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).
Monday, March 22, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
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!
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!
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
How Hard Can It Be, Really?
I've lived in the Baltimore area since 1987. In twenty-three years, I've been trying to make it to the annual Philadelphia flower show. Hopefully, this is the weekend I finally attend.
I'm not far at all from Philly, less than two hours. It's a pretty easy drive up I-95, even more enjoyable by train.
And yet, each and every year, despite my best efforts, I've yet to see one petal at what is hailed as perhaps one of the best floral extravaganas in the United States.
Seriously...how hard is it really to plan a stupid day trip.
This weekend, my daughter heads to the beach with friends(a trip that took her all of ten minutes to plan,by the way)and the other adult unit in the household likes to be left to his own devices, so I really have no excuses.
This has been a truly brutal winter and a few hours lost in the bliss of flowers should provide me with some hope of the upcoming spring.
Wish me luck. Now all I have to do is decide whether to go by car or train.
I'm not far at all from Philly, less than two hours. It's a pretty easy drive up I-95, even more enjoyable by train.
And yet, each and every year, despite my best efforts, I've yet to see one petal at what is hailed as perhaps one of the best floral extravaganas in the United States.
Seriously...how hard is it really to plan a stupid day trip.
This weekend, my daughter heads to the beach with friends(a trip that took her all of ten minutes to plan,by the way)and the other adult unit in the household likes to be left to his own devices, so I really have no excuses.
This has been a truly brutal winter and a few hours lost in the bliss of flowers should provide me with some hope of the upcoming spring.
Wish me luck. Now all I have to do is decide whether to go by car or train.
Monday, February 22, 2010
New Hope For The Rhythmically Challenged
So out of the clear blue last week, my dear friend E's younger sister A suggested we all go salsa dancing.
"But I don't know how to salsa," I said, thinking this would get me off the hook.
It didn't.
Saturday night I found myself signed up for salsa lessons at a trendy little nightclub/dinner place. They put me in the beginners class but I'm sure had there been a sub-beginners group, that's where I would have been placed. E and A, both of Argentinian heritage, were put in the intermediate class.
I am a tragically Caucasian woman who was born with two flat feet and no rhythm. Remember the Seinfeld episode years ago when Elaine danced? I make her look like the Dancing Queen.
The biggest issue seems to be centered right in my pelvis and neighboring hips. They refuse to move, it's like they're fused in place.
Fortunately, during my lesson Saturday night, this was not a concern. The instructor seemed more fixated on my feet which were having a hell of a time trying to keep up with the other students. I seemed to be about a beat and half behind everyone else.
Halfway through the class, I decided I'd had enough and slipped off to find the ladies room. Then I went back to the table to wait for E and A...and I ordered us a round of the house specialty drink. I'll be damned if I can remember what the waitress called it, but it was green and smooth, ice cold with a touch of coconut!
At some point in the evening, the regular bar crowd swarmed inside, young people ready to dance and have a good time. And let me tell you, they could dance.
"Okay, I'm ready to go," said E.
"But we haven't danced yet," said A. "I came here to dance."
"I'm just having a swell time watching the festivities," I said. And I was. Off in a far corner, one couple was having a tough time deciding whether to dance or have sex right there on the dance floor. Both of their pelvic regions worked just fine.
Someone must have picked up A's need to dance because out of nowhere three young men seemed to be loitering near our table, and then their drinks were sitting on our table, and then all three of us were asked to dance.
"Can't I sit here and watch?" I asked. "I will be very happy to just watch."
"No, no, no!" said A. :You cannot say no. Get out there and dance!"
At least I got the tall guy. Who I might add, was an extremely nice person and laughed everytime I decided to lead, which was pretty funny considering I had no idea what to do!
Every time the music stopped and I thanked him for the dance and started heading back to the table, he'd grab my hand and insist we keep dancing.
And then something interesting happened. I finally got it. I wasn't perfect, I won't be on Dancing with the Stars anytime soon, but I was following his lead and my hips, knees, and feet all seemed to work in conjunction with one another!
Yep...it's kind of nice to get out of your comfort zone every now and then.
"But I don't know how to salsa," I said, thinking this would get me off the hook.
It didn't.
Saturday night I found myself signed up for salsa lessons at a trendy little nightclub/dinner place. They put me in the beginners class but I'm sure had there been a sub-beginners group, that's where I would have been placed. E and A, both of Argentinian heritage, were put in the intermediate class.
I am a tragically Caucasian woman who was born with two flat feet and no rhythm. Remember the Seinfeld episode years ago when Elaine danced? I make her look like the Dancing Queen.
The biggest issue seems to be centered right in my pelvis and neighboring hips. They refuse to move, it's like they're fused in place.
Fortunately, during my lesson Saturday night, this was not a concern. The instructor seemed more fixated on my feet which were having a hell of a time trying to keep up with the other students. I seemed to be about a beat and half behind everyone else.
Halfway through the class, I decided I'd had enough and slipped off to find the ladies room. Then I went back to the table to wait for E and A...and I ordered us a round of the house specialty drink. I'll be damned if I can remember what the waitress called it, but it was green and smooth, ice cold with a touch of coconut!
At some point in the evening, the regular bar crowd swarmed inside, young people ready to dance and have a good time. And let me tell you, they could dance.
"Okay, I'm ready to go," said E.
"But we haven't danced yet," said A. "I came here to dance."
"I'm just having a swell time watching the festivities," I said. And I was. Off in a far corner, one couple was having a tough time deciding whether to dance or have sex right there on the dance floor. Both of their pelvic regions worked just fine.
Someone must have picked up A's need to dance because out of nowhere three young men seemed to be loitering near our table, and then their drinks were sitting on our table, and then all three of us were asked to dance.
"Can't I sit here and watch?" I asked. "I will be very happy to just watch."
"No, no, no!" said A. :You cannot say no. Get out there and dance!"
At least I got the tall guy. Who I might add, was an extremely nice person and laughed everytime I decided to lead, which was pretty funny considering I had no idea what to do!
Every time the music stopped and I thanked him for the dance and started heading back to the table, he'd grab my hand and insist we keep dancing.
And then something interesting happened. I finally got it. I wasn't perfect, I won't be on Dancing with the Stars anytime soon, but I was following his lead and my hips, knees, and feet all seemed to work in conjunction with one another!
Yep...it's kind of nice to get out of your comfort zone every now and then.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
If You Go Away Quietly, I Promise Not To Hurt You
In the musical Scrooge, before he meets the three ghosts who change his life, Scrooge bellows out in song, loud and clear: "I hate people, and I don't care if they hate me."
I know exactly what he means. I'm not a big fan, either. Well, not this week, anyway.
Maybe it's the onslaught of snow we've had the past couple of weeks and being held captive, but as of now, anything standing upright with a pulse is getting on my nerves...BIGTIME!
This is a problem because at work I have to be nice to people and have a smile on my face and joy in my voice. It's not much better on the homefront. We live in a big old renovated warehouse with lots of open space, but not many doors. No matter where I'm located, no matter how hard I try to eek out a little space for myself, there is always someone around me. My daughter is the only one with an escape. Her bedroom actually has a door.
I actually asked my husband recently why we couldn't put a door on the bathroom in our bedroom.
"That would take away from the suite-like feel of the room," he said.
I was sitting on the toilet at the time, thinking some privacy would be nice.
When I was young and didn't know any better, it was so much easier to put up with other people. I was stupid and happy, and had the same easy-going attitude as a Golden Retriever puppy. It's hard to pinpoint exactly when people started to piss me off, but now I'm old and cynical and it takes every ounce of my patience and willpower to not reach out and grab someone by their ears and throttle them around.
It would be so theraputic, but I'm not willing to risk the assault charges it would most likely bring.
Maybe what I need is a punching bag. I could put it in the garage and anytime I felt the need to whallop the crap out of someone head down there and spend some quality time pounding the leather.
I feel better already.
I know exactly what he means. I'm not a big fan, either. Well, not this week, anyway.
Maybe it's the onslaught of snow we've had the past couple of weeks and being held captive, but as of now, anything standing upright with a pulse is getting on my nerves...BIGTIME!
This is a problem because at work I have to be nice to people and have a smile on my face and joy in my voice. It's not much better on the homefront. We live in a big old renovated warehouse with lots of open space, but not many doors. No matter where I'm located, no matter how hard I try to eek out a little space for myself, there is always someone around me. My daughter is the only one with an escape. Her bedroom actually has a door.
I actually asked my husband recently why we couldn't put a door on the bathroom in our bedroom.
"That would take away from the suite-like feel of the room," he said.
I was sitting on the toilet at the time, thinking some privacy would be nice.
When I was young and didn't know any better, it was so much easier to put up with other people. I was stupid and happy, and had the same easy-going attitude as a Golden Retriever puppy. It's hard to pinpoint exactly when people started to piss me off, but now I'm old and cynical and it takes every ounce of my patience and willpower to not reach out and grab someone by their ears and throttle them around.
It would be so theraputic, but I'm not willing to risk the assault charges it would most likely bring.
Maybe what I need is a punching bag. I could put it in the garage and anytime I felt the need to whallop the crap out of someone head down there and spend some quality time pounding the leather.
I feel better already.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Mother Nature...You Hormonal Bitch, You.
Dear Mother Nature,
Seriously...enough is enough. I have no idea what you're problem has been this past week...but c'mon, another freaking snow storm for the Mid-Atlantic??? Currently, close to two feet of snow covers most of Baltimore and the state of Maryland, and now you plan to shower us with another eight to 16 inches!? Our snow plow contingency is already overwhelmed and incapable of clearing a good majority of the smaller residential streets and byways. We have been told by state highway officials to not even think about driving today because there are blizzard and whiteout conditions!
It's a huge, whalloping mess and frankly, we have had enough, thank you! Once loving couples have been trapped in their homes for close to a week. Marriages are breaking up, parents are bound to be taking out their frustrations on their children. A friend emailed me to say that she's not sure how much longer she can take her five year old daughter playing We Shall Overcome on the recorder (by the way, not sure who it was who devised that annoying little flutelike instrument, but they should be shot and killed).
The only good thing to come out of this whole mess is that my wonderful boss has put all of us up in a nearby hotel so we can get to work. I have an entire king sized bed to myself, and as long as the hotel bar doesn't run out of booze, I will persevere!
So in closing, Mother Nature, I'm praying this is the end of the snow. You won't hear from me again until I'm roasting my ass off in a few months during one of your classic Maryland summers. Right now, highs in the 90's and 98 percent humidity is sounding pretty darned good!
XOXOXO
Tamara
Seriously...enough is enough. I have no idea what you're problem has been this past week...but c'mon, another freaking snow storm for the Mid-Atlantic??? Currently, close to two feet of snow covers most of Baltimore and the state of Maryland, and now you plan to shower us with another eight to 16 inches!? Our snow plow contingency is already overwhelmed and incapable of clearing a good majority of the smaller residential streets and byways. We have been told by state highway officials to not even think about driving today because there are blizzard and whiteout conditions!
It's a huge, whalloping mess and frankly, we have had enough, thank you! Once loving couples have been trapped in their homes for close to a week. Marriages are breaking up, parents are bound to be taking out their frustrations on their children. A friend emailed me to say that she's not sure how much longer she can take her five year old daughter playing We Shall Overcome on the recorder (by the way, not sure who it was who devised that annoying little flutelike instrument, but they should be shot and killed).
The only good thing to come out of this whole mess is that my wonderful boss has put all of us up in a nearby hotel so we can get to work. I have an entire king sized bed to myself, and as long as the hotel bar doesn't run out of booze, I will persevere!
So in closing, Mother Nature, I'm praying this is the end of the snow. You won't hear from me again until I'm roasting my ass off in a few months during one of your classic Maryland summers. Right now, highs in the 90's and 98 percent humidity is sounding pretty darned good!
XOXOXO
Tamara
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