Hobos, Old Man Booty, And Cat Vomit

I'm a bad blogger. A bad, bad blogger. I shall say The Blogger's Oath fifty times before I go to sleep tonight as penance for not writing for so long (Is there a blogger's oath?).

In my defense, the last couple of weeks have been a bit of a whirlwind. First, I traveled to the writer's conference. Then, it was a week of preparing for prom night--not only dealing with dress, hair, shoes, jewelry, nails, flowers, etc., but also the fact that ten girls were coming back to my house for a sleepover following the festivities, so I also had to prepare sleeping arrangements, food, and drink (water and soda only, thank you very much). It's a lot of work, but so much fun to have the house full of teenage girls in gowns, gossiping about their dates and the dance itself, and then to wake up to bobby pins everywhere from the deconstruction of ten up-dos. (And guess what? I get to do it all again in a few weeks because the boy my daughter took to Junior Prom invited her to Senior Prom.) Plus this past weekend, we traveled to Pittsburgh to attend my daughter A's graduation from college--YAY! I'm a woman on the move these days.

Getting my daughter M ready for the prom was interesting. The two of us went to a local hair salon for her special 'do. She asked me to go with her to help explain what she wanted. It should have been an exciting time of preparation for a fun event. It was not. During the whole time we were there, the salon had the TV tuned in to an Oprah episode where she was talking to a young boy who had spent several years locked in a closet and was basically tortured by his family. Not likely to put you in a partying mood. Then, a male senior citizen walked by me and I noticed that he had money sticking out of his back pocket about to fall. I told him about it, he thanked me and stuck it in his front pocket, then wiggled his butt in my face and asked me if I saw anything else there I liked. I did not. Really, really not.

The prom was Friday night and on Monday, my husband, my daughter M, and I traveled to Florida to visit my oldest daughter J. J is an aerospace engineer who works on the space shuttle Endeavor. We originally made plans for the visit so we could watch the shuttle launch, but the launch was postponed. We can't go down then, so we decided to keep our plans and spend the week sightseeing in Florida. The day we arrived, J arranged for us to attend a private function where we met the astronauts who had just flown on Discovery's last mission. It was amazing to get to shake their hands, talk with them, and get pictures signed. I was humbled by the dedication and sacrifice these individuals make and was a little tongue-tied. My husband--not so much. He said, "Nice chucks," to one astronaut who was wearing sneakers and then told him to have a safe flight---despite the fact that they had just returned from their last flight ever. Oh, well. His isn't the only red face. I thanked an astronaut "for all you do" and he thanked me for all I do in return, thinking I was one of the employees who maintain the shuttle. Rather than hold up the line explaining that I didn't do anything other than raise a smart daughter who helps keep the shuttle functioning, I just smiled and stammered, "You're welcome."

We also spent several days at the beach. My youngest daughter M, who is seventeen and gorgeous, came back from the beach one afternoon and told me she'd felt uncomfortable tossing a football with her dad and sister since, as she put it, "Two hobos were staring at me." I laughed for a half hour, not at the sad plight of homeless men or the creepiness of them staring at my young daughter, but because all I could picture was two guys sitting on the beach in top hats with sticks thrown over their shoulders supporting a bandana full of their belongings as cigar stubs dangled from the corner of their mouths. I couldn't remember the last time I heard anyone use the word hobo and I told her so. The next day we visited the Ripley's Believe It Or Not Museum in St. Augustine and there was a plate made of cigar bands by, yup, hobos. And then we were watching a popular sitcom on TV and one of the songs had the word hobo in it. On one of the pages of the book I read that night was a sentence with hobo in it. I guess hobos are making a comeback. We should all take the wads of extra cash we have laying around and invest in companies that make bandanas. We'll make millions! Wouldn't it be odd if you avoided becoming a hobo by investing in supplies that hobos use?

This past weekend we were at A's graduation. We paid tens of thousands of dollars in four years of tuition so we could spend Sunday at a two hour ceremony in the morning where the speaker talked about himself and his accomplishments with barely a mention of the graduates, followed by a three hour ceremony in the afternoon where a twenty minute introduction of the speaker was followed by a half hour talk by the speaker about the speaker. I think someone thought they were at a political fundraising function instead of a graduation. All that was followed by a five hour car ride home. I lost all feeling from my neck to my knees, but my daughter A graduated Magna Cum Laude and is qualified to psychoanalyze me, which should be a full-time job. She now has the degree to answer the question Am I Crazy? and it only cost me sixty thousand dollars. Plus, by the time she hit puberty, she was telling everyone who would listen that I'm crazy, so I must be crazy to spend all that money to hear her reaffirm her beliefs. Or something like that.

I'm back home at last and my pets are punishing me for leaving them so often and for so long. The older dog just stares at me with baleful eyes if I call her or give her a command. The younger one is trying the helpless baby approach to getting attention and suddenly must be lifted up the stairs and onto the couch despite the fact that he has no problem doing it on his own when he thinks I'm not looking. The cats take turns climbing on me and sharpening their claws on my clothes and skin, giving each other a nod when it's time to trade places. This isn't just my guilt talking--there is an actual plan to punish me afoot. Speaking of afoot, M must be included in the punishment since one of the cats threw up on her bare foot last night. With a whole house and seven acres to throw up in, tell me that wasn't deliberate.

Life has slowed down to its normal craziness, so I'll try to post regularly again. I wouldn't want any of you to have to resort to coming up with elaborate plans to punish me the way my pets have. I can only take so many baleful stares and my clothes have so many claw holes that if you hold them in front of a light, you can see a whole galaxy of stars shining on the wall.

There's No Place Like Home

     So I had an interesting experience last weekend.

     Went to a regional writer's conference to meet up with some people, get some work critiqued, and have some quiet time to write (that means without cats or dogs between me and my laptop). The workshops were Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, but I drove up on Thursday and booked my room until Monday so I'd have time to work.

     The conference was being held at a historic inn located in a small country town. I chose not to stay in the main hotel since I knew it would be crowded and noisy and instead booked a new little cottage with a queen bed, full kitchen, and small living room. When I called to make the reservation, I asked if I would be able to get room service since I wanted to eat while I worked. I was told yes. The day before I left (Wednesday) the hotel called to confirm my reservation and again I asked about room service and was told it would be available.

     After a two hour drive, I arrived and went to the front desk to check in. As I was signing the forms, I read the small print and was bewildered to find that even though the inn charges extra for the rooms with the kitchens, they flat out tell you that you aren't allowed to use the kitchen. Huh? The form stated that even though the room contains a refrigerator, stove, oven, dishwasher, and microwave, they don't allow cooking and have provided no pans or utensils for use in the rooms. If you want to cook, you must make arrangements through them for a different room. So you lure customers in by offering a full kitchen and even charge them extra for it, and then when they show up, you tell them it's just for show? What's next--"There is also a king size bed in the room, but all sleeping must be done on the floor." "You'll find a toilet in the bathroom, but . . ." well, you get the point.

     I hadn't planned on cooking anyway and had just brought some basics to keep in the fridge--fruit, cheese, milk, etc., so I didn't make a big deal out of it. I moved my stuff into the room and got to work. Around seven p.m., I took a break and decided to order some soup and a salad from room service. I called the number and reached an answering machine. Room service was available until nine, so I was surprised that no one answered. I called the front desk and they said, "Oh, the restaurant is only open on weekends." Seriously? The two times that I asked about room service, they couldn't say, "Yes, we have it available, but only on the weekend," so I would be prepared? Now it's seven-thirty on a Thursday night and I have to drive around a strange town looking for food. I felt like a high school boy whose date rubbed up against him all night only to push him away when he tried for a kiss goodnight. The word "tease" comes to mind.

     The next morning, I took a shower before dressing for the first of my sessions. The owners of the inn had little notecards all around with environmental messages on them. Suspiciously, most of the messages might have helped the environment, but mainly seem to save money and work for the inn. I had to turn the water all the way up for it even to be lukewarm and then within five minutes, it was chilly. You know how important my Herbal Essence is to me, so I wasn't thrilled with rushing through my lather, rinse, repeat. I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my hair, then starting drying my body with another one. Ouch! These towels must have been recycled bamboo or reconstituted pine nuts or something because they would take the skin off an armadillo. I patted the spots that still had skin and got dressed in my writer's uniform--black dress pants, black books, and a black sweater. Now all I had to do was dry my hair, put on my makeup and I could face my fellow writers. I unwrapped the towel and rubbed my hair with it, then looked in the mirror. It was as though I had rolled on the floor of a cotton factory. I was covered in bits of towel. I'm not talking about your normal everyday lint. I have cats and dogs, so I'm used to pulling fur off myself. No, this was chunks of towel covering most of my sweater. A lamb would have had to explode to get this much fluff on me.

     I changed my sweater, finished getting ready and headed out. The conference part was good. I had fun talking with the other writers and there were some interesting talks. I met an agent who I think would be a good fit for my work and who seems to get me (I know, terrifying thought, right?).

     After my meetings, I stopped by the general store to see if there was anything I could take home for my husband and the daughter who still lives at home. I found a bronze bear that I thought my husband would like. Oh, brother, no price tag on it. I took it up to the cashier and asked for the price. She called to one of the male workers and told him to find another one with a price. He wandered around the store with the bear in his hand, but couldn't find one. He picked up a fairy and with a serious face said, "These weigh about the same, so just charge her $20 since that's the price on the fairy." Talk about time travel. I thought I was going to have to come up with some gold nuggets to throw on the scale to pay.

     I bought the bear and went back to my room to get to work. It was Saturday night, so I decided I would give room service another try and then put my nose to the writing grindstone. The cottage was with a group of buildings that were away from the main inn, but still within walking distance. The front desk had told me that I could park in what is usually the luggage drop-off zone because there wasn't anyone else staying over in those buildings. Since I was so isolated, I was surprised when there was a knock on my door that evening. I opened the door and found a six foot plus state trooper in full uniform. He said he was sorry to interrupt my vacation, but he was investigating a burglary in the building attached to mine from the night before and he wanted to know if I had heard anything. Say what?

     It seems that while I slept in my little cottage, a person or persons had broken into the room next to mine and had taken everything--sheets, pillows, blankets, the TV, the lamps, and yes, even the crappy towels. The trooper wanted to know if I had heard or seen anything suspicious. I told him that I hadn't as my knees shook and my mind tried to wrap itself around the fact that only a cheap hotel room door had stood between me and criminals. If they had thought those towels were worth stealing, how much would they have risked to get their hands on my laptop and other technology? Yikes!

     I gave the trooper my contact info, thanked him, then shut and locked the door. Fifteen minutes later, my bags were in the car and I was pulling out of the parking lot on my way home.

     Peace and quiet in a country setting is overrated. I would much rather be at home trying to type around the dog on my lap, a dog who will bark like his tail is on fire if anyone shows up here looking for crappy towels to steal. Hey, maybe I can leave the ones my sister made dingy on the back porch and the burglar will take them and leave.

     Two birds--one stone.

Who Can I Count On To Suck Out The Poison?

     Psychoanalysis-Stage Two.

     Some people have a natural confidence in themselves and wear it like a second skin. Others never find confidence no matter how great their achievements. I fall somewhere in between. Mine's more like a sunburn that peels easily. Or like the shell game you find on street corners-now you see it, now you don't, and even when you see it, it's not there for long. Definitely a sucker's bet.

     It was distinctly not there for most of my school years when I was too shy to peek out from behind my curtain of hair. In my junior year, I was chosen as a majorette. Not top tier popularity like the cheerleaders, but moving up the ladder just a bit. In my senior year, there was the combination of being head majorette and realizing this was it, I would probably never see most of these people again, so what did I have to lose? I stepped out of my shell a little and gained a thin layer of confidence.

     Then I left for college and a whole new life. It was a very small school, but these people hadn't been there for all my awkward years, hadn't seen my Cousin It impression, hadn't known my family, and hadn't had front row seats for every embarrassing puberty-driven humiliation life had dealt me. I could start fresh. And I did.

     I had great friends, I was in plays, I dated cute guys, and even when my confidence flickered, I had discovered the secret that most successful-people-manuals share with you--fake it. That's right-fake it. I became the queen of faking confidence and surviving faking it made me more confident.  I challenged myself all the time-- if nobody wanted to be the one to ask the cranky professor for more time to complete an assignment, I volunteered. Nobody wanted to approach the group of hot guys to find out where the best party was going to be--send me in. My knees would be shaking and my head would be spinning like a seat on the Tilt-a-Whirl at the town carnival, but I'd grit my teeth and do it.

     By the time I graduated from college, I was feeling pretty good about myself. I had a college degree, a guy who thought I was pretty special, lifelong friends, and my whole future ahead of me. The guy asked me to spend my life with him and everything was coming up roses. Besides, that was part of that brief period when my lumps and bumps were aligned like the stars.

     So when exactly did that layer of confidence start splitting like the skin on an overripe banana?

     Maybe it was when my future father-in-law told me to be sure my coal-cracker family wore shoes to the wedding so he wouldn't be embarrassed. I could be wrong, but I think IBM required that their executives, of which my father was one, wore shoes to work.

     Or perhaps it was when my future mother-in-law said she wouldn't come to the wedding if it was in my church because she wasn't going to sit through a "heathen" ritual (you know us Methodists are always beheading chickens and smearing the blood on our infants to appease the pagan gods).

      Could it have been in the middle of my bridesmaids' luncheon, when in front of everyone, my soon-to-be sister-in-law announced that no one in her family was happy about the wedding going forward (she could have just given me a toaster, but this was a nice gift, too).

     Or maybe it was the first ten Christmases or so when I arrived at their house with bags of carefully chosen gifts for all of them and left with bags of gifts for my husband and children, but not one item in there for me. I guess the Grinch took all mine up the mountain and they fell off his sleigh. (Oh, to live in Whoville where we can all join hands and enjoy the Roast Beast--Yahoo torres  . . . ) (Note to mother-in-law--Yahoo torres is a phrase from a Christmas cartoon, not a chant from one of our pagan rituals. That goes more like Ba boo zorres. Just want to make that clear.)

     These are just a few of thousands of examples, but this steady drumbeat of "You're not good enough, you're not smart enough, and gosh darn it, we just don't like you," was more than enough to break my thin shell of confidence. I responded by vowing to prove them wrong, but the more I tried to be what I thought they wanted, the less I was myself and the unhappier I grew. I don't remember what the straw was that broke the camel's back, but one day I realized that I didn't want to be like them, I didn't care what they thought, and being around them was like sprinkling arsenic on your salad, toxic and self-destructive.

     I couldn't cut them out of my life altogether because that wouldn't be fair to my husband and children. I do show up for the important functions a couple times a year and I never try to talk my husband out of going to as many of his family's get-togethers as he wants (well, except for the time I was only a week out of the hospital after major abdominal surgery and they insisted he leave me to participate in a family photo at their house). Sometimes my girls go with him, but most of the time they don't. They are smart girls and have witnessed things for themselves.

     At some point in the years after I stopped caring if they liked me, they started liking me. My in-laws went from "no gifts for you" to bidding on and winning a signed Joe Paterno football for me just because they knew he's my favorite coach. They call me for help and advice and actually respect my opinion. Sometimes, they even tell people we're related.

     What caused this change? I have no idea. It all happened around the time my first book was published, so maybe the move from hick/heathen/mutt to author was the turning point. Maybe it was because my kids turned out so well, despite their predictions to the contrary, or maybe it was because my marriage survived past all the dates in the betting pool estimating it's eventual failure ( I hear my mother and father-in-law put a crapload of money on six months). I don't know the reason why, but I do know it makes me very nervous.

     After all, what other creature does a rattlesnake cozy up to? Only a victim or another rattlesnake.

     Trying to figure out which one I am keeps me awake at night.

When Exactly Did I Move To Crazy Town?

     Last week was full of stinky bits---stress, sadness, exhaustion, and strangeness.

     But I haven't moved so far into crazy town that I don't realize that a lot of that was my own fault. I can complain about all the food I had to cook for my family (who I love, really I do), but who asked me to cook so much? Yeah, I had to feed people, but I could have pulled out the lunch meat or thrown hamburgers on the grill instead of trying to impress with crab-stuffed cod and homemade rolls. I spent hours on the music for the slideshow, but I could have just found a nice instrumental piece and made it work instead of searching for the ultimate funeral music. I could have just appreciated that my towels were clean and not cringed over the fact that they are now a different shade.

     Why do I obsess over making everything so perfect? I wasn't always this way. I used to be semi-normal (I know, hard to believe, isn't it?) So let's psychoanalyze my need for perfection. Hmmmm. This could take many, many blog posts, so let's start with just one possibility.

     Did it start with the "You could be so pretty if"'s my mom used to throw at me. You know the ones--"You could be so pretty if you'd only pull your hair off your face," or "You could be so pretty if you'd only dress nicer," which leaves you with the only possible deduction--I'm not so pretty now. I need to try harder, up my game.

     Moms aren't the only ones who use this phrase. Dads-guilty.  Boyfriends-guilty. Sisters, best friends, strangers in line at Dunkin' Donuts-guilty, guilty, guilty. Everybody thinks they have the magic secret to what's keeping you from being so pretty.

     I never got the you-could-be-so-pretty-if-you'd-only lose a few pounds, exercise more, stop eating, bleach your mustache, get highlights, have a nose-job, or change sexes, but I know people who did. I'm sure I've said a form of those dreaded words to my own daughters and shame on me. My daughters are beautiful as they are and they don't need to change a thing.

     Now that I'm a mom, I know that my mother wasn't trying to be cruel or make me feel bad--she just wanted me to be the best I could be and to her eyes, I wasn't using all my potential in the looks department. She was probably right. I probably would have been prettier without scraggly hair falling over my face, but I wasn't confident enough to believe that and the scraggly hair made me feel less vulnerable. It was my invisibility cloak. Of course, it didn't make me invisible, it just made me look like Cousin It from The Addams Family, but to my puberty-stricken mind, it was a place to hide.

     My ill-fitting clothes hid the body that was all strange lumps and bumps and odd angles. Once I hit seventeen and the bumps moved to the right areas, I no longer hid them in baggy shirts and pants. I had a few good years of showing off those bumps until I had four children and now I'm wearing anything that would camouflage an army tank in battle.

     I see young women now who throw on a hoodie and a pair of wrinkled sweats, finger comb their hair, and they are out the door. I want to run up to them screaming, "You are wasting the very small window of attractiveness you have been given. Do you think anyone is going to want to see you in a tank top in ten years? You're past the gangly stage and headed straight for the even my wrinkles have wrinkles stage! Strut it while you've got it, girl!" But of course I don't because that would be crazy and wrong. So wrong. So very wrong.

     My mom passed in 1991 and I loved her dearly. She was my biggest fan and for some reason, she thought I should be a movie star. She started telling me that when I was just a little girl and continued until I got married and had kids. I guess she gave up on the idea at that point.

     I have no idea why she thought I would make a good movie star. I think maybe it was because I liked Shirley Temple movies and I had curly hair ( I couldn't dance or sing and I didn't have the skills to be an ambassador, but she didn't let that get in the way). I had never shown any interest in acting or performing, I had never shown any skill for it either. I didn't have some mysterious "it factor" that drew people in. I was just a shy, awkward little blonde kid whose mother had big dreams. 

     She even talked me into signing up for a drama class in college by convincing me I could work behind the scenes. I did it to make her happy and then on the first day, I found out everyone in the class had to audition for the plays. What? I just wanted to paint scenery and get a free ticket to the show. I did the audition and won the role of one of the main characters. Life can be so cruel sometimes. 

     I went on to enjoy acting and to have roles in a bunch more plays during college and even had a role in a TV commercial, but I never tried to be a movie star. That was her dream for me, not mine. I can admit though, that if she hadn't seen something in me that I didn't, I would never have signed up for drama class and had the experiences that I had. So I guess her gentle little nudges didn't make me psychotic, just less shy and less hairy. 

     In my next post, I'll explore Possibility #2 in the search for the reason I can't say, "Make yourself a sandwich. If you need me, I'll be taking a nap." 

     

     

      

    

    

I Wanted To Burn The Sheets, But My Husband Says Burn The Bed

     In my last post, I promised to tell you what my family was inflicting on me during the time I was creating the memorial slideshow for my husband's aunt. You'd better grab a drink--this is going to be a long one.

     My husband's uncle left us a property in the beautiful mountains of Northeast Pennsylvania and last year, we decided to build a loghouse on it. The plan is to share it with family and friends now, and then retire there in the future. It's about three hours away from where I live now, but only an hour from my hometown, where a lot of my family still lives, so it works out well as a meeting place. The loghouse turned out nicely and is used by family or friends almost every weekend.

     A niece that I haven't seen in years was going to be visiting the area with her son and new baby so my sister asked if we could all meet at the loghouse for a few days. It was going to be my sister, her husband, her two daughters, her son, the new baby along with his older brother, the baby's father, and then my husband and me. Ten people in all or nine and a half since the baby is only a few months old.

     My sister said she would do all the shopping and cooking since this was basically eighty percent her family, but then two days before the gathering, she called to say that she wasn't feeling well and didn't have a chance to shop. She said she would bring deli meat and rolls for lunches, but left the rest up to me. Meals for ten people for three days--no problem.

     I told my sister that I would be arriving on Monday to clean up from the seven adults and seventeen kids who had used the house over the weekend and I would see all of them on Tuesday. No, my sister insisted she wanted to come Monday night. I told her I had to wash sheets and towels and clean and she said she would help. I tried in vain to talk her out of coming Monday so I could have one evening of peace before the crowd arrived. I even called her Monday afternoon to tell her I was just finishing up my errands and hadn't even left town yet so wouldn't be at the loghouse until nine or ten. She said she was already packed up and in the car, ready to go, and would wait for me there. She told me that she would get started on the laundry and I said, "Please don't. I'm anal about the towels because we've had so many pretty ones ruined by being thrown in with dark colors and now they are dingy looking. I'll do them when I get there." (This mostly happened when men "helped" by throwing laundry in the machine. I don't want to stereotype, but the men I associate with have an allergic reaction to sorting dirty laundry. If it can be crammed into the washer with the handle of a broom, it's going in with the rest.)

     I arrived after a three hour drive accompanied by one dog who tries to jump into the front seat every couple of miles and another one who whines for the windows to be down for the entire drive, in 30 degree weather, and gets so upset if they aren't that he vomits. I honestly think the one is trying to get in the front seat to get away from the other one.

     Anyway, after I unpacked and put the food away, my sister's teenage grandson, who had come with her, asked, "Is it okay if I have a snack or will we be having dinner soon?" Excuse me? It's nine-thirty at night, you left your house after six, so why are you waiting for me to cook you dinner? Also, you've been sitting here for two hours with lunch meat and rolls--can you not make a sandwich? My sister, her husband, and her grandson just stood there waiting for me to answer. I took a deep breath and not wanting to start the visit on a bad note, said, "I have some chicken and steak. I could make fajitas." And so I did.

     We ate at about ten o'clock and while I was cleaning up the kitchen afterwards, my sister disappeared for a few minutes. She came back and said, "Well, they probably aren't folded the way you like, but at least they're clean." I asked, "What are you talking about?" She said, "The towels. I washed them for you." I asked, "Did you do the light blue ones or the dark brown ones?" and she answered, "Both. I threw them in together." I was picturing the dinginess spreading over my lovely towels when she added, "There is some sort of red stain all over the light blue ones that didn't come out in the wash." Sure enough, when I checked them, there was red all over them that was now permanently baked in by putting them in the dryer. Why, oh, why couldn't she have helped by cleaning the toilets instead? That would have earned her a hug.

     The rest of the guests arrived the next day and I spent the afternoon cooking a large pan of beef, 5 lbs of cod topped with crab stuffing, two strawberry trifles, homemade rolls, fresh green beans, baked potatoes, and rice. We had a nice dinner and I estimated there were enough leftovers that I wouldn't have to cook the next day.

     Once the kitchen was clean, we all found seats in the great-room and settled in to chat. Like I said, I haven't seen my niece in a few years. She lives down south now and although we share news on Facebook and through emails, we haven't really talked in awhile.

     She told us she is crunchy and most of her friends are as well.

     Now, I learned back in college that if you don't know what a word means, you just smile, nod your head, and pretend you do and then look it up later. I learned this the hard way when I had no idea what ninety percent of the punchlines to jokes meant and I thought "papers" meant the kind with the news in them. I was teased unmercifully for my small-town naivete and learned to hide the fact that I had no idea what was being discussed. Now I just fake it and try to figure it out from the context in which the word is used.

     She went on to say that she showers only once a week and never uses shampoo or soap.

     Well, I thought, no wonder she's crunchy. She's probably crusty, too.

     Turns out that "crunchy" in slang means she has adjusted her lifestyle for environmental reasons. Oh. Then not referring to food and body fluids trapped on unwashed skin. Got it.

     You have to understand that last year, I had emergency surgery after three days in the hospital with severe abdominal pain and woke up in intensive care because I had the beginning stages of sepsis. The first thing I asked the intensive care nurse was, "Can I get a shower?" She said, "No. You've just had major surgery, you have a catheter, you're hooked up to IV, and you have a tube running up your nose and down into your stomach. You cannot get a shower." A few hours later, they took out the catheter and I pleaded, "Can I get one now? It's been days!" The nurse finally agreed to let me give myself a sponge-bath in the little sink in the room, under her supervision. She brought me a washcloth, towel, and one of those little kits with body wash, shampoo, conditioner, and a toothbrush. She watched to make sure I was steady on my feet while I wiped my face and body clean. Satisfied that I wasn't going to fall over, she left the room and I stuck my head under that  little faucet and washed my hair. It felt wonderful! My incision hurt and I was exhausted when I was finished, but my head was no longer itchy. She came back into the room to find me combing my freshly washed locks. She shook her head and said, "I think you can leave Intensive Care now."

     So if I am willing to do all that to have clean hair, you can imagine how hard it is for me to fathom someone willingly not using shampoo on her waist-length hair. She said if it feels greasy, she sprinkles some baking soda in it and combs it out. I remember people doing that as an emergency measure when they didn't have time to shampoo, but never as a total replacement for shampoo. As she was telling us this, my scalp starting itching in sympathy for hers.

     I recycle. I care about the environment. But please don't ask me to give up my Herbal Essence. I'll fight you to the death.

     I understand that different cultures have different hygiene habits. Heck, I watched the movie "Babies" and almost lost consciousness when that mother wiped her child's poop off on her own leg. Maybe if I had been raised somewhere else, I would think it was crazy to shower every day or every other day. But that's what I've been doing for fifty years and that's about all I can stand of my own filth.

     My niece also doesn't use disposable diapers. I understand that. Her mother asked her why she had such a large bag of dirty cloth diapers and she said she was staying with friends and didn't feel right about asking them to introduce urine and feces into their washing machine, so she brought them to my house so I could have the pleasure instead.

     My husband has this habit when someone says something that bothers him or grosses him out. He will go from slouching to sitting straight up and his eyes get really wide. You almost expect steam to shoot from his ears like it did from Harry Potter's when he ate the candy. Well, I was trying to keep a poker face as she was telling us this (not my strong suit) and my husband shot so straight up that his head was almost brushing the ceiling and his eyes were wide open and staring at me for a reaction. I avoided making eye contact with him until the conversation moved to another topic, but fifteen minutes into the new conversation, he was still ramrod straight and bug-eyed.

     I locked myself in my office the next morning and when I came out, Herbie told me that he had made them waffles and eggs, but they had also brought out the leftovers from the night before and mostly polished them off, including the beef that I didn't think crunchies would eat. I spent the afternoon cooking again-three whole chickens, 4 lbs of salmon, two applesauce cakes, and new batches of rolls, potatoes, rice, and green beans. How is this "sustainable" eating? No one could sustain this!

     My husband's second piece of bad news that morning had been that his aunt had passed away. So in between hosting family and cooking another big dinner, I was working on the slideshow and searching for the perfect song that no one would end up hearing.

      The next day, when I had finished cleaning the house and packing everything up for the three hour drive home, I gave my sister a hug goodbye. She hugged me back and said, "You should take better care of yourself. You look exhausted."

     Gee, ya think?

    

    

    

It Must Have Smelled Like He Was Dancing With Shamu

     There is a sucker born every minute and when I was born, they probably said, "That one counts as two."

     I've had some unique encounters in the past two weeks that I thought I would share with you.

     It all started two weeks ago when one of my sisters-in-law asked me to make a slide show for the family of an aunt who was in hospice care. Unfortunately, the doctors had done all they could for the aunt and the family was making funeral preparations. They wanted a ten minute slide show for the funeral luncheon, a twenty minute one to show people who stopped by the house, and a thousand slide presentation for each family member as a keepsake.

     Two weeks ago was before I made my pledge to start saying "No" when asked for favors. I probably would have still said no since this sister-in law is one of the worst for only calling when in need, but she was calling on behalf of a cousin who has been not only a good relative, but also a great friend, so I was happy to do it for him and his siblings.

     They had scanned the slides, but hadn't put them in any order, so I had to guess at the chronological placement. They had songs they liked, but only knew where to find them on youtube, not for purchase. They had artists they liked, but left it up to me to pick which songs (not a responsibility I wanted for someone else's funeral).

     I put together the ten minute show, spent a couple hours finding places to buy the particular songs they requested, then a couple more hours adding transitions, putting together a final slide with an appropriate quote, and getting it all to end at the precise same second. The cousin who was approving my work isn't tech savvy at all and she lives a couple hours away, so I uploaded the video to my youtube channel (which I only have to support other people's videos) and sent her the link. I figured she would watch it, tell me what she wanted changed and then I would take it down. Since I don't have anything else on the page, the chances that anyone else would see it were minimal.

     She watched it, liked it, and didn't want anything changed. I went to work on the twenty minute one and forgot about taking the one off youtube. A couple of days later, I got an email saying that a comment had been left on my channel. I checked and someone had left a "Woo hoo!" under the memorial tribute. Not only that, but there had been sixty-nine views. Huh?

     When I asked around, I found out that the cousin I sent the link to had forwarded it to her siblings to get their input and some of them had pasted it to their Facebook pages. A memorial video for their mother who hadn't passed away yet. Again-huh?

     Unfortunately, a week later, their mother did pass, and I was contacted because they decided they weren't comfortable with the second song. They wanted something else, but didn't know what, and could I pick something and change it. Seriously? Raise your hand if you want to be responsible for picking a song for someone else's mother's funeral with zero guidance as to why the last song wasn't what they wanted? Anyone? Anyone?

     After many hours of searching and stressing, I picked an instrumental of "Time To Say Goodbye" that was lovely. I had to spend more hours fitting it in to the video since it wasn't the same length as the original song, but I finished it late the night before the funeral.

     Herbie and I attended the funeral the next day. At the luncheon, we sat at a table with seven members of his family. It was a sad day and especially hard to watch the family saying goodbye to their mother and grandmother, but there were distractions to take our mind off the grief.

     One of Herbie's brothers ate his whole salad with his hands even though there were three forks next to his plate. His wife refused to eat anything, just allowing the waitstaff to put it in front of her and then take it away again untouched. She never eats at public places unless there are five stars next to the restaurant's name, but she never tells the waitstaff no thank you either. She just lets them serve it and then throw it away. Mind-boggling. Two others were displeased with the chicken entree the family had decided to serve and told the server to bring them a pasta dish instead. They aren't vegetarians. They just wanted something better than the chicken dish. Did I accidentally stumble into a food tasting instead of a funeral luncheon?

     The fussy eater spent the whole luncheon trying to get the manager to come to the table because the server had dripped a couple of drops of something on her scarf. I'm not sure if she was trying to get a new scarf or just dry-cleaning out of the deal. I had to look away. I once went to a fancy dinner/dance with my hair in an up-do and wearing a black lace gown. Someone bumped the waiter and a full plate of flounder stuffed with crabmeat fell on my head. I smelled like the docks for the rest of the night, and had clumps of fish peeking out of the lace, but I never asked for something free in exchange. Accidents happen and I don't want some poor waiter or waitress getting fired or docked pay over something so insignificant. Besides, it's hard to share it as a funny story later on if the punchline is, "And so they fired the guy."

     But my favorite was the sister-in-law at our table who made the original request for me to do the slideshow. She spent ten minutes telling me what religious shrines to visit on an upcoming trip, where to attend Mass, where to find the second largest collection of religious relics, etc. and then asked her niece to pass her the salad sitting at the empty seat next to me. Not, "Does anyone else want that salad?" but "Hand me that salad." I commented that more people had shown up than the family expected and people were still trying to find seats, so maybe we should leave the salad until we knew if someone was going to be sitting there for the meal. To which she displayed her holiness by answering, "Well, if someone comes, we'll just tell them there wasn't any salad." And she ate it. But she said grace first, so it's all good.

     Once everyone had finished eating, family members of the deceased got up and said a few words and then it was time for the part I was dreading--the slideshow. What if they hated the song I'd chosen? What if it had some meaning for them that I wasn't aware of and it made things worse? All those hours I'd spent agonizing over finding the perfect song and fitting it into the show and they could hate it!

     Not to worry. They forgot to turn the volume up and no one heard a note of the songs I'd spent so much time working into the memorial. I wasn't going to leap from my seat like a Hollywood director and yell, "CUT! Start the pictures of the deceased over again and this time cue the sentimental music!" I just quietly gathered my things and slipped out the door.

     Experiencing that is going to make it so much easier to keep my vow to say no when asked for favors. I'll just make myself remember sitting in front of my laptop at four a.m. listening to the Itunes hotlist for funerals, desperate to find the right song.

     In my next post, I'll tell you what was going on with my side of the family in the middle of all this. As one of my daughters says, "I see this stuff, and I still don't believe it."

  

"Sure, I'll Take A Cookie, But Could I Please Have The Dog Spit On The Side? Thanks!"

     I've been accused of being a germaphobe and I guess that's probably pretty much on target. I don't like germs. I wash my hands so often that they are usually red and crackly. I don't have to use a new bar of soap every time I wash them like Jack Nicholson in "As Good As It Gets" but I do prefer bars that don't have hairs curled around them. I'm funny that way.

     I don't like to share drinks or silverware with people, although I'll gladly pour you your own glass or give you something off my plate. I just find it hard to work up a good thirst when handed a bottle or cup with five other people's backwash in it. I'm funny that way, too. Even as a child on a family trip, I would rather go without than drink from the communal cup. I took a lot of teasing for that.

     When I'm cooking, I use a clean spoon to scoop a taste out of the pot and then throw the spoon in the sink. I don't take tastes from the spoon I'm stirring the food with and then add my saliva back into the pot like it's a required ingredient. Requests that others do the same while in my kitchen sampling my cooking have been met with eye-rolls and derision. I can live with that easier than I can live with your germs swimming in my stew.

     I know I take germ avoidance farther than most of the people with whom I associate, but what boggles me is how many rules for cleanliness I think are elementary but other people find ridiculously overzealous. I'll share with you a couple of examples I witnessed recently:

     Rule 1.)  Don't take the cloth I wash dishes with and use it to wipe your two-year-old's nose, then turn and wipe down my counter with it. When I questioned the logic of this, I was surprised to find that other people don't mind a few toddler boogies mixed in with their main course and my objections were misplaced. Who knew?

     Rule 2.)  When you're in your own home, touch anything you want with anything you want, but when you are at a public event, sitting at a table with other diners, and you want more ice in your water, don't stick your hand in the pitcher on the table and scoop a few out with your fingers. Apparently, you know where your fingers have been, but I don't, and to be honest, I don't want to know. I also now don't want any water from that pitcher.

     Rule 3.)  If you are going to be an angel and help unload my dishwasher, please wash your hands. I appreciate the assistance, really I do, but if I've just watched you change your baby's diaper or scratch my dog's belly, anything you put away is going right back into the dishwasher the moment you aren't looking. I love your baby and I love my dog, but I don't want to lick either one.

     Rule 4.)  Turning on the water and wiggling the tips of your fingers under it for ten seconds is not washing your hands. This does not scare the germs between your fingers and on your palms into jumping off into the sink.

     Rule 5.)  The trash can is for holding trash. It has held poopy diapers, dog vomit, used tissues, moldy food, and a myriad of other substances that have been put there precisely because they are garbage. Please don't use the trash can as a place to rest my pillow while you change the sheets, or move food items from the counter onto the trash can to get them out of the way. As much as I enjoy falling asleep with the smell of garbage nestled against my cheek, I can't help but wonder if it's a good idea.

     Rule 6.)  If you are eating a meal in my house and I've inadvertently neglected to put a serving spoon into one of the dishes, please ask for one instead of thrusting your hand into the salad to grab your helping, shaking off the bits you don't want. Nobody else wants those bits now either.

     Now that you know some of my basic rules, you can see that I'm definitely a headcase. These are all real life examples that I witnessed and in most cases, said nothing since I didn't want to make anyone uncomfortable. I'm not a total and complete germaphobe. If I was, my house would be cleaner, and I definitely wouldn't have all the pets I have, especially the two dogs who have never met a stink they didn't want to roll in, yet sleep next to me on my bed. They probably smell worse than the pillow that sat on the garbage can.

     I've totally ruined my husband. I took a man who used to buy lunch from the back of the food vendors' trucks in the city and gobble down the sandwiches with his grimy fingerprints visible on the bread, and turned him into a man who carries wet wipes in his truck and knows how to use Purell! He even regals me with tales of the gross things his co-workers on the construction sites do, things he wouldn't have even noticed ten years ago and probably was doing himself. It took about a decade, but I've dragged him to the dark side, the side where food dropped on the ground must be thrown away even if it only lay there for three seconds and where pocket lint is no longer a garnish.

     My germaphobe world is a mostly quiet world. I have converted my husband and made some progress with my daughters, but it's hard to tactfully tell people outside your immediate family that you find what they just did disgusting. I usually try to find a way to rectify the situation--wipe it down with Lysol when you turn your back or discreetly empty it in the trash and make a fresh batch--but if I can't, I just say, "No, thanks," when you offer me soup that I saw your forehead sweat drip into or pass me a cookie with the same hand your pitbull just licked.

     I know I'm not alone in my world. There are other silent freaks like me out there bypassing the end of the buffet that a fellow guest just sneezed on and awkwardly waving instead of shaking the hand of the guy you just witnessed leaving the bathroom without stopping at the sink.

     Those of us who yearn for basic standards of cleanliness in our everyday lives need to unite, to form an alliance, to reach out to each other.

     Well, please don't literally reach out to me. I have no idea where your hands have been either.