Random Thoughts On A Lovely Tuesday...

Roseanne Barr woke me up this morning. She'd invaded my dreams with both her fat and frumpy, and skinnier,surgically altered versions. For whatever reason, I was in her sitcom playing with finger puppets.
I blame it on the spicy meatballs we had  for dinner last night.

I'm about this close to kicking the finely formed ass of my 20-something neighbor across the street. We live on a narrow alley way, and he keeps insisting on parking illegally on the curb, making it almost impossible for me to get out of my garage each morning. I will either key the side of his truck or call the police.

Why does my husband keep up his relentless complaining about the most lame ass issues?
"WHY???Why do we have so many boxes of lemon jello mix?" He bitched and moaned the other night. "Wwhhhyyyy...?"
"I don't know." I said. "Why is the downstairs toilet still refusing to flush properly after I've asked to have it fixed for six months? Why do I still not have a door on my bathroom after fourteen years? Why do you refuse to join the rest of the twenty-first century and get a cell phone so I can reach you during an emergency?"
I don't think I'll be hearing about my surplus lemon jello supply anytime soon...

When my teenage daughter started high school, I bought her a cell phone for safety issues. She wanted to upgrade to a Blackberry for status issues and I refused. One day she presented me with a huge wad of cash, babysitting and birthday money she'd saved. It covered the cost of the phone and the year of service to go along with it. It's a good thing she sprang for the unlimited texting. More than 21,000 texts on the latest bill. The child is developing over-sized thumbs and I fear arthritis is in her future.
But still, it's nice to get a text message every now and then stating, Hey Mom, I Luv U.

A Year Or Two From Now, I'm Sure We'll All Have A Good Laugh...

I swear to God, this whole driver's ed thing is going to kill me. I will die of a stroke, or a massive heart attack, but before my little darling gets her official license, something will kill me.
On the suggestion of her instructor, we hit the hilly back roads of suburbia today. Teenzilla needs practice on how to maintain speed behind the wheel.
"You're biggest problem is that you live in the city," said her driving teacher. "Too much stop and go, too many traffic lights. You need to get her on the open road."
"You need to get me a prescription for Valium," I said.
The male parental unit in this whole scenario is doing just fine, thank you. That's because he hasn't taken the child out once to sharpen her driving skills. He figures one shotgun riding parent is enough, apparently. But he tries to offer his own bizarre shot at support.
"You really should thank your mom for helping you learn to drive," he recently told the child. "She's putting her life on the line every time she goes out with you."
Yep, this truly makes me feel so much better...
So, we hit the country roads thinking it would be so much more relaxing than dealing with those crazy city drivers. Not really. Out in the burbs, pretty hills and all, the posted speed limit signs are merely a suggestion. My poor kid followed the rules and became the magnet for every rude horse's ass sharing the road with her. We had one guy who followed us for about a mile or so, right on our tail, because there was no place where he could pass us. At a stop sign, my daughter came to a full and complete stop, as she'd learned in class, and in the rear view mirror could see the idiot saluting her with a variety of lovely hand gestures and single digit salutes.
First of all, my daughter may be inexperienced, but she's totally at ease behind the wheel. And while she is a safe and conscientious student driver, she also thinks she knows everything there is to know about driving, which of course, scares the hell out of me. She's been driving since the end of January, for crying out loud, so why wouldn't she know everything?!
And as I've repeatedly told her, it's really not her driving that leaves my heart wedged in my esophagus, it's the other crazies on the road.

Maybe I Should Just Leave God's Creatures Alone

When I was twelve years old I contracted the chicken pox and like a good big sister, passed it along to my two younger brothers. After a week trapped in the house with three bored children (oozy, crusty, and plain revolting in appearance) mom opted to bypass the local bar and instead, drove herself to the nearest shopping center and found a pet store.
She returned with a pregnant mouse on the verge of delivering tiny offspring.
"Kids, very soon, you will witness the beauty of childbirth," she said. "You will never forget this experience."
Mom was right, we didn't.
Mere hours after bringing home the glass aquarium containing the furry little mom-to-be, we sat with our mother and watched the labor and delivery process. Mama mouse gave birth to ten of the ugliest babies I'd ever seen; hairless, gray, and blind, they were about the size of garden grubs.
"What happens now?" asked my youngest brother. "Are they hungry?"
"Wait and see," said Mom. "Nature has a way of taking care of everything. The mother will do everything by instinct."
It's been thirty-eight years, but what happened next still haunts my dreams to this very day. I can still hear the shrill screams of my brother.
"MOM! MOM! SHE'S KILLING HER BABIES!"
It was infanticide, plain and simple. The tiny, wormlike creatures never stood a chance.
My frantic mother called the pet store and was told in times of stress or fear, mother mice will sometimes kill and eat their young.
It would have been nice if someone had mentioned  that before she left the store.

But I'm getting off track...
Let's fast forward to present day Tamara world.
Several weeks ago,  I noticed lots of birds hanging out on my deck; doves, little red-headed finch like creatures, starlings, blackbirds, etc.
My first mistake was buying the birdseed and the birdfeeder. Remember that Fabrege Organic shampoo commerical from years and years ago? I told two friends, and they told two friends, and so on, and so on, and so on...
That's how it rolls in the bird world. I looked out on my deck one day and it was like an avian convention. Birds and bird poop everywhere.
And then the doves decided they not only wanted to eat from the birdfeeder, they wanted to live in the birdfeeder! The weight from their round bodies actually tilted the base of the feeder off kilter, thrilling the other birds because all of the birdseed spilled over onto the deck. Fortunately, some massive winds blew through last week, sweeping the birdfeeder off the deck and onto my neighbor's roof.
I thought this would be the end of my feathered buddies. No food, no reason to show up anymore...no more bird poop.
They won't leave. However, I've gained an ally who may convince them to find a new deck...a hawk. He/she is an absolutely regal creature, about a foot and a half in height, and apparently new to the neighborhood.
So far, no casualties, but the doves better watch their backs...

Urban Annoyances

I was a child of the suburbs but since 1987 have been a city dweller, living close to my port town's quirky downtown area. It has its pros and cons.
For example, this morning on her Facebook page, one of my friends, another city resident, used her status update to vent frustrations over the idiots who ate chicken wings and used her street as a trash can, and for even further insult, someone threw up in her planter.
Oh sure, it may not sound like the end of the world, but for those of use who rehabbed old, dilapidated rowhouses and other buildings, and turned them into our homes, it's insulting. I hate pointing fingers, but it's rarely middle-aged adults pulling these types of antics. My particular neighborhood has a reputation for heavy booze-related activity since the late 1600's. It was trawling grounds for drunken sailors, privateers, and women of questionable character.
It hasn't changed much over the years.

Whenever I complain, my suburbanite friends say I should have known. And you know what, I fully understand that living in the big city comes along with its own special brand of headaches. Petty crime, lack of parking, trash, rats. The list is endless. Our mayor is ready to cut hundreds of people from the police and fire departments, and people are very upset.
What it comes down to is that you have to pick your battles.

My house is located on a small alley street, not far from a bakery complex. The employees who work in the baking and packaging portion of the company have to wear paper hair nets. Several walk to work, and use my street as a bypass, which is fine. Using my street as a trash can to dispose of the hairnets, not so fine. There's a trash receptacle located at the top of the street, they walk right by it.
So now I collect the hairnets and save them in a plastic bag. At the end of each week, I take them to the bakery's head office and hand them to the human resource director. We're now on a first name basis.
And each and every time I make a delivery she says to me, "I am so sorry. I'll talk to them."
But there's only so much she can do, there's no way I could ever confirm who is to blame. Just a part of city living.
Sure beats the time I found three guys dressed as Superman peeing on my garage door at Halloween.

Another Week, Another Chance For An Aneurysm-Inducing Headache

I managed to avoid anything and everything sports or health related this weekend. No March Madness for me. No updates on healthcare. I avoided t.v and radio news reports like painful rectal itch, and instead enjoyed the sunshine and warm weather.
College basketball really doesn't interest me, too loud and confusing...all those brackets. I don't get it.
The health debate, who knows? I'm from the mindset that no matter who is in office, I'll always get screwed. As long as I keep my expectations low, I'm never disappointed. It's the strife from both sides regarding healthcare that gives me a headache and makes my stomach churn. I have friends both liberal and conservative and I simply will not get tangled up in a debate with them. I change the subject or leave the room. Not gonna do it, sorry.
The only thing I'll say about politics is that it's a land that I don't understand. So much self-interest, so much hot air blowing to the left and right.
I have always, always, always taken care of myself. I've had a job since the age of fourteen, and I've been voting since the age of eighteen. Not once, in all of my voting years, can I honestly say there has been one candidate who has inspired me to be a better human being. I have been my only motivator. When I lost a long-term job several years ago, I took a retail position to keep myself busy and started doing some freelance writing. It took about a year, but I finally landed a job, a "real" job, in the career I loved, and still do.
But I'm getting off track. I don't want this to turn political. There's enough division not only in my life, but among my friends and family, and across the United States, and the world, and who knows...perhaps the galaxy!
Right now I'm tired of hearing from tea baggers, tree huggers, whatever. Right now, a tiny island where I can catch a break from the human race sounds fantastic.
But in this country I still believe, no matter our political leanings (or lack thereof, in my case), there are issues  we all agree on, that pull us together as a people.
My deepest thanks to John Edwards, Rielle Hunter, Tiger Woods, and Jesse James(Mr. Sandra Bullock).

As A Matter Of Fact, I Don't Want To Know

Here's a suggestion to all of my well-meaning relatives and friends: When I tell you I've scheduled a colonoscopy, please do not regale me with tales of every person you know who had their colons perforated during the procedure.
Over the past six years, I've had two colonoscopies, both problem free, thank you very much. Aside from the grueling prep the night before, once the twilight-sleep was administered, I didn't feel a thing. And the best part, my colon was (and still is, hopefully) cancer and polyp free. My maternal grandmother and uncle both had colon cancer so I don't take any chances. A healthy colon is a happy colon.
As suggested by my doctor, now that I'm over fifty and because of the family history, I get a colonoscopy every five years. Why do the people in my life insist on delving headfirst into the annals of alledged medical mishaps? They share stories of their great aunt's daughter's next door neighbor who had their first colonoscopy ever and ended up in the intensive care unit after the doctor sneezed, twitched, passed out, or just plain screwed up a routine health screening.
I don't want to hear it, but that doesn't stop them.
"Oh wow, you're getting a colonoscopy?" my neighbor asked. "My co-worker had one last month and her husband had to rush her to the emergency room. She almost died."
"Really? Well thanks for sharing," I said. "I'm sure it was a fluke."
First of all, as reasonable people, we should all understand that simply getting up and out of bed each morning comes along with risks. Nothing is risk free, not even a colonoscopy, but the odds are usually in the favor of the person on the table with a probe up their tushy.
I have no proof, but it wouldn't shock me if the female contingency who share this information do the same with new moms-to-be, dredging up every delivery room horror story from the past several centuries and reciting it like a Shakespeare soliloquy. Who doesn't want to hear about potential tragedy and botched episiotomies days before giving birth?
The other day, a card from my doctor was in the mail, reminding me it was time for another colonoscopy.
I'll tell everyone about it when it's OVER!

If You Don't Want My Opinion, Don't Ask

After my first marriage failed, in my early twenties, I moved back home with my parents for a spell, a sadder but wiser woman.
As I worked to get my life together, it became very apparent that my mom and dad were dealing with their own marital issues. Nothing scandalous, no infidelities or domestic abuse. My dad's business was sinking fast and he was frantic to find ways to avoid bankruptcy. My father was grouchy and short-tempered and vented his frustrations on my poor mom. It took a toll on their marriage.
For whatever reason, my mother asked me if I would talk to my father, act as a quasi-relationship counselor.
He was neither moved nor impresed.
"You of all people have no business giving anyone marriage advice," he said.
He had a point. He was the man who had forked over thousands and thousands of dollars to pay for my wedded bliss, a fiasco that lasted two years.
I decided from that point on, I would never again give unsolicited advice. However, the solicited advice would still prove to be my undoing.
Here's an ongoing example or two:
I have a friend...let's call her Sally. Sally is a lovely human being, a gifted artist with a lovely laugh. She's also about 100 pounds overweight and aside from talking about the need to lose weight, she's never made the effort to actually do so. But everytime we get together, she never fails to ask me:
"Do you think I'm fat?"
Typically, I would avoid answering this question like I'd avoid a rectal exam (relax, I get one every time I see my OB/GYN) but at some point I decided why not be honest.
Sally: "Do you think I'm fat?"
Me: "You know, for your own health and well-being, and the fact that I want you around for a long time, yes...I think you need to lose some weight."
Sally:"Hmm, I really don't think I'm that bad."
I could only watch in awe as she sat back and continued to shovel the spaghetti carbonara into her mouth.
Now when she asks, I merely reply: "You're perfect, I wouldn't change a thing."

And then there's "Lola." When the whole online dating scene first emerged, Lola was one of the trailblazers. Talk about being a kid in a candy store, her dating calender was booked for weeks. I was happy for her, of course, but a little sad because my own time with her was so limited. I missed our regular afternoon happy hours which typically segued into the dinner hours. But I was remarried by then with a child, and I wanted to see my friend end up with a nice guy even though the computerized matchups seemed a bit dubious in my mind. But what did I know?
One day, while she was several months into her quest for love, Lola came over for coffee, a little down and not her usual spunky self.
"Am I doing something wrong," she asked. "I can't get more than one or two dates out of any of the men I've met."
Despite the apprehension I felt churning in my lower bowels, I went ahead like an idiot and blurted,"tell me about a typical date."
"Well, I usually meet them for a drink or dinner. I've gone to a movie with a couple of them, and then usually we end up back at my place and...you know."
NO! NO! NO! I didn't want to know. I didn't want to dispense advice.  Was she the one woman in the world who was denied the maternal "why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free" speech?

And now, let's move on to today. I made the mistake of checking my voice mail. It was "Gladys."
"Should I get a facelift? Call me when you get a chance."

I'm opening a bottle of chardonnay and calling it a day.