Location, Location, Location

Phil Dunphy would be proud that I’ve memorized the realtor’s mantra - Location, Location, Location. Although I probably should’ve actually heeded this sage advice when I moved to Illinois from Florida. But alas I was more concerned with finding a place that wouldn’t require me to live on Ramen and government cheese in order to pay rent. I moved into a cheap apartment right next to a college so really it should have been no surprise that I spent that first year living below a bunch of Frat Bros whose main goal in life was to ensure the entire building smelled like dead skunks at all times. If there had been any doubt as to their pastime activities, the fact that Cheech and Chong dumped their bong water off the balcony, splattering the malodorous funk onto my windows, solidified my suspicions.

It wasn’t just the fact that one got a contact high the minute one walked into the purple haze that was my apartment building, but the Frat Bros were loud! For a couple of stoners who spent an inordinate portion of their lives chilling, they made SO. MUCH. NOISE. I know I sound like Mr. Heckles complaining about the “noisy girls". And if you ask, I’ll adamantly deny using a Swiffer in a misguided attempt to show my displeasure by banging on the ceiling, but instead spasmodically swinging the mop around with an utter lack of the motor skills necessary to effectively pound on a ceiling with a swivel-head mop. 

My daughter and I liked to guess what the Frat Bros could possibly have been doing up there to create such a cacophony. Our top contenders were Irish clog dancing with a few of their closest friends, playing leap frog, auditioning for Bring in Da Noise, Bring in Da Funk, throwing a shot put, and reenacting Miley Cyrus’s wrecking ball while using Hippity Hops.

Suffice to say, I’ve learned that location is important. Living in cheap apartments that butt up to a college campus is not the best idea. But just how important is location? Ask my mom.

When my dad passed away, I helped my mom pick out an urn for his ashes. A couple weeks later, she decided she didn’t want the ashes in her home. Having them nearby wasn’t a comfort to her; instead she found their proximity disturbing. She called me up one day to inform me of her decision.

“I don’t want your father’s ashes in the house. I want to have them buried and when I die, you can put me with him.”

“Okay, I can understand that,” I assured her.

“But is that okay with you? If I don’t have your dad in the house?”

“Mom, whatever you want is fine with me.”

“I wish I hadn’t gotten this fancy urn. I wonder if I can return it,” my mom mused.

“Um, I don’t think you can return a used urn.”

“I could clean it out first.”

“Mom, just bury the urn.” 

“Well I went to the cemetery yesterday. We could be buried in the ground, but I don’t want that. I think the ground would be cold and I’m always so cold to begin with.”

“You understand we’re not going to bury you while you’re alive, right? Because I really don’t think feeling cold will be a factor when you’re, you know, dead.”

“Well, I don’t want to be in the ground.”

“Okay,” I said, humoring my mom. 

“They have a columbarium there. It’s a tall cylindrical structure with all these compartments for cremains.”

“So a condo for dead people.”

My mom didn’t respond to that, but I could see her exasperated look through the phone.

“But they only have 2 boxes left and they’re on the bottom level,” she continued.

“And you think your upstairs neighbors will be too noisy?” I asked in the way you might slowly ask a suspected crazy person ‘and do you hear those voices now?’

“You never know,” came her matter-of-fact answer. “I sat on the bench to see if I could read the names on the bottom row. I can see them pretty well.” Before I could interject that she would be the one in the box and therefore have no need to read the name on the box, she continued, “The man at the cemetery said that they were building a new columbarium next year, but there is a waitlist for that one. I just don’t know whether to take one of the boxes in the bottom row or to put my name on the waitlist for the new one.”

“I don’t understand. The reason you were even looking at the cemetery was because you don’t want dad’s ashes in the house. And there’s a spot open so you can move them there now. But because it’s on the bottom row, you’re thinking of putting your name on a waitlist and seeing if you might be able to get the penthouse in the new structure next year?”

“Yes.”

“Okaaay,” I said even though I didn’t understand any of this. 

“Also, I asked the man at the cemetery if they shoveled snow on the walkways around the columbarium and he said that sometimes they do; if they have time.” 

“Mom, I have to reiterate, you’re dead. What do you care if the sidewalk has been shoveled?”

“Well, I might want to visit your dad before I’m dead, Dawn.”

“You, the woman who doesn’t drive, and doesn’t like to leave your house even in nice weather, might want to visit dad’s ashes in a blizzard, and the lack of snow removal would be a hindrance?”

“Also, I noticed where they’re building the new columbarium, the ground dips down a little next to it. It’s like a little ditch. By the old one, there are trees. But I did notice one of the branches was broken on that tree . . .” She went on, comparing the two options. She ended her musings with a question. “Will you drive me to the cemetery next weekend so I can show you and get your opinion?” my mom asked.

“Oh, I can give you my opinion now, Mom. No visit necessary. But I’ll take you there next weekend so you can have another look.”

So I went to the cemetery with my mom and youngest daughter, Brooklyn. We pulled in and saw a crowd of somber-looking people surrounding the columbarium, so we parked and waited for the mourners to disperse. As they made their way to their cars, the three of us approached the columbarium and saw the door to one of the boxes on the bottom row was open. A man was putting a container into the niche.

“That was the box I was considering for your dad and me!” My mom was absolutely distraught. “He told me that box was available!” 

Brooklyn and I exchanged glances. “Well Mom, that box probably was available last week, but people die and suddenly their families need to make arrangements. It’s not always planned out in advance. But I thought you said there were two boxes available in this columbarium?” I asked.

“Yes, but the other box is on the side that faces the street.”

An unspoken “And???” hung in the air between my daughter and I.

My mom walked over and sat on the bench, facing the last available compartment. She tilted her head and looked at the box. She looked up and around, taking in the whole scene. Then she got up, turned around, and sat back down on the bench facing away from the columbarium.

“Whatcha doing there, Mom?” I asked, legitimately curious.

“I’m trying to see what the view would be like if I was inurned there.”

“Should we tell her she’ll be dead and won’t have to worry about the view?” Brooklyn whispered to me.

“Yeah, I’ve had that conversation a number of times. Just go with it, “I said, giving up trying to convince my mom of anything logical.

She returned to where my daughter and I were standing and declared, “Well, that makes my decision easier. I’m not going to be put in a niche facing the street for all eternity. I’ll call them on Monday and put my name on the waitlist for the new one.”

“That’s great. I’m glad you made a decision and you’re happy about it.”

“Although . . “ Brooklyn and I, eyebrows raised, looked at each other. “...there aren’t any trees over where they’re building the new one. I hope they plant some trees for shade otherwise it could get pretty hot.”

Before my mom could get tangled up in a whole landscaping debate, my daughter and I propelled her to the car.

So there you have it. In life, and apparently well beyond, location is important.

The One With the Toilet Seat

 

Over the years, I’ve put on many, many a few pounds. I’ve been making an effort to walk most days after work and I’ve been making healthier diet choices. I’m down 10 pounds which is just sand off the beach at this point, but still a step in the right direction.

Then yesterday, I sat down to pee and heard a crack. I broke the toilet seat. Go me.

I don’t know what kind of weight limit toilet seats have, but apparently I exceeded it. There is nothing like starting the day knowing that your fat ass just broke a 2-inch thick piece of enameled wood.

After work I ran to Menards to get a new seat. As I walked in the door, it occurred to me that I’ve been to this particular Menards twice before. Both times were for toilet seats. Now, in fairness, they weren't all for me. The first time I got a toilet seat there was because the hinges broke on my mom's toilet so I got her a replacement. The replacement wasn’t up to her standards because it didn’t have the “slow-close” feature. I didn't even know this was a thing. For 56 years I've been simply lowering the lid of my toilet seat like a loser. I wasn't aware that I could've been just dropping, nay, slamming the seat and instead of crashing down, it would've slowly closed on its own. Who knew? My upstairs neighbors certainly don't know about this technology. They also don't know how to manually lower the seat either because I hear it slam and my cats jump every time they take a dump use the facilities. What kind of message do you think it would it send if I bought them a "slow-close" seat, wrapped it in a big red ribbon, and left it by their apartment door? Christmas is right around the corner afterall . . .

But I digress. The second time I went to Menards it was to exchange seats.

Now, once inside the doors of Menards there’s a turnstile to continue into the store. After breaking my toilet seat, I was absurdly concerned about trying to walk through without getting slapped on the butt by the metal arm, or even worse, getting stuck in it. Horrifying thoughts of the 911 call that would be made on my behalf barreled through my brain. Or maybe they wouldn’t have to call 911. I mean, they surely stocked some sort of tool that could cut through the metal, freeing my overly large posterior, right? I could just imagine the voice over the PA. "Ah, we're going to need a hacksaw by the entrance. On second thought, maybe an angle grinder. Or a bandsaw. Whatever you think can free this fat lady who got stuck in the turnstile." People would come from every direction, like K-Mart shoppers to the blue light special, to gape at the spectacle. On the way, they'd stop by the checkouts to grab little packs of Cheez-Its and turkey jerky to munch while watching in fascinated horror.

Being well-acquainted with the toilet section, I made a beeline to the aisle, grabbed a seat, and headed to the check-outs. While standing in line, I low-key freaked out that the cashier would somehow have a record of all my previous purchases, and she’d look at me the only way someone can look a person buying their third toilet seat in less than a year.

The cashier didn’t put the seat in a bag, but there was a convenient handle on the packaging so I grabbed it and walked to my car. Only I couldn’t remember where I parked because that’s the stage of life I’m in now. I wandered up and down the aisles, carrying my toilet for all to see. I’m sure no one was looking and no one cared that I was carrying a toilet seat on a tour of the Menards parking lot, but in my mind, I was strutting around, holding my toilet seat aloft like a boxing ring girl with a “Round 3” sign, and everyone was gaping at the chick whose fat ass broke a toilet.

I finally found my car. Right where I parked it.

When I got home, I attempted to unscrew the old seat, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t budge it. I grabbed a pair of pliers, got a good grip and threw my weight into it (which in hindsight was not the best plan as it was my weight that got me in this mess to begin with.) I broke the tab off the bolt. After 5 minutes of wrestling with the stupid bolts (that are of course, in a most convenient place UNDER the toilet bowl which, in my case, is wedged between the tub and the wall), I gave up, and in true Gen X fashion, resigned myself to an eternity of getting my ass cheek pinched in the broken seat.

Thankfully, Brooklyn got home and took pity on me. She figured out that we did not actually have to remove the bolts from under the toilet. All she had to do was turn the hinge covers to where it literally read “unlock” and the seat popped off. She saved my extraordinarily large ass. Literally.

The One With the Headlights

I remember when my mom first complained about driving at night. She was probably in her early 50s. I recall thinking, at the time, it was absurd to be scared of driving at night. I mean, all the best stuff happens at night, right? Who doesn’t love going out at night? There’s no difference between driving during the day and driving at night. 

And then I turned 50. 

I hate driving at night! But in my defense, driving at night has changed over the last several years. Incandescent and halogen lights have been replaced with LEDs that are SO. MUCH. BRIGHTER than anything on earth. To put it in perspective, a 40 watt incandescent bulb gives off 450 lumens. A 15 watt compact fluorescent lamp gives off 1000 lumens. The sun gives off 35.7 octillion lumens. And these new LED lights give off slightly more than that.

Apparently the car manufacturers all got together with the pressing question - how can we make cars safer? Someone (under the age of 50) piped up with, “I know! Let’s put the light source and refraction technology from a lighthouse in an SUV! Drivers will be able to see in the dark for 200 nautical miles!” The reasoning behind this shift to LED lights is that they’re better at illuminating the road. You know, so drivers can more easily see the carnage from all the accidents these lightbulbs cause. 

I live in the country, surrounded by cornfields on all sides. There are no street lights around, the roads are one-lane, and the speed limits are high. The other night I was driving home from my mom’s house in the dark on one such country road when a truck came speeding up behind me. His spotlights headlights shone in my rearview mirror and both side mirrors, roasting my  retinas. I envisioned Sponge Bob when a spicy bubble popped in his face and his eyeballs caught fire, disintegrated to ash and blew into the wind, and I suddenly understood how cartoonists come up with their ideas.

I flipped my rearview mirror to nighttime mode which dimmed the lights from the power of the sun down to a military-grade searchlight, but the light bouncing off my side mirrors was still blinding me. It was like being followed by the Luxor Hotel in Las Vegas. 

I was driving behind a couple cars that were going 60 mph. The guy behind me wasn’t content driving that speed so he tailgated me which, as we all know, was highly effective in getting all the traffic in front of me to move faster. I slowed down, encouraging him to pass me. This apparently was interpreted as an invitation to follow even more closely. Honestly, I didn’t even think it was possible to follow more closely. It was as if he was connected by a trailer hitch.

I slowed down even further and he finally, aggressively, whipped his searchlight-on-wheels around me. Of course, he was still behind a line of cars that were driving 60 mph so his angry maneuvering really didn’t grant him any gains, but he was no longer my problem. I slowly stopped seeing spots and was able to focus once more. That is, until a line of vehicles with LEDs approached me from the opposite direction and I was back to sizzling corneas and sudden onset blindness.

Back in my day, we were taught to dim our brights when approaching other cars lest we blind them. It was in the rules of the road book. It was taught in driver’s ed. It’s literally a law in Illinois (and most states). In Illinois, you must dim your high beams (switch to low beams) when an approaching vehicle is within 500 feet, and also when you are following another vehicle within 300 feet, to avoid blinding other drivers. So how is it that cars equipped with lights brighter than a supernova are allowed to be on the road? Someone help me understand the madness.

23 of the Most Bodacious Retro Home Decor Items You Need! All Under $35

One of my favorite pastimes is putting a wide array of random items in my Amazon shopping cart knowing full well I will never actually purchase any of them window shopping. 

Feeling nostalgic the other day, I searched for some retro decorations, and as usual, Amazon did not disappoint. Here, in no particular order, are 23 totally gnarly items that will make you yearn for the 80s! 

(This is not a sponsored post. It's just me wasting time while taking a break from filling out job applications. I did not order, nor did I receive any of these products for review. Each item has at least 4 stars and is under $35.)

1.  Retro Record Album Drink Coasters  $11.99

Made from vinyl and crafted to look like real records, these drink coasters are sure to be a conversation starter! The set of 6 coasters are kept neatly in place by the holder that looks just like a vintage record player.

2.  Cassette Tape Earrings  $8.99

Small and lightweight, these cassette tape earrings are sure to turn heads! Made from acrylic, complete with stainless steel French hooks.

3.  Retro Bluetooth Speaker  $16.99

This tiny speaker packs some serious sound. Bluetooth enabled, you can easily connect your device. It's the bombdiggity! Plus, it looks so cute!

4.  Typewriter Pencil Holder  $19.99

When I tell students that I learned how to type on an actual typewriter (and if I made a mistake, I had to use Wite-Out) they can't believe it. This little resin typewriter pen holder is a most triumphant addition to your desk!

5.  Blockbuster ID Badge Holder  $12.95

Who doesn't remember heading to Blockbuster Friday night to grab your weekend movies? This Blockbuster logo lanyard has a plastic holder for your ID, a hook for keys, and a breakaway closure on the strap. I'm pretty sure I need this badge holder for my new ID because it's just so totally awesome!

6.  Record Album Area Rug  $28.89

This 3 foot area rug looks just like an LP (that's long playing vinyl record for the youngsters.) Made from polyester and memory foam with a non-slip rubber backing, this is a schweet accent for any room! 

7.  Nostalgic Drive-In Theater Sign  $11.99

I remember packing our bright orange Pinto station wagon with pillows and blankets and hitting the drive-in theater. Ahhh, the good ole days! This 8x12 metal sign brings the magic of the drive-in into your home. Time to hit the kitchen for a snack!

8.  Vintage Cassette Tape Light switch Plate  $8.99

Give any room in the house a little retro flair with this cassette tape light switch plate. It's available in several colors with different music genres marked on the front like any good mixed tape!

9.  VHS Tape Notebook  $7.99

This 6x9 inch notebook contains 100 lined pages and totally looks like the case of a blank VHS tape! For those of us who still like to take notes the old fashioned way - on paper, this is a must-have!

10.  Library Card Zippered Pouches  $9.99

These library due date cards are actually a set of six 9x6 inch fabric pouches. These are just the right size for cosmetics, feminine products, or pens/pencils. If you had a mom who would give you half a stick of Juicy Fruit gum covered in purse lint and tasting like the bottle of perfume sitting next to it, you may want to use the pouch for gum or candy.

11.  NES Cartridge Coasters  $13.99

Bring back memories with these NES drink coasters! Made from engineered wood and paper, they look just like the game cartridges. Coasters feature Donkey Kong, Super Mario, Legend of Zelda and others. Thank you Mario, but our Princess is in another castle!

12.  Cassette Tape Playing Cards  $11.99

You can always use a deck of playing cards because of the phenomenon that causes at least 2 cards to go missing every time you grab a deck to play. My theory is that the ace of  spades and the 2 of diamonds are with the stray socks that also go missing on a regular basis. These water-resistant,  coated cards have a vintage distressed look that reminds one of that mixed tape they made their boyfriend decades ago.

13.  Cassette Tape Dispenser/Desk Organizer  $11.90

Think how handy this would have been back in the day! Your pencil would have been right there to wind your tape back up when it was pulled loose! This cute desk organizer looks like an old cassette tape and holds Scotch tape, pens/pencils, and other small items. An organized desk is a happy desk, and a retro-looking desk is the happiest of all!

14.  Rubik's Cube Handbag  $20.99

This fantabulous purse looks like a Rubik's Cube and features a removeable shoulder strap for carrying. It's a 6" cube so it's perfect to hold a few small items like a phone, lipgloss, and keys. What a totally radical conversation piece!

15.  Floppy Disc Coasters  $9.94

This realistic-looking set of 6 silicone, dishwasher-safe floppy discs are actually drink coasters! They're also customizable and feature space to write your own messages! Fire up that Macintosh

16.  Cassette Tape iPhone Case  $24.99

This cassette tape is actually a phone case compatible with several iPhone models. Protect your phone with this totally bodacious and durable case! And that's not all, it's customizable! Add your own unique text to the case.

17.  TV Guide Crossword Puzzle Book  $13.79

Back in the day, you couldn't stream whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted. You had to wait until it aired on TV, and we all used the TV Guide to figure out what was playing when and where. This is an excellent nostalgic gift for the crossword puzzle lover in your life. There are over 250 puzzles to keep one entertained for a long time.

18.  Card Catalogue Organizer  $30.97

Amazon calls this an apothecary cabinet which I suppose it is, but it's also reminiscent of a card catalogue. I just love the retro look of it no matter what you call it. Use these 9 drawers for tea, make-up, office supplies, or the overwhelming abundance of little stuffed mice toys that some households with cats seem to have. Ahem. 

19.  Oregon Trail Coffee Mug  $14.96

The best part off 7th grade was when you got to go to the library and play Oregon Trail! Well, until you died of dysentery, that is. Enjoy your coffee in this mug that reminds you of the hardships of the Oregon Trail (complete with image of the amazing graphics from the game.)

20.  Floppy Disc Sticky Notes  $9.99

If you're anything like me, you need reminders for everything. I'm a big fan of sticky notes and how excellent (said in my best Bill & Ted's voice) are these? This 3-pack of floppy disc-looking sticky notes contain 50 sheets per pack. Now where did I put that sticky note with my Amazon password so I can order these?

21.  Cassette Tape Zippered Wallet  $29.99

This tape cassette wallet comes in an actual tape case! Too awesome! It also comes in a variety of colors as well. It's just the right size to hold your credit cards, cash & coins. Made from recycle cassette tapes and vegan leather, who wouldn't love this? 

22.  Library Due Date Card Notebooks  $14.99

This is a set of 10 notebooks that look like vintage library due date cards with realistic stamps and an aged discoloration. Each notebook is approximately 5.5' x 8.3" and contains 60 sheets of lined paper. Throw one in your purse, your car, your kitchen junk drawer, your nightstand, wherever you might need to jot something down.

23.  Pac Man Lamp  $34.96

This LED Pac Man lamp can be used with an included USB cord or batteries, and it functions in different modes including "party mode" wherein it reacts in time to music. Eat the dots, escape the ghosts, and use this totally tubular night light for any room in your home!

How to Walk Like a Middle-Schooler. Or a Monkey. Same Thing.

It's testing season here in Florida which means students have to spend many days following a block schedule and staying in the same classroom for hours on end. After the students complete the test, they need to remain seated and silent so as not to disturb anyone else who may still be testing. The only respite from the suffocating boredom is going to the bathroom. I mean, they rarely actually need to use the facilities. I've written about that HERE. But they like to "go to the bathroom" as in leave the classroom on an adventure that has nothing to do with "Number 1 or Number 2."

Yesterday, while administering a test, a student asks to go to the bathroom. Much like seeing someone yawn, this sets off a domino effect wherein a never-ending line of students await their turn for the bathroom. 

I stand by the classroom door waiting for a student’s return before allowing another to “go to the bathroom.” As I watch, the kid comes down the hallway, his arms flailing wildly above his head while he does some sort of walk that makes him look like a marionette being controlled by a drunken monkey. As he gets closer, I see he has the clear plastic wrapper from a fruit roll-up plastered across his face. This inspired me to mentally record the interesting and creative ways middle school students ambulate.

Another student walks up and asks, "Can I get nature's perfect hydration?" Being fluent in middleschool-ese, I understand he wants to go get a drink of water. This kid skips to the water fountain and back.

The next student who returns from the bathroom is making a face that looks like a cross between Mr. Bean and a naked mole rat. Why, you ask? Because he's 12.

The following student to leave the classroom has pulled her arms inside her sweatshirt and is sort of swinging the empty arms of the shirt up and around her head like one of those inflatable noodle things you see outside car dealerships.

Then a student goes to the bathroom and upon her return, she's looking through her hands as if they're binoculars. Sometimes it's hard to find your way back to your classroom; maybe this helps her. 

The next student engages in the most common middle-school walk, slowly scuffing their feet along. I don’t know if it’s the popularity of slides and Crocs, or if earth’s gravity has changed in such a way that it simply takes too much effort to actually lift one’s foot, but kids today cannot seem to pick up their feet when they walk.

This is followed by the famous, Jump and Try to Smack the Exit Sign" maneuver wherein a 4 1/2 foot kid proves that not everyone can dunk like Jordan.

Speaking of Jordan, the next student leaves the bathroom, spins around and does a lay-up with a wad of toilet paper while shouting, "Kobe!"

A while later, a student returns from the bathroom with his eyeglasses on upside down. I shudder to think what kind of harrowing experience he had in the bathroom to return so disheveled.

Next, a kid who has been hitting himself in the ear for unknown reasons (I make a note to check in with him later to make sure he isn't hearing voices or anything) asks if he can go to the bathroom because he thinks his ear is swollen, and I have so many questions. Do you not know that repeatedly boxing your ear may make it swollen? How is draining fluid from your bladder going to make the swelling in your ear go down? I'm genuinely confused.

I let another boy go to the bathroom. On the way out the door, I thought I heard him say, "I need to put water on my head." That can't be what he said, right? He returned 2 minutes later with his head dripping wet. 

"Did you go swimming in the toilet?" I asked dumbfounded.

"No, I put water on my head."

"Why?" I ventured because apparently I like to ask stupid questions.

"Because my head was dry," came his matter-of-fact response.

Okay then.

Finally a girl is doing some sort of dance as she reenters the classroom. Maybe she thinks there's a hidden camera recording her Tik Tok moves.

Maybe next week someone will do parkour off the walls as they sojourn in the mystical bathroom. Or perhaps someone will channel The Bangles and walk like an Egyptian. The possibilities are endless with these kids.

I've Got an Itchy Trigger Finger. No, Really!

When you're young, you hurt yourself when you do something like skateboard down a hill, or jump over a parking meter, or fall from a bunkbed. When you're my age, you hurt yourself doing things like walking to your car in a parking lot, looking over your shoulder when backing out, or apparently doing nothing more than writing a grocery list. 

That's what happened to me. I hurt my thumbs (yes, plural - thumbs.) I hurt both my thumbs from doing something as innocuous as writing. Or typing. Or crocheting. Or just because I'm 53 and body parts simply cease working when you get to this age. Who knows? But both my thumbs started hurting. Then they started popping every time I bent them. They would sort of click in and out of place. Crack crack crack crack. Then (this is my favorite part) they stuck in a bent position. I couldn't straighten them by myself. You remember when your parents told you not to make faces at your sister or your face might stick like that? Well, I'm here to tell you - do not make obscene hand gestures because your hands very well might stick like that!

A couple months passed until I couldn't handle the pain anymore so I made an appointment with an orthopedist who specializes in hands. After listening to me describe the problem and listening to looking at my thumbs, he told me, “You have trigger fingers.”

The image of Yosemite Sam sputtering, “I’ve got an itchy trigger finger, ya varmints” flashed through my head.

“That’s an actual thing?” I asked the doctor. “Because, I’ve gotta say, it sounds a little made up. Did you get your degree from Looney Toons University?”

The doctor gave me a blank stare. I’m not sure if he was insulted, or if he was just gauging my mental competency. Either way, he went on to explain the validity of his diagnosis.

“I can give you a shot in both hands that should help alleviate your symptoms. If it works, great! If it doesn’t work, I could give you one more shot. 

"What are the chances it'll work? I mean, hitchhiking is really hard right now. No one knows what I'm doing with my gnarled thumb." I held up my hand to demonstrate.

"There's no way to know if it'll work for you or not. If it still doesn’t work after two shots, you’ll need surgery to correct it. But don’t worry, it’s a simple surgery. We put a numbing agent in your hand." Then, taking my hand, he drew a line with his finger indicating where he’d make an incision. "It’s just a little snip snip and you’re all done."

“Snip snip, huh? Yeah, that’s what they told my ex-husband yet here I am with 6 kids.”

His jaw dropped a little.

“Just kidding. The whole 6 kids thing was on purpose."

blank stare

"I mean, it seemed like a good idea at the time,” I shrugged.

“Okaaay then. I’ll be back in a minute.” He left to either get the injections or to beg another doctor to take over so he didn’t have to deal with me anymore.

Apparently his colleagues beat him at Rock, Paper, Scissors because he was the one who returned with a couple syringes. Shots don't typically bother me, but holy crap they hurt! It felt like I was being injected with a mixture of hot sauce, lava, and evil! My thumbs blew up like Harry Potter's Aunt Marge. 

I'm happy to report that a couple weeks later, my thumbs were all good to go! Now I have no more pain, popping, or locking. Until I do something crazy like stir a pot of spaghetti and dislocate my wrist, that is.

Where Are They Now?

People often ask me what my kids are up to these days. I started this blog over 16 years ago. It's hard to believe so much time has passed because it feels like it was just yesterday. Folks always told me, "The days are long, but the years are short." Now I fully understand the meaning of that phrase. 

Here's a brief run-down on what the kids are up to these days.

Austin is married, has a daughter and a son, and is a pastry chef.

Savannah is married, has two girls and a step-son, and is a stay-at-home mom.

Jackson lives with his girlfriend and manages a smoke shop.

Lexington lives with her fiance and is the manager of a pizza place.

Clayton lives with his girlfriend and works at a steel mill.

Brooklyn is a senior in high school, attends college at the same time, and works part-time at Lexi's restaurant.

They all still live in Florida within an hour of me.

But better than that little summary are the interviews I had with the kids. Here they are weighing in on life's important questions. I hope it makes you laugh as much as it does me!

And let me know what questions you'd like them to answer next time. :)

My Weight-Loss Journey (Otherwise Entitled: How I Haven't Lost a Single Pound)

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! I lay awake, berating myself for eating half a Pepperidge Farm coconut cake. You know, those frozen cakes that serve 8? I hadn't even taken the time to defrost it, and it's a good bet I would've eaten the entire partially-frozen cake in one sitting had my daughter not come home when she did. 

My stomach hurt, I felt like throwing up, and I had heartburn, but greater than all the physical discomfort was the crushing disappointment in myself. Yet despite the utter disgust with myself, there was a little part of my brain that was thinking, I can't wait until I get home from work tomorrow so I can eat the rest of it.

What the hell is wrong with you? the voice in my head spit out. Seriously! You ate so well all day and then completely blew it with half a cake! You've wasted your life being fat. Your whole life! Being fat has held you back from so many things. An extraordinary number of things! You won't date. You won't buy cute clothes. You won't let anyone take a full-length picture of you. You don't want to put on a bathing suit when you go to the beach. You won't do anything that'll draw attention to you. And what do you do about it? Nothing! You do nothing.

Every morning I awake with a clean slate, thinking, Today I will control myself. I'll make good decisions about food. All day. 

And every night I go to bed, a big fat failure.

Although I'll start the day with a healthy mindset: a scrambled egg with mushrooms and spinach for breakfast, some blueberries for a snack, a kale salad with rotisserie chicken, walnuts, feta, apples and balsamic vinaigrette, I'll end the day with 14 cookies, 4 slices of pizza, cheese and crackers, a bag of Hershey's kisses, half a bag of chips, and 2 stale donuts. Then I go to bed feeling sick. Sick to my stomach. Sick of my bingeing behavior. Sick of being fat. Sick of failing.

I get to a point where I try in earnest to get it together, to make healthy choices, to drop excess pounds. And it works. For a while. Maybe a day or two, maybe a week or two, or even a month or two. And then I revert to old habits in the snap of a finger. One doughnut, cookie, muffin, pastry, just one, flips a switch in my brain that starts a frenzy that ends all my hard work. I'm certain I'd be bulimic if didn't so completely detest vomiting.

I know, as people read this, I'll have well-meaning (and probably some self-serving) folks tell me about the program, plan, exercise, diet food, magical miracle whatever that changed their lives. I believe that __insert name of magical diet miracle__ worked for them and I'm truly happy for their success. I feel like pretty much any program can work for a person if they have the right mindset, and I believe that's the key - having the right mindset. I'm quite certain my mind is broken because how else do you explain how an otherwise intelligent person with a fair amount of common sense could spend FORTY years struggling with her weight? How? It's not that I don't know what to do. Eat less, move more. It's not rocket science. Yet, here I am, after literally 40 years of hating the way I look, still fat.

And now it's not just that I'm fat, or rather - obese (I love that word as much as I love the words applicable, moist, panties, and when people who don't know what literally means, use the word literally) but thanks to the magic of menopause, my health is being affected by my weight as well. I've always had excellent cholesterol and low blood pressure, but now those numbers are starting to creep up. And although I've been overweight, I could climb stairs, walk for miles, do whatever. But now I pull have to pull myself up a flight of stairs by the handrail, and when I get to the top, I look like Fred Sanford, grabbing my chest and announcing, "It's the BIG ONE!" My joints are so painful, I can't make it from the parking lot to my office without limping. I take Tylenol like Tic Tacs to deal with the pain. I have no cartilage behind my knee caps so it sounds like corn flakes being crushed under a rolling pin when I bend my knees, as the bones rub against each other. The number one way I could combat this never-ending pain? Lose weight. Simple.

I vacillate between two mindsets: Love yourself as you are, give yourself a break, stop stressing about food or the way you look.

And: What the hell is wrong with you? Show some damn control! If you don't like the way you look, it's real simple - change!

I've lost and gained the same 10 pounds a good 300 times in my life. I'm embarrassed to admit all the things I've tried and failed. But I know I can't be alone and there are others out that who can relate to the never-ending struggle. I've tried sound and sensible programs like Weight Watchers, walking, step aerobics, Omada. I've tried more alternative solutions like hypnosis, Healthy Wage, and Sensa. And I've tried the positively absurd like drinking lemon juice, cayenne pepper, and maple syrup for every meal because Kelly Kapoor did that on The Office. Or this gem from The Devil Wears Prada - I'm on this new diet. Well, I don't eat anything and when I feel like I'm about to faint I eat a cube of cheese. I have literally (and I actually mean literally) tried those. 

And I've tried everything in between - Richard Simmons Deal a Meal, Tae bo, prescription medication that curbed my appetite but made me feel like I was having a heart attack, keto, otc meds, bee pollen, Thrive, cabbage soup, Slimfast, weight loss doctor, Healthy Wage, Biggest Loser contests at work, Atkins, vegan, stationary bike, low-fat, swimming, fiber pills, Jenny Craig, My Fitness Pal, Freedom Formula, Bikram yoga, Overeaters Anonymous, Zumba, Women's Workout World, to name a few.

And here I still am. Letting my weight hold me back from living, yet not altering my habits to affect change.