Getting To The Bottom of It All

Yesterday was October 1st.

I expected it to be a day much like any other day.  Boy!  Was I wrong!

First off, I got up and walked downstairs without shoes to the kitchen.  A place in my foot on the bottom next to my heel hurt like a summa-bitch but I kind of ignored it.  I put on shoes and figured the pain would go away.  It sort of did as long as I was wearing my 3" heel platform shoes.

Yesterday was very hot.  I melt when it gets to be over 67 degrees and it hit 90 degrees here.  We have no air conditioning.  We live in Northern California for heaven's sake.  Didn't Mark Twain say the coldest winter he ever experienced was a summer in San Francisco?  I turned on the fan in the office and sat down to check my email and visit Michael WJ and Ziva.  Both of these bloggers have joined in having a 30 Day of Photos Non-Competition.  Michael and Ziva are a couple of my favorite bloggers, and favorite people for that matter.  Many of the bloggers participating in this challenge are not only wonderful bloggers but great photographers.  I was really looking forward to seeing what they all had contributed.

But first things first.  I wanted to look at my emails and see the comments on my own blog.  (I'm a little self-centered, I admit it.)  Much to my surprise, I had no comments, not even one.  In fact I had no comments for over 2 and 1/2 years of blogging.  In fact, there wasn't even a place to leave a comment on my blog.  What's worse, I went to look at the photo blogs posted by other bloggers yesterday and I couldn't comment on any of them if they were "Disqus" powered sites.  Double damn!

I know enough to know that something was rotten in Disqus land.  But what?  Here it is hot as hell, I have a painful foot, and I can't get the blog stuff to work at all.  Fortunately, my rocket scientist husband would be home after work and he could "fix" it.  (Alex can fix anything!  Just ask him!) 

Since the computer was useless at this point, I watched hours of CNN while realizing that it was getting so hot in the house I felt ready to faint.  The only thing I could think of to do is take a nap.  But wait, it was too hot to sleep.  I wandered in to get some ice out of the kitchen, but I had pulled off my shoes when I got on the bed.  Ouch!  I nearly collapsed with the pain in my foot!  This was no joke!  There is something wrong!  In fact, there are a few things wrong!  I was feeling horrible from the heat.  I can't read or comment on blogs, and my right foot is screwed up.  Plus, my favorite pair of cords either shrunk or my butt had gotten bigger almost over night.

Alex (my husband, the genius, or as we call him, "El Jefe"), came home.  He was unable to fix whatever was going on with my blog.  To add insult to injury, the heat had intensified to 95 degrees.  And my foot still hurt.  It was too hot to sit around trying to fix my blog thingy, so I told Alex to forget it.

I got into bed grumpy and got up even more grumpy.  I thought about calling a foot doctor but then I decided I wasn't dying yet, so I'd wait a few more days. 

Miracles do happen.  The blog thing comments started working again.  The forecast says "cooler tomorrow", and my foot is still attached (even if painfully) to my leg.  My cords have stretched out again.

Life is good.  Well, sort of.

The Phone Call

I lie to my doctor.

I lie about how much I exercise, how much (and what) I drink and eat,and  how much (and what) I smoke.

I also lie about my weight and my height.  I insist that I be weighed with my shoes (and earrings, and bracelets, and rings, and jacket or sweater) off and measured with my high heel shoes on.  I claim to be 130 pounds, but I'm closer to 140 pounds.  I also claim to be 5'6" tall and I'm closer to 5'4 1/2".  

I don't really have to lie.  My doctor is cool.  He understands when I tell him I have not been to an ob/ gyn  in a couple of years because I'm not in the mood.  He understands when I say I haven't yet had the mammogram he ordered for me two years ago.

My doctor runs down a list with me and I tell him everything is fine and perfectly normal.  Yes, I sleep 8 hours a night; yes I have normal bowel and bladder activity; yes, I am socially active and have many interesting hobbies.  (Of course, he must know I'm lying about all that too.)

He's a pretty cool dude for a doctor.  He and I have even talked about going on a trip together.  We are both, uhm, free spirits of sorts.  We'd probably have a lot of fun.

I go to see my doctor once a year for a physical.  I only go more than that if I think I'm dying and need to get my affairs in order.  (I belong to the "less is more" school of medical ideology.)  If it ain't broke, I don't want it fixed in other words.

One thing I cannot lie about is lab work.  After my examination every year, my doctor hands me a slip that orders laboratory tests.  He checks everything from my thyroid to my blood richness to my cholesterol levels and everything in between.  I try to get the lab work done within a week of my visit for the exam.  I'm terrified of needles and it would be easy to put this off, but I never do.

After I get the lab work done, I wait breathlessly and in a state of panic for the results.  My doctor usually calls me within a week to tell me what is going on.  I sort of hold my breathe until his call.  (Underneath it all, I expect that I'm probably dying but just don't know it yet which may be just as well.)

The call comes in like clockwork.  My doctor runs down the list for me telling me that my cholesterol is perfect, my kidney and liver functions are perfect, my thyroid is perfect, my blood is good and rich (thank you red wine) and that I'm in good health.  I breathe a sigh of relief.

I've fooled him for one more year.

You Want Me To Ride Where???

I've been a registered Republican since I was 21 years old.

I am fiscally conservative, socially liberal, and in favor of small government.

In 2008, I would have probably voted for John McCain if he had chosen a vice president I could have lived with.  Unfortunately, he chose Sarah Palin, so my only choice was Obama.

Although I'm not a huge Obama fan, I do respect him.  He's acted with grace and good judgment in every situation.  I do not blame him for some early hedging on some of the more liberal issues.  He's done the right thing when the time was right.

I was somewhat surprised when my party chose Mitt Romney for the Republican candidate.  Romney seems to be a smart guy and a good businessman, but I really knew very little about him other than that.  I also knew that Romney was Mormon but that didn't give me pause.  (Frankly, I see no reason that a Muslim could not be president if he was qualified.) 

As far as the social issues are concerned, there is a lot of "posturing" on both sides and much of it is meaningless.  I don't believe that is a selling point in most cases.  I think we have to look at the candidate and judge for ourselves what kind of a leader that person would make.

But now we come to my Achilles heel.  When it was reported that Mitt Romney and his family had stuck their Irish Setter, Seamus, on top of their car in his crate for a 12 hour trip I was aghast.  Further, when the Romneys never acknowledged that this was a stupid and cruel thing to do, I was outraged.  Mrs. Romney went so far as to say in an interview "He loved it!" (meaning the dog).  Mitt Romney said that he wouldn't do it again seeing as how such a big issue has been made out of it.
 
I certainly wasn't born knowing "the right thing" to do in all instances of animal care.  I gave my German Shepherd  an Aspirin when he was injured in a fight and we were about an hour away from a vet's office.  It could have killed him.  I just didn't know any better.  I admit my mistakes freely and don't cover them up or deny them.

Romney also bullied a gay kid in high school, but calls it "high jinx" that he really can't remember anything about.  I threatened to beat a girl's ass when she made out with my boyfriend in high school and I remember it clearly.  It was wrong of me.

A person needs to show integrity and admit when they are wrong.  Unfortunately, this does not seem to be the case with Mr. Romney. 

For the third time in my life, I will vote for the Democratic candidate.

Losing My Cherry

This is a story with a moral.  So pay attention.

When I was 14, I stopped being a tomboy and started being a normal, active, girly girl.  At first, my mother was thrilled.  But then, not so much.

I lied about where I was going.  I had "secrets".  I kissed boys.  I went to parties where the parents weren't home.  I smoked cigarettes.

My mother was fairly strict.  She had told us all the important things that young females should know.  For instance, if you give away milk, nobody will ever buy the cow.  We also learned that if we ever smoked pot we would turn into a heroin addict. Also, if we lost our virginity, nobody would ever want to marry us.  (I did wonder a bit at this last bit since my mother had been married before she married my father, but let's let that slide for a moment.) 

When I asked my mother about how a guy would know if you were a virgin or not, she said there was an absolute way to tell.  Virgins had something called a hymen.  (Gross, right?)  A man would know immediately if his new wife was a virgin. 

Well, it was a safe bet that I wouldn't be giving away any milk or smoking pot and I was going to remain a virgin so I could get married.  So far so good. 

I went to a party one night with a couple of girlfriends.  There were guys at the party and no parents.  We had fun, dancing, listening to music, and some making out may or may not have been going on.  On this particular night, I had told my mother I was going to the library with my girlfriend and then spending the night at her house.  (Only that second part of that was true.  We were not going to the library.)

When I got home the next morning, my mother was waiting for me.  She was furious for some reason.  Mom asked me "Where were you last night?" and I responded "I was at Cheryl's house" to which she continued to grill me for details.  "Were you at a party?"  (Busted.  No way out. But I gave it a try anyway.)  "I was at the library."   Mom yelled "Oh no you weren't!"  So I figure the jig was up so I admitted I had been at a party (after the library, of course. I wasn't ready to surrender and tell the whole truth just yet).

Apparently, some girls (not invited to the party and jealous) had called my mother about 10 PM and told her that I was at a party and had sex with about 10 boys while I was there.  I was struck dumb (as in speechless not stupid) by this accusation.  I told her that just wasn't true.  She told me she was making me an appointment with a doctor to find out if it was true or not.

I shrugged.  Whatever.  I knew for sure I had never had sex so I had no real concern about having a doctor examine me.  Sheesh!

I went to the doctor and he examined me and told me everything was fine.  I already knew that.  But my mother said that the doctor had told her "Your daughter is not virtuous."  WTF???  Does he mean because I lied about the party or what?  My mother told me, "No.  You do not have a hymen so you are no longer a virgin."

Actually, I was a little relieved to find that out.  Now I could quit worrying about "losing my virginity" since I wasn't a virgin anyway.  Oh, and I could also use tampons!  Happy days!

Years later, I told my mother that I was actually shocked that a medical doctor would have told her what he did.  She explained that he had actually said that I didn't have a hymen but that it didn't mean anything.  She made up the rest to intimidate me into telling her the truth. No real harm done and I have the ex-husbands to prove it.

But damn!  You mean I stopped being a virgin a full year before I ever had sex?

Hot Tubs, Yuppies, and Dogs

I don't like hot tubs.

First off, I don't even particularly like water.  Oh, it's fine to drink, but I have a preference for hot tap water if I'm drinking the stuff.  Frankly, most of the time I'd rather have gin and juice.

Large bodies of water scare me.  I'm fine with a bubble bath, but I don't swim.  I don't like the ocean and lakes terrify me.  I don't even enjoy a shower because it feels like the water is trying to drown me.  One wrong turn and the water is in my eyes and up my nose.

I know people who have hot tubs.  (These people are primarily yuppie types.)  They all seem to think I want to get in their nasty hot water with them.  I do not.  Sometimes, yuppie people who have hot tubs want to get into them nekkid.  That's fine for them if they are home alone, but don't even think about getting in a hot tub nekkid with me.  That is gross.

Nasty stuff lives in hot water.  Believe me on this one.  If you go in, wear a wet suit just to be safe.  All those bubbles can hide a multitude of sins.  I'm just saying.

My dogs, Harry and Zoe don't like water either.  Harry (the big guy who looks like a bear in this photo) likes chasing ducks into the water, but only up to his elbow joints.  He also stays next to me when I am in the bathtub because he thinks I may be in need of protection from bad people if they should walk in while I'm bathing.  He has a point.

I take my Kindle and iphone and regular telephone with me into the bathroom with me.  But I never take guns,grenades, or knives.  Harry thinks I'm being foolish not to, but hey.  That's what he's here for.  My former dog, Willie, a German Shepherd, loved the water.  He would race into the waves at the ocean, jump in the lake, or splash into the tub with me at any given chance.  Harry just lays down next to the tub and looks bored when I'm in the bath.

Zoe will not even walk into the bathroom if I am bathing. She hates water with a passion.  Zoe will not even wade in after ducks.  She's a girl after my own heart.

If I come to visit you, and you are a yuppie, and have a hot tub, I will sit on a chair next to your hot tub while you are in it and have a gin and juice.  But don't invite me in because I won't do it.

The Church People Next Door

They moved in next door when my kids were young.

I was renting an apartment in the Richmond District of San Francisco.  I saw my new neighbors the weekend they moved in.

They were both young, attractive, and moving to San Francisco from Memphis.  They seemed very nice.  I spoke with them while they were moving in and gave them some ice water.  My kids were happy to meet the new neighbors who seemed like a very nice young couple.

I found out from our landlord that the man was a minister at a local Baptist church and his wife taught at a local elementary school.  Charming people, the landlord assured me.

About a week after they moved in, I invited them both over for a cup of coffee (to be neighborly, you understand).

My kids were home because it was Saturday.  Sheila was about 3 and her brother was about 6.  The new neighbors and I  sat and had coffee and cookies and talked about the man's church and the woman's school position.  The kids wandered around the apartment playing while we chatted. 

The kids were in my bedroom, and I wondered what they were up to, but I didn't interrupt to go check on them.  The minister and I were discussing his church and he asked me if the children and I attended services.  I answered him honestly that we did go to different churches almost every weekend, but that I was not really a member of any congregation.  

I could hear my daughter laughing and her brother saying, "No, let me see it!" and I heard a weird sound, almost like an electric mixer.  My daughter came running into the living room holding a 10" dildo that was pulsing away.  She had a great big grin on her face as she said "Mommie, look!"

Conversation came to an abrupt and absolute halt.  I tried my hardest to contain myself, but laughter started up and I couldn't hold it in.  I spluttered coffee all down the front of my blouse.  The harder I tried to stop laughing, the harder I laughed.  When I saw the church people's eyes trying to act like they didn't notice anything amiss, I nearly fell off my chair.  We bid each other a quick farewell, and I collapsed again in horror, humiliation and laughter.

I guess I could have explained to them that the dildo had been a joke gift from an ex-boyfriend.  I guess I could have explained that I had only kept it because I didn't want to throw it in the trash and have someone "discover" it.  I guess I could have explained that 10" of dildo might be too much of a good thing.

I never went to my neighbor's church.  I never invited them for coffee again. I think they were both glad that I didn't. 

Frankly, I was glad when they moved about 6 months later and I no longer had to hide when I saw them coming or going.

Pacification with Pork Chops

My darling daughter, Sheila, and her husband, and my granddaughter, Arianna, came for a visit yesterday.


Visits from my daughter are always a pleasure, but they also generally make me feel like I'm a little lost in space. Plans change on the fly, so to speak.  It started off with a series of frantic telephone calls on Friday evening. Voice messages, about 10 of them, expressed extreme concern over my whereabouts.

"Mother, where are you?  Call me!"

"Mother, are you okay?  Call me!"

"Mother, I'm getting worried.  Call me!"

"Mother, I've called you on your home phone and your cell phone and there's no answer!  Call me!"

"Mother, this is ridiculous!  I've been calling you for two hours!  Call me!"

"Mother, it's getting late and you still haven't called me back!  Call me!"

"Mother, we were thinking of coming over to see you, but it's late for that now!  Why haven't you called me?"

"Mother, it's me!  Call me!"

"Mother, well, you aren't answering.  Call me when you get home."

"Mother, it's 8 o'clock at night.  I'm really getting concerned.  Please call me!"

"Call me!"

Well, heavens to Betsy!  What on earth is this all about?  I really am not a feeble person.  I'm not at all likely to be lying injured on the floor with my arms and my legs up in the air like a turtle flipped over on its back.  I am not saying that is impossible, but it's just not likely.  At least, I've never done it before (not to my daughter's knowledge anyway!).

I had been to dinner with a dear friend.  I don't answer my cell phone when I'm at dinner.  I turn off my cell phone unless I'm expecting an important call.  I don't talk on my phone or "text" or play games on my cell  when I am with other people.  Maybe that's because I'm old.

I telephoned Sheila about 8:10 PM and asked her "What's up?".  She railed for a few moments about how worried she had been about me.  "Mom!  Your husband is away and you really need to let people know what you are doing!"  Uh, really?  I get a call from my daughter about once a week, or once every other week.  If I am not home, she can leave a message.  I will call back when I get home.  Seems reasonable to me.

Because Sheila had been so worried about me, she announced that she would be paying me a visit the next day.  (I think she wanted to make sure I was not eating cat food and/or drinking malt liquor to excess  since "my husband is away".)  I told her I would love to see her and that we could have lunch on Saturday.  Simple plans are always best, I think.

On Saturday, Sheila phoned about noon to propose that we change our visit from Saturday to Sunday.  That was agreeable to me.  We again decided to shoot for lunch, and that Sheila's husband and daughter would be joining us.  Sounded fine.

I called my daughter at 11 AM on Sunday to see when she was leaving.  Sheila told me that they were all still in bed, but they would call me in a few minutes to set up a time.  (I thought to myself, "Queer.  Don't people have lunch around noon?")  Never mind.  Sheila called an hour later with a new plan.  I'll lay it out for you here:

"Mom, new plan.  Why don't we come over about 2 or 3 this afternoon and I'll bring a fish.  I'll cook for you and we'll do all the clean up afterwards.  How does that sound?"  Well, frankly, bringing a fish to visit me or to cook for me just didn't tickle my fancy at all.

I said, "Never mind Honey.  I'll make pork chops."  Stunned silence and then peals of gratitude rang out of the phone!  "Oh my god!  I love your pork chops so much!  I can't wait!  See you at 3 this afternoon!" 

Of course, at 3 in the afternoon, Sheila was just getting out of the shower when I called her.

But my pork chops really are divine.