down my nose because they were so heavy.  By the time I was in Jr. High, they were ridiculous!  Plus, you know the saying, “guys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses” well I totally felt that.  Being the ugly duckling I felt I was, I would put my glasses in my back pocket.  Did they break?  Of course!  I was the queen of crazy gluing the frames back together.  Can I just add, the burning sensation in your eyes from the crazy glue was not a good time?

All my 80’s people probably remember Omni.  The BEST place to skate.  Again, my glasses would be in my pocket as I skated around.  Could I see anybody as I skated?  Nope.  Possibly a cute guy COULD have been waving me over to skate with him; however, I had no clue since I couldn’t see.  For all I know, I could have been skating with the guys for “all guys skate” because I couldn’t see!  Back then, the guys HAD long hair!  Good grief, I hope that didn’t happen.  I think my friends would have bailed me out if they saw me skating during “all guys skate.” 

It wasn’t until I was in 10^th grade that my parents bought me contact lenses.  Again, thank GOODNESS!  It is extremely hard to hold up your head with the glasses I had to wear.  If you were sweating?  Forget it.  The glasses would go down to my mouth, like a mouth guard.  My first set of contacts was gas permeable lenses.  Basically they were shards of glass in the shape of a circle you put in your eye.  And if anyone accidentally startled you?  Be prepared to spend at least a half an hour trying to get the lens out of your eye, which is now suctioned to the bottom part of your eye.  It’s like your eyeball has just seen a ghost and your eyeball is the one saying “EEEEKKKK!”  After the “EEEEKKKK” the contact drops and suctions to your eye.  After the suction would finally release, your eye was a beautiful shade of red.  Except for where the contact was suctioned, that part was white.  Good times.  Do I even have to tell you about when your contact chips?  The gas permeable lens was basically a torture device, in my eyes.  And yes, the torture device was in my eyes.  J   

So the Cadillac of purchases today was bifocals.  Yup, 42 with bifocals.  I can say this, at least with today’s glasses nobody will even know I have them because you cannot see the lines.  I am sulking about this huge purchase.  It pains me to drop this much on glasses and contacts.  Hopefully with the switch, I can now look at people without scowling at them.  I am sure many thought I was just a crabby pants when in all actuality, I couldn’t SEE them! J

Bat hearing

Aren't I the cutest thing?

Who is this a picture of, you may ask?  Why, that is me of course!  According to my son, I have the hearing of a bat.  Any little noise, I wake up.

Yes, this is me when I get woken up at night.  Not pretty.



Since apparently I am “bat like,” this is how I sleep.  When I hear noises, my eyes fly open and I hiss.  You can verify this with my son.  This bat like hearing of mine just didn’t start when I had my son.  I was like this when I was growing up, too.  My parents and brother enjoy the “white noise” thing.  Me, it is just plain noise in the middle of the night.  When I would hear my brother’s scanner in the middle of the night, the eyes would fly open and I would hiss.  I would open my door, creep into my brother’s room and turn off his radio.  Problem solved….until he would turn the scanner back on again and I would have to do the same thing.  I am lucky I EVER got sleep growing up!  Maybe that is why I am so short!  Sleep deprivation.  J

My bat like ears were just wonderful for family vacations when we all were in one room.  I believe I was the only “quiet” sleeper.  I would hear a snore, eyes would fly open, and I would hiss and then practically punch my dad in the arm to let him know he was snoring.  I believe I even went into the bathtub one time to get away from the serenade.  Nobody could feel my pain!  My mom would tell ME I was making all the noise.  Me, make noise?  Hard to believe I know since I am so quiet!

My parents could never understand why I wanted this silence.  They always tell the story of whenever they would get into their car they would get blasted into the back seat, complete with hair standing up, because the radio was up to the point of a speaker blowing.  My answer?  That was different…I wasn’t trying to sleep behind the wheel of the car.

What brought this all up today was my son came home around 3:30 a.m. (have to clarify it is the a.m., not p.m.).  Again, my eyes flew open and I hissed.  Good grief, the light was on in the kitchen and I heard talking!  Due to the modern convenience of a cell phone, I didn’t have to show my fangs to my son.  All I had to do was mad text him.  The conversation?  “Do you realize it is 3:30 in the morning?  Not only do I see a light on, which hurts my Dracula eyes, but I hear whispers, which hurt my delicate bat ears!  There will BE NO WHISPERING or LIGHTS ON at 3:30 in the morning!  Do you want me to melt?”  Okay, so maybe that is a little of an exaggeration; however, I did mad text him to SHUT UP.

So as I sit out here on my porch this morning listening to the birds chirping and the geese honking, I am glad they are day creatures.  I would hate to have to spread my bat wings and hiss at the creatures to be quiet. Possibly even have the neighbors call the police due to a crazy woman running around their neighborhood flapping her “bat wings” and hissing. J

Tracks

I love this picture.  It reminds me of the movie Stand by Me.  No cares in the world, just walking with your friends.  This is a picture of my son with two of his friends.  The photographer of this picture has been friends with my son since the age of 3.  Basically, all of these kids have grown up together.  They have played together, hung around together, and even cried together at the loss of one of their good friends.  These friends were only on this earth approximately 16 years when they had to deal with one of life’s most painful experiences.  This is hard to deal with as an adult, but how about dealing with this as a teenager?  Quite a derailment.  One of my son’s friends said to me, “I want it to stay this way all the time.  I don’t want to grow apart or stop talking to Shaun or anybody else.”  My response to him was, “Sometimes it happens. However, every person plays their part.  I still talk to good friends I was in high school with.  Are we as close as we were in high school?  No, but we still get together, and that is a great feeling.”

Life is not about walking down one track.  As we all know, we all grow up and start traveling down different tracks.  You don’t ever think this will happen, but usually it does.  In elementary school, you are with the same kids for seven years.  The thought never crosses your mind that your circle of friends will break and you will start traveling down different tracks.  My circle of friends in elementary school was totally different than the friends I made in high school.  And you know what?  That’s ok.  In order to grow as a person, you need to sometimes pull the switch on your tracks and join with another set.  It is here that you get to experience life in many different ways. 

I am happy with the tracks that I have traveled on. J

Yang

I came home from work this afternoon with dishes up the yang.  How much is a yang, you might ask?  If you can’t count the number of something using both hands, this is a yang.  As you can probably guess, there were more than 10 dishes in the sink.  How is it, nobody notices this “yang” but me?  Could it be the people in my house think we are playing a game of dish Jenga to see how many plates can be stacked before they all crash to the floor?  I guarantee I would lose this game of dish Jenga and would have to watch all the dishes crash to the floor.  Of course I would be talking to these dishes as they are in pieces on the floor, just like I do the Tupperware, and asking the dishes, “really?”  I don’t know why I talk to the dishes; I mean talking to the dishes is like talking to my 19-year old.

Not only did I come home to a yang of dishes, but it is also garbage night.  You guessed it, a yang of garbage.  My son has lived in this house the same amount of years as me and STILL has to have an essay written to him regarding taking out the garbage.  If no essay has been written, no garbage is taken out.  Noticing my son was not home and not wanting to have to deal with hauling the trash out in the morning, I pulled the yang of garbage cans out to the street.  Huffing and puffing along the way, because the men in my house seem to think it is ok to put 60 lbs of garbage in each container, I trudge to the curb.  Sure, why not overstuff the cans?  They aren’t the ones dragging it to the street.  The part I really love is when you go over the bump in the driveway and the 60 lbs of garbage topples out of the can.  Now starts the garbage ballet dance.  I am sure you have done this: bend, swoop, pick, and toss.  If you really want to get fancy, add a plie in there for good measure.

One of these days when I come home from work, I am actually going to do something that I want to do.  Oh who am I kidding, I will be looking at the yang of dishes tomorrow and doing the garbage dance again next week.

New dance partner

Everything I do is like a dance.  On Friday, it was the dance with the vacuum.  My vacuum and I like to move around the floors, all the while getting tangled in the hose and the cord.  I am the queen of running over the cord.  I have run over my vacuum cord so many times, electrical tape is wrapped around most of the cord.  Apparently, between me and the cord, we don’t know who is supposed to lead in the vacuum dance.  You would think that after being run over so many times, the cord would give up and let me lead.

After our dance on Friday, my vacuum decided it had finally had enough.  Me, being me, I kept pumping on the pedal to make it go on.  After pumping the pedal, I started slamming the pedal because if pumping the pedal wasn’t working, surely slamming the thing would make it turn on.  No such luck.  Alas, the dance with my vacuum was over.

So, it was time to find a new dance partner.  Instead of an upright, I decided on a partner I could drag around behind me.  But this particular vacuum tells you how bad you are….not at dancing but at vacuuming.  The vacuum has sensor lights; green means you rock and red means you better continue because you stink at this. So instead of me waltzing around like I used to, this vacuum won’t allow me to do this.  It’s like this vacuum is the leader for the dance.  I have to go slowly until the vacuum thinks I am ready for the next step.  This vacuum is as serious as Max on Dancing With the Stars!!

I guess I will let my new dance partner lead the way around the house.  Apparently the vacuum knows how to do its job.  Now, if only I can have a sensor button to let me know when I am about to slam into the wall.

Symphony of the cough

I came home with a screaming and pounding headache.  I believe my head could have filled in for a drummer of a rock band.  You know this type of headache…you try and lay down and your brain is pulsating onto the pillow.  You maybe try and drown out the pounding by listening to music, only to have your head now pound to the beat of music.  I’m not talking heavy metal music, just nice calm music.  And, your head is pulsating so bad and doesn’t know it should keep to the beat of the music, it marches to its own “drum.”  How appropriate.

The kindergarteners are starting their own type of music this week, which comes in the form of a cough.  It’s truly beautiful, the melodic tones of a cough.  High and low with a mixture of wetness, and you keep your fingers crossed that nothing flies into your eye as they perform.  But as all of us know, if you are in a band the song you are playing usually starts together.  Not the rhapsody of the kindergarten cough.  You see, instead of all starting together, they have to each have their own “solo.”  When one starts, then another joins from across the room, then another, etc. etc.  Let’s not forget the talented cougher who can crescendo as he or she coughs.  Starting very softly and gradually increasing in volume.  Since I love music, it is at this point I feel the need to stand on top of my desk and get out my baton to direct.  After all, if we are doing a concert let’s do it right.  As I direct, I point to each individual so they can each have a solo.  I make them crescendo and decrescendo and also have them perform short staccato coughs for added pleasure to the music.  Yes, such joy to hear the cough.

Okay, who am I kidding.  The coughing drives me INSANE!  One starts, etc. etc.  Oh and when you tell ONE to go ahead and get a drink before their head pops off from coughing and YOUR head explodes, here comes the symphony of coughs.  This of course could possibly turn into “drink fest 2011” if you let it. The phrase that pays?  “We weren’t born yesterday, people!”  I had one student come up to me after his solo and say, “umm, there is this weird thing in my mouth.”  Frightened he might possibly show me this weird thing in his mouth because they will show you whatever grossness they have, I say, “Go get a drink.”  Apparently water is not a cure because he came back and said, “I’m still weird.”  I could have said, “Why yes you are,” but I held back and told him to tell his mother about the weirdness.  Mothers love to hear all about any type of weirdness going on.

So I am sure the concert will continue tomorrow, but you know the truly amazing part of the symphony of the cough?  It magically disappears during recess.  J

Rodeo walk

I used to be athletic.  Hard to believe now with all my autoimmune issues.  When I was in 4^th grade, we had a fitness test called the Kirschner Physical Fitness Test.  At that time, I beat both boys AND girls.   I even ended up in the emergency room because I strained my girly parts.  My crush at the time, Mike M., who probably didn’t know I was alive with my coke-bottled glasses, was very angry with this.  He wasn’t angry about injuring his girly parts, because he didn’t have girly parts, he was aggravated because a girl beat him.  Mike M. was athletic, too.  Maybe Mike was just angry because HE didn’t get the coveted plastic trophy.  J

Times are different now; however, I am excited to say that I have now begun to walk.  Let me clarify this.  I already know how to walk, but I am now walking after I get home from work.  Ok, so it has been only three days, but I am proud of myself.  I am exhausted when I get home each day but walking is my new goal since the weather has broke.  Who am I kidding about the weather being broke, I was in shorts on Sunday and now I am in my parka today.  I will probably be wearing my snow shoes this weekend because they are forecasting snow flurries. 

My dog is along for the walk, as well.  We are quite comedic when we walk.  At times it looks like I am throwing a lasso because he is winding around me.  He also needs to get used to this walking thing since he never walks on a leash.  Besides me with the lasso I am also battling the wires of my ear buds, which are attached to my phone.  Of course they get yanked out of my ears because I am battling the lasso.  I can’t just walk like a normal person with their dog.  It is like a rodeo.  I have the lasso (leash) hog tying me, all the while the geese are in front of me on the path honking like, “who does this cowgirl think she is on our path?  And what the heck kind of cow is that, that is pulling her?”  The only good thing about this is I can’t really sing much because I am busy with the rodeo. I guarantee I will get this rodeo down and am prepared to serenade the geese and any other walkers on the trail.

I am also excited to say, I will be meeting up with a friend from high school whom I haven’t seen since high school to try Chi gong.  My friend also has autoimmune issues, and she says this really helps her.  She tries various types of exercises, etc., to help her.  I am game for anything at this point.  We both know we look different from our high school days, but that is okay.  As we both said to each other “we are alive.”  Plus I am really excited to see her.  Even though we both have our own issues, we understand the trials each other goes through.

I am hoping to keep up my rodeo walk.  Anyone living in Highland will either want to stay off the trail when I am on it, or get on the trail to watch a good show.

Confession time

When I was younger, and being raised Catholic I went to CCD.  In our classes they talked about Heaven and Hell.  When I was young, and according to the Catholic teachings, I had an angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other.  I was taught if you do something wrong that “devil” sitting on your shoulder was making you do it.  Do you KNOW how scared I was every time I went to reach for a cookie before dinner knowing that the “horned guy with a tail” was perched on my shoulder egging me on to just “do it!  Eat the cookie!”  All the while the angel on the other shoulder was saying, “Don’t do it!  You don’t want to burn in the pits of hell for a chocolate chip cookie, do you?”  Yes, the Catholic religion was very scary.

The best part is when I made my confession.  Now, back then you made your confession in the first grade.  Okay, folks, in 1^st grade you are 6-7-years old.  When making your confession it is kind of like memorizing parts in a play.  You have your lines and so does the priest.  Making the confession was a nightmare.  So much pressure to remember your lines.  And if I don’t remember my lines, am I going to go to Hell?   Also, I had to come up with things to confess about.  Now, again, I am six.  What does a six year old have to confess?  Not much.  But I made it through these confessions.  How did I do it?  I lied.  That’s right, I said it.  I LIED.  I had no clue what to say every week.  I mean, I was in grade school.  I hadn’t murdered anybody or stole anything.  So, I would just make up things.  For those of you non-Catholics, confessions are like this.  You go into the dark, dark room and shut the door.  You kneel in front of the screen and begin telling all of your sins.  Mine were always the same.  “I’m sorry I hit my brother.  I’m sorry I yelled at my mom.  I’m sorry I ate the cookie; however, the devil guy on my shoulder told me to do it.”  And that was that.  The priest would whisper stuff, tell you to say 20 Our Fathers and 10 Hail Mary’s and be on your way.  Your soul was now cleaned.  That was another thing.  We were taught every time you did something wrong, you had this black mark on your soul.  The only way to remove the marks was to go to confession.  Again, pretty scary stuff when you are little.  Anytime I yelled at my brother I thought, “Oh great, here goes another mark on my soul.  You know, just blacken the entire thing while you are at it because I am sure I will yell at  him again this week.”

Now if this wasn’t bad enough, I would come out of the telephone booth looking confessional, say what had to be said only to have my mother say to me, “That wasn’t long.”  Thus, this is why I chose to lie during my confessions.  I did feel better hearing that my father, who was raised Catholic and went to Catholic school would also lie in confession.  The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.  And since he did it, I felt much better and knew it had to be ok. 

Confession day always made me sweat and I hated going.  Not only did I not spend enough time in the confessional, but allegedly I was LOUD.  I know, shocking.  My mother said they had to back up because they could hear what I was saying.  Great, now the congregation knows that the devil dude on my shoulder made me take the chocolate chip cookie.  I am really going to hell and probably banished from any Town of Highland functions.

It has been years since I made the trip to the confession telephone booth and I don’t miss it one bit.  I know I am a good person and that’s all that matters.  Besides, does an entire congregation really want to hear my confessions?  I mean I wouldn’t have my mom at the church telling people to “back that thang up, she is ready to confess.”  J

The battle of the towel

The towel monster came to visit today, actually this week.  What am I talking about!  He visits every DAY in one form or another!  I know you all know what I am talking about.  I think this same monster is in cahoots with the sock monster.  I think I could fill an entire trash bag with all those “one sock” since the sock monster took the match.  What type of pleasure does this monster get from just taking ONE sock!  Is this monster a one-footed monster?  It’s just cruel that I can’t wear some of my designer Halloween socks because I only have ONE sock!  I could wear mismatched socks and just blame the Polish heritage again.  You know, “there is no point in being Polish if you can’t prove it” motto I go by.

Besides the towel and sock monsters living in my house, the container monster hides somewhere.  I have Tupperware, Gladware, Rubbermaid, and I don’t care ware in my cabinets.  Oh how I love opening up the cabinet and having the containers jump out at me as if to say “Pick me!  Pick me!” only to have absolutely NO matching lid.  What the heck?  Who TOOK the lids?  During the battle of the containers, I “showed them” by throwing them back into the cabinets, all the while more containers were falling to the floor.  I really showed them, didn’t I?  So, what does any mature adult do when the battle appears to be lost?  I leave all containers on the floor and talk to them.  During this time my son is standing there watching me as I am arguing with the containers on the floor.  “Fine, all you containers, you know what?  You can all just stay on the floor.  I could really give a rat’s ass if you stay there all night!”  The containers didn’t answer; however, my son picked them all up and put them away for me.  Maybe he thought I was talking to him and not the containers.  In his mind I am sure he was thinking, “She has lost it yet again. Is she talking to me?  I don’t know if she noticed, but I am not on the floor.  And how cruel that my mother would want me to stay on the floor all night and not give a rats ass.  Maybe I will pick up these containers and slowly move away from the kitchen.”

Getting to the towels.  All I wanted was a dishrag to do some dishes and possibly wipe down the counter.  I peer into the closet and what do my eyes see?  Dish TOWELS, no dish RAGS.  Seriously?  It’s not only those dishtowels and dishrags I have a problem with, can a girl get a towel for when she wants to take a shower?  I think not.  Quite enjoyable using a hand towel to wipe down your not a 5-year old butt anymore.  Again, really?  Unlike the kitchen towels, I am quite sure I know where all bath towels are in my house.  All I have to do is to open a certain 19-year olds room and voila!  All bath towels are making a nice carpet on his already carpeted floor.

So the battle of the kitchen towel continues.  Maybe I will go into the linen closet this weekend and remove all towels and separate them all by kitchen and bath towels yet again.  Oh who am I kidding?  Where is the Bounty?  After all it is the quicker picker upper.

Keep smiling! J

I’ve been to the Grammy’s, have you?

Ah, sleep.  Beautiful, wonderful sleep.  Sleep is all good WHEN you can sleep.  If you have ever battled insomnia, it is awful.  Days and days without sleep not only are exhausting physically, but also mentally.  So, what does one do when you can’t sleep and all else fails?  Talk to your doctor.  Then, what does the doctor prescribe?  Ambien.  Ambien is a wonderful thing, but when you take it, turn off the lights and go to sleep.  My best friend has had to endure what I call “Ambien night.”  What are Ambien nights?  Well, take a seat and listen to my tales.

The directions say to take Ambien at bedtime, which is what I do.  But, do I decide to sleep?   No way!  I call my best buddy Carole.  While I was on Ambien the green goat was in my bedroom, and she also lost her hat.  How sad!  All the while a turtle was up on my ceiling.  Ummm, what?  I am guessing the so called turtle was my ceiling fan.  Yikes.

Shaun had recorded me one night as I was “running” through the house on the apparent stepping stones that lead to our back porch, at which time I said “hi” to Mr. Tree.  Let me clarify.  I was not running but stumbling through the house.  Not in any shape or form are there stepping stones in my house.  And Mr. Tree?  Well, our Christmas tree that we had taken out of the house was on the porch and I guess I felt the need to talk to it.

Again, JUST STAY IN BED!  But, no, I like to talk.  My son had one of his friends over so, what do I do?  Ask them how the flowered chairs were working out in the middle school!  And who knew that my son’s friend had three heads and my son had all of a sudden sprouted a toupee.  Yes, just stay in bed with your mouth closed.  But no, after talking to the boys about the flowered chairs and new heads and hairpieces, I came out with my OWN headpiece…a Chicago Bulls hat, complete with HORNS sticking out.  I am sharing the picture with you, because that is how I roll.  Please don’t pay attention to the lovely steroid face, compliments of my autoimmune disease.  The real focus is on the horns.  Seriously, it is amazing how my son still talks to me. 

Good grief, this person is one hot mess!!

I have been to the Grammy’s and I performed with Madonna.  And, as my best friend will attest to, I was NOT going to wear black!  This is so not me because I love wearing black.  When I woke up the next morning, I looked at my dresser and wondered why all my clothes were hanging out of the dresser, and some were on the floor.  When I called my friend Carole, the next day, I can always tell when an “Ambien night” happened.  When Carole answers the phone after Ambien night, she proceeds with caution.  Realizing that I am my “normal” self, she tells me the events of the night.  I have to say Carole has had the pleasure of hearing really interesting songs, which I feel the need to sing to her.  Let’s not forget how I call, talk, and hang up and then call, talk, and hang up AGAIN.  It can get so bad that Carole shuts off her phone.   Again, it is amazing how Carole is still my best friend because she is always the brunt of my “ambieness.”

I didn’t sleep well last night that is why I thought of my Ambien stories.  You talk about wanting to be on the “Do not call list” maybe my best friend might want be on the “Ambien do not call list.”  J

Get me a Kleenex because being a mother is hard

I came home from work today and saw my son sitting on his bed with his head resting in his hands staring at the wall.  When I asked what was wrong, the typical words from any teenager came out of his mouth, “nothing.”  Us mom’s have that mom instinct and we know when it is a lie.  My son is hurting right now, and there is nothing I can do.  There is no magic wand or magic words to make all his pain go away.  When he said to me, “I might as well just jump in front of a bus” my heart broke and I swear I left blood on the floor where I stood.  My son is at a standstill right now and feels like he is hanging in limbo until September, when he plans on going to Columbia College in Chicago.

My son had said he was “done” with school his sophomore year of high school.  It wasn’t until recently that I figured out why, and why the once mouthy (like his mom) boy was all of a sudden quiet. His best friend since the age of three passed away suddenly, followed by his grandfather, followed by another classmate.  Bam!  Three in a row, all within a month.  When his best friend passed away, I still remember a number of kids sitting in my living room wondering why?  How could someone they knew since before grade school no longer be around to poke fun at?  Unfortunately, I could not answer their questions because I did not have an answer.  Besides the three deaths that occurred, a friend he played guitar with was diagnosed with cancer his sophomore year.  This friend passed away his senior year of high school. 

At 19 my son feels like life is ending, when in all actuality it is just beginning.  He is so confused as to what to do and no matter how much I say it will be okay, you are young and have your whole life in front of you, he can’t see this.  My son is very fortunate because not only does he excel academically, but also artistically.  When he made his first choice of studying engineering, many people were surprised he wasn’t going into art.  Months later he made the comment, “Why didn’t anybody tell me to go into art or music?”  My response, “We did; however, you wanted to go for engineering, so we supported you in your choice.” 

As painful as it is for me to watch him in distress, I can only offer my words of wisdom and comfort.  I can only do so much for him, but at some point a baby bird must leave the nest and start doing things on his own.  The next few months will be trying for him and again all I can offer is my support.  I can’t hold his hand, although it was much easier when I was able to hold his hand.  I will end with one of my favorite poems by Robert Frost, which I carry in my wallet.  To me, it is truly a powerful poem and kind of fits the theme of the day.

Nature's first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf,

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down today

Nothing gold can stay.

I have three volumes....loud, louder, loudest

I have three volumes:  loud, louder, and loudest.  My friend Lisa has said this to people and I love it.  I am not talking about my stereo volume, this is my voice.  Just ask anyone who knows me.  For that matter, I was the loudest clarinet player.  Just ask my friend Robin.  Robin was our section leader at one time and always had the pleasure, or displeasure, of hearing my loudness.  Robin also always wondered why I didn’t sweat, as she constantly wiped herself down with whatever cloth she had while looking at me and saying, “what is wrong with you?”  But that is a different story and plus it was probably because I was too busy being my loud self.  I didn’t have time to sweat.  I always liked to hit the high “C” as the last note for the school song.  When I mean a loud clarinet player, it wasn’t like I sat there and blew into the mouthpiece with my cheeks puffed out sending out a distress signal to all the birds flying overhead.  I was just LOUD.  I know we have all seen the Verizon Wireless commercial always asking, “Can you hear me now?”  Most people who know me would say, “Good grief YES we hear you.  How could we not?”

Everything I do is loud, even when I am not speaking.  My mom used to say she always knew when I went into a drawer because the drawer was in disarray.  I guess you could say my fingers were loud.  For that matter, I have bruises all over me because whenever I lose my balance I am always banging into something.  I have knocked into our doggy gate so many times, that I think once I even dragged the thing around the house because it got caught on my foot.  I would never make a good burglar.

True story.  When I was in 8^th grade, I sang a solo in our choir concert.  I remember this as plain as day.  As I carefully stepped to the microphone, little 5’1/2” me, this booming voice rang through the auditorium and the microphone had to be turned DOWN.  Even when I had to back away from the microphone to sing with the choir, my voice STILL boomed through the auditorium.  Powerful things are in small packages.  I was drum major my senior year, and also the shortest drum major.  Well, this little drum major had the LOUDEST VOICE when counting off a song.  I think I even heard on the video tape of one of our competitions someone saying, “That girl has lungs.”

My son has occasionally picked me up from work.  When he entered the building my girlfriend said to him, “Oh, she is down in Mark’s room.”  His response?  “I know, I could hear her all the way outside.”  Yup, loud.  Shaun is always asking me, “Why do you have to be so loud?”  My response, “Why do you have to talk so soft?”  Or, Shaun’s biggest pet peeve…when I ask him a question, in all my loudness, and when he says “what?” I begin talking louder and in slow motion.  For example, Me:  “What are you doing tonight?”  Shaun’s response, “What?”  Then again, in loud speak:  WHHAAAATTTTT ARRRRRRE YOUUUUUUU  DOOOOOOOING TOOOOOONIIIIIIIIIGHT?”  At which point he says to me, “You do realize I am not hard of hearing and you don’t need to drag out your words when you talk to me?”  Well, ANSWER ME IN A LOUD VOICE!

Why am I thinking of all this today?  As I sit outside, with the wind blowing through my hair and the chimes banging in the wind there is peace.  My mouth is shut for the moment as I take in the birds chirping and the geese honking in the background.  But you can bet, when necessary, this mouth will fly open in all its loudness when needed.

I’m gonna dance like there is no tomorrow….and I did.

I went to a wedding on Friday and I had a choice.  Either I could sit out and watch everyone dance or I could get up and dance and pay the consequences later.  What was my choice?  I chose to dance.  When you are out on the dance floor, nothing matters.  You feel the beat in your toes and the sweat dripping down your face.  It was fabulous.  While I was dancing, I had no aches that I noticed.  I was smiling and moving.  I really didn’t care about what was going to happen the next day.  A woman came up to me as we were leaving and she said, “You can tell you love to dance.  You can see it in your face and in your eyes!”  Just that little conversation and I knew I had made the right choice.  I DO love to dance and I was not about to let my disease rule me.  There are so many other days it does.

Now, here I am the day after.  As I placed one foot on the floor, followed by the other, I had to grab the posts on the bed to move.  I held onto the posts as long as I could.  Exiting the bedroom, my hands grabbed and held on to the wall.  I call my walk the “Frankenstein” walk because that is what it is like.  However, if any of you have seen the old Frankenstein movies from Universal Studios, Frankenstein, even when walking sooooo slow, is always able to catch up to his prey.  Not this girl.  She walks like Frankenstein all the while making those grunting noises.  I tell people an autoimmune disease is like this, you have your cells only your cells don’t know they are fighting “good” cells.  Your body is fighting your body, or how I put it, my cells are an army with weapons complete with cute little helmets.  The poor unsuspecting “good” cells come along and my cells “open fire” on the good cells.  Basically, I have a world war going on in my body between my cells.  Sorry to say, there is never going to be a winner in this battle.

So begins the day with a cup of coffee and pain medication.  That is the cocktail to try and deal with the pain.  Do I regret what I did to my body last night?  The answer is most definitely NO!  I slow danced with my husband and busted a move with friends.  Just for a little while, people like me want to just step out of their body that hates them, kick back and have fun.  Some days, you just need to live in the moment because you never know when that moment will be taken away from you.

Till next time, laugh loudly and smile constantly.