Dad was a bald man. Not entirely ping-pong ball bald, mind you. He sported an unseeming comb over. Never admitting to be folicly challenged, he was the only one in the family who was aloud to make any bald jokes. Pride forced my father to sport a year round tan to distract from his lack of hair. He was a master at jaunty-angle hat wearing. I can't fathom him ever having any locks. We had one blurry picture were supposedly he had hair. I think it was just a shadow.
My Mum was the equallant of a Nordic Jackie Kennedy. Beautiful in an unpretentious type of way. An accident in her childhood caused her to lose most of her hearing. She would ineffectively try to read lips to understand our conversations. This caused most our dialog to be utterly chaotic. But we never referred to her as deaf, our Mum was hard of hearing.
I was raised on a farm in the northern most part of the state. Dad worked outside the farm, Mum took care of the house and kids. In my most vivid memorys, Mum was always wearing curlers. Not the little soft pink spongy ones. The hard bristle ones with teeth that would bite you in the head. My sister would have to cut those beasts out of my tangles if I tried setting my hair with them. Shortly after breakfast they would appear in Mum's head. They were her uniform as she whent about her housework. Easy to spot when she was out in the garden. Seldom did she try covering them up. No jaunty scarves were used to hid them when she did go into town. Isolated as we were, fashion and glamour where not top priority's to my Mum at that time.
Like clockwork though, every day when dinner was cooking on the stove at 5:00, Mum would sit down at her dressing table and finally take out those tubular devices of torture. She would run a comb over her newly freed scalp. Or just tussle her curls with her fingers, right before Dad walked in the door home from work. It was his ritual was to sit down at the dinner table close to Mum. Took me years to figure out who's curlers those were.
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
Sunday, July 25, 2004
One Whipped Munkay
This was a very good weekend. Other than when my hubby tried to take me out. Literally.
Saturday mornings we all sleep in. It is tradition in our household to have a big breakfast together . Hubby is usually the one doing the cooking. These are not fare to be taken like a little girl. We are talking eggs, potatoes, toast, meat, and back up meat served in lumbar jack sized proportions. And all fried with an extra side of butter.
I do not wake up to the tantalizing aromas wafting up to my slumbering body but to the loud bellers of ,"MOM! MOM! MOM! COME AND EAT. NOW!"
I shuffle down the stairs and slump in a stool at our counter and consume the weeks worth of calories disguised as breakfast. That in it's self would of killed an ordinary munkay.
That was just the first step in my honeys plan for my undoing. The covert operation that my boys had concocted was to get me up and out into the boat fishing. Not that I am opposed to the pleasures of fishing in anyway. I bait my own hook. All that. For the first million fishing trips of the season. It's the million and one trip that it gets old. As much as I would like to believe that it is my charming company they want in the boat, I know that I am only half fooling myself. It is just my body they desire. The more bodies in the boat, the higher number of fish they can catch. That and the lunch they know I will pack. Not that I am a bad fisher munkay mind you. I can out fish and out catch the best of them. I just now get twitchy in a confined space .
"So Munkay Bitch (only hubby calls me that), you feel like going out on the boat with us today?", he askes as I sleepily sop my eggs up with my toast. "No." "Maybe you didn't understand, we are going out fishing?" "No." "As a family, all of us, out fishing." "No." "In the boat", he persists. "I'll take you out fishing, you want us to go out more often", he is trolling patheticly. "No". "I'll let you sit up front?", he wheedles. I always sit in the front, that is no special new privalidge. "Ummm....NO", I answer waving my bacon with dismissal. This starts the "Please go fishing chant." Please go fishing- please go fishing-please go fishing." I could barely finish my hub cap portion of hash browns. The chorus soon deteariates into, "Go fishing- go fishing, repetedly as I leave the room with my tea cup.
I am upstairs brushing my teeth when I hear someone trying to sneak up the stairs. A not-too-subliminal whisper reaches my ears. "Youu want tooo gooo fishinggg", I hear the ghost like voice try to convince me. "You must goo fishinggg". I close and lock my bedroom door as I change into my running bra top and shorts.
When I come back downstairs I see they already have the boat trailer hooked to our truck and the boys are inside it waiting to go. Hubby is filling the cooler with boat survival food from the fridge, regardless to the fact that after all we just had eaten, we would not need to feed again for another month or so. I plop down on the floor and began lacing up my Nikes.
"Last chance Munkay, boats heading out", he tries one last time. "Nope, got things to do, is my final answer". "I'm no longer asking, I'm telling you, get in the boat", he says now standing over me. "Got places to go", I reply as I'm finishing the last lace. Nice of him to wait until I was properly shod until he jumped on top of me. He used a bunge cord to tie my arms over my head to the pedestal leg of the dining room table. I snorted with laughter as he did, knowing I was in no immediate danger. He couldn't possible drag me and the table out to the boat. If I just lay calmly he would leave and I would be able to unknot the cord with a little effort. "Still not fishing here", I taunt his backside from my floor view.
Then that creator of fire and brimstone walked back to the fridge and pulled a can of Redi Whip out. Still not upset I'm thinking, "Yum, oh threaten me with that." As he walked to my prone form, shaking the can, I realized my entire navel was venerably exposed. Hubby squirts a little in his mouth, letting it ooze out the sides of his mouth so he looks like a rapid critter. Exaggeratedly he lickes it off and rolls his eyes wildly. I am screaming like a maniac and pulling my legs up in a feeble fetal position trying to protect my midrift. My begs of mercy go unheeded as kids are sitting out in the truck waiting to go. Hub grabs my ankles and pulls them strait as I flop crazily like a fish out of water. He then pins down on my legs and fills my belly button with cream. Wagging his tongs like the snake that he is he starts lapping the fluff out of my middle. At this point I'm making inhuman noises and trying not to pee my lycra shorts. Honey had not bothered to shave that morning so next he is tickling my stomach with his grizzle which evolves into belly fart kissing. Maybe it was the sounds of a wounded elk I was bleeting, or the fact that the boys had waited long enough, but they came bursting through the door near us. At first the sight of their father with whipped cream smeared all over his face, or me tied to our table with a bellyful, they stopped short. But only for a heartbeat. They dropped to their knees to get in a lick in too.
In the end I did go out fishing. Once I stopped hyperventalating and changed my clothes, I even enjoyed myself. Just goes to prove, you catch more munkays with whip cream, than honey. It's all how you ask.
Saturday mornings we all sleep in. It is tradition in our household to have a big breakfast together . Hubby is usually the one doing the cooking. These are not fare to be taken like a little girl. We are talking eggs, potatoes, toast, meat, and back up meat served in lumbar jack sized proportions. And all fried with an extra side of butter.
I do not wake up to the tantalizing aromas wafting up to my slumbering body but to the loud bellers of ,"MOM! MOM! MOM! COME AND EAT. NOW!"
I shuffle down the stairs and slump in a stool at our counter and consume the weeks worth of calories disguised as breakfast. That in it's self would of killed an ordinary munkay.
That was just the first step in my honeys plan for my undoing. The covert operation that my boys had concocted was to get me up and out into the boat fishing. Not that I am opposed to the pleasures of fishing in anyway. I bait my own hook. All that. For the first million fishing trips of the season. It's the million and one trip that it gets old. As much as I would like to believe that it is my charming company they want in the boat, I know that I am only half fooling myself. It is just my body they desire. The more bodies in the boat, the higher number of fish they can catch. That and the lunch they know I will pack. Not that I am a bad fisher munkay mind you. I can out fish and out catch the best of them. I just now get twitchy in a confined space .
"So Munkay Bitch (only hubby calls me that), you feel like going out on the boat with us today?", he askes as I sleepily sop my eggs up with my toast. "No." "Maybe you didn't understand, we are going out fishing?" "No." "As a family, all of us, out fishing." "No." "In the boat", he persists. "I'll take you out fishing, you want us to go out more often", he is trolling patheticly. "No". "I'll let you sit up front?", he wheedles. I always sit in the front, that is no special new privalidge. "Ummm....NO", I answer waving my bacon with dismissal. This starts the "Please go fishing chant." Please go fishing- please go fishing-please go fishing." I could barely finish my hub cap portion of hash browns. The chorus soon deteariates into, "Go fishing- go fishing, repetedly as I leave the room with my tea cup.
I am upstairs brushing my teeth when I hear someone trying to sneak up the stairs. A not-too-subliminal whisper reaches my ears. "Youu want tooo gooo fishinggg", I hear the ghost like voice try to convince me. "You must goo fishinggg". I close and lock my bedroom door as I change into my running bra top and shorts.
When I come back downstairs I see they already have the boat trailer hooked to our truck and the boys are inside it waiting to go. Hubby is filling the cooler with boat survival food from the fridge, regardless to the fact that after all we just had eaten, we would not need to feed again for another month or so. I plop down on the floor and began lacing up my Nikes.
"Last chance Munkay, boats heading out", he tries one last time. "Nope, got things to do, is my final answer". "I'm no longer asking, I'm telling you, get in the boat", he says now standing over me. "Got places to go", I reply as I'm finishing the last lace. Nice of him to wait until I was properly shod until he jumped on top of me. He used a bunge cord to tie my arms over my head to the pedestal leg of the dining room table. I snorted with laughter as he did, knowing I was in no immediate danger. He couldn't possible drag me and the table out to the boat. If I just lay calmly he would leave and I would be able to unknot the cord with a little effort. "Still not fishing here", I taunt his backside from my floor view.
Then that creator of fire and brimstone walked back to the fridge and pulled a can of Redi Whip out. Still not upset I'm thinking, "Yum, oh threaten me with that." As he walked to my prone form, shaking the can, I realized my entire navel was venerably exposed. Hubby squirts a little in his mouth, letting it ooze out the sides of his mouth so he looks like a rapid critter. Exaggeratedly he lickes it off and rolls his eyes wildly. I am screaming like a maniac and pulling my legs up in a feeble fetal position trying to protect my midrift. My begs of mercy go unheeded as kids are sitting out in the truck waiting to go. Hub grabs my ankles and pulls them strait as I flop crazily like a fish out of water. He then pins down on my legs and fills my belly button with cream. Wagging his tongs like the snake that he is he starts lapping the fluff out of my middle. At this point I'm making inhuman noises and trying not to pee my lycra shorts. Honey had not bothered to shave that morning so next he is tickling my stomach with his grizzle which evolves into belly fart kissing. Maybe it was the sounds of a wounded elk I was bleeting, or the fact that the boys had waited long enough, but they came bursting through the door near us. At first the sight of their father with whipped cream smeared all over his face, or me tied to our table with a bellyful, they stopped short. But only for a heartbeat. They dropped to their knees to get in a lick in too.
In the end I did go out fishing. Once I stopped hyperventalating and changed my clothes, I even enjoyed myself. Just goes to prove, you catch more munkays with whip cream, than honey. It's all how you ask.
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
Bittersweet
It was seventeen years ago today my twins were born. I was only a little older than seventeen myself when they were. They made their grand entrance into this world during the rain storm of the century. A storm so severe and with so much downfall it only occurs every hundred years or so. Some highways flooded, off ramps were closed. Hubby, my then boyfriend, had to take many detours to make it to the inner city hospital I had been transported too. It didn't matter if he made it in time or not. I would not let him into the delivery room with me because I didn't want him to see me in labor.
Early that morning, he had dropped my off in the local emergency room on his way to work. Having lost weight during my pregnacy instead of gaining, we had just assumed I was ill once again from dehydration. When the admitting nurse examined me, stethoscope in her ear to check my babies heart rate, she placed her hands on my swollen abdomen, and exclaimed, "Your as hard a rock! Your in labor!". This was news to me. Having been to sick the previous nine months earlier to attend a parenting class, I had no idea what to expect.
My diabetes had caused complications during my incubation time. Being new in the cities, young and unmarried, away from my family, I had felt very isolated. "Steal Magnolas" had just came out in video. I had no medical insurance coverage. I was an extremely high risk case. I understood why they were shipping me to a bigger facility. A huge piece of me died in that trip into St. Paul.
I was delegated to the charity ward of the hospital and it was an intern with extra time and in need of experience who took care of me. Him and evil nurse who's face I refuse to remember. Not having coverage, I was denighed any pain killers for my contractions. "You don't need it", I was told, "Your babies are small."
I rocked and moaned and panted that night under the nurses instruction. Ironically, I had too much dignity to scream. I made the intern rub my back. In between I would shut my eyes and pretend I wasn't there and it wasn't happening to me.
When Jon finally emerged I had only abrief view of him. He resembled my Chatty Brother baby doll. Beautiful, perfect and blond. As still and white and cold as the table underneath us. Other than a few grainy ultra-sound pictures I never seen Jan. I screwed my eyes up tight shut and would not open them again, preferring to listen to the sound of the rain falling outside my window. The sounds of my boyfriends sobs drown them out when he was evenually allowed into my room.
The pressure of closing my eyes so tightly left me with bruise circles like a raccoon around my eyes. But few tears were able to leak through. I did not know how to grieve, or being in my circumstance, that I was aloud too.
I give myself that luxury now. I also remember their birthday every year. I used to question why all that pain? Most difficult pregnancy have a happy ending with a baby. My pain only ended in more pain. As I look at my two sons I have with me to eat the twin's birthday cake, I understand now why God had chosen to give my twins the direct route into heaven. Not to cause me any sadness, but instead they only know bliss. I was not ready to be a mom back then. I value my living children more because of them.
As I cut and passed put the chocolate chip cheese cake, it was my older son, K1, who noticed the sadness lingering behind my eyes. Handinghis friends, the Jakes, forks to eat with us he said, "Thats ok Mom, you still have four boys." Leave it to K1 to put things into prespective.
Early that morning, he had dropped my off in the local emergency room on his way to work. Having lost weight during my pregnacy instead of gaining, we had just assumed I was ill once again from dehydration. When the admitting nurse examined me, stethoscope in her ear to check my babies heart rate, she placed her hands on my swollen abdomen, and exclaimed, "Your as hard a rock! Your in labor!". This was news to me. Having been to sick the previous nine months earlier to attend a parenting class, I had no idea what to expect.
My diabetes had caused complications during my incubation time. Being new in the cities, young and unmarried, away from my family, I had felt very isolated. "Steal Magnolas" had just came out in video. I had no medical insurance coverage. I was an extremely high risk case. I understood why they were shipping me to a bigger facility. A huge piece of me died in that trip into St. Paul.
I was delegated to the charity ward of the hospital and it was an intern with extra time and in need of experience who took care of me. Him and evil nurse who's face I refuse to remember. Not having coverage, I was denighed any pain killers for my contractions. "You don't need it", I was told, "Your babies are small."
I rocked and moaned and panted that night under the nurses instruction. Ironically, I had too much dignity to scream. I made the intern rub my back. In between I would shut my eyes and pretend I wasn't there and it wasn't happening to me.
When Jon finally emerged I had only abrief view of him. He resembled my Chatty Brother baby doll. Beautiful, perfect and blond. As still and white and cold as the table underneath us. Other than a few grainy ultra-sound pictures I never seen Jan. I screwed my eyes up tight shut and would not open them again, preferring to listen to the sound of the rain falling outside my window. The sounds of my boyfriends sobs drown them out when he was evenually allowed into my room.
The pressure of closing my eyes so tightly left me with bruise circles like a raccoon around my eyes. But few tears were able to leak through. I did not know how to grieve, or being in my circumstance, that I was aloud too.
I give myself that luxury now. I also remember their birthday every year. I used to question why all that pain? Most difficult pregnancy have a happy ending with a baby. My pain only ended in more pain. As I look at my two sons I have with me to eat the twin's birthday cake, I understand now why God had chosen to give my twins the direct route into heaven. Not to cause me any sadness, but instead they only know bliss. I was not ready to be a mom back then. I value my living children more because of them.
As I cut and passed put the chocolate chip cheese cake, it was my older son, K1, who noticed the sadness lingering behind my eyes. Handinghis friends, the Jakes, forks to eat with us he said, "Thats ok Mom, you still have four boys." Leave it to K1 to put things into prespective.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
A Different Label Please
We all have different labels attached to us. As we grow older, the more catatagories with names we fall in. Wife, mother, medical oddity, ectera.
I do not tell people when I first am introduced that I am a walking experiment. After I know them awhile and are comfortable, I fill in the details as to why I drag a wheel barrow filled with pills and back up pills where ever I go. I try to the avoid that moment immediately after I tell them that I am a transplant patient. I now expect to see that glimmer of pity in their eyes, followed by their sharp intake of breath as they unconsciously take a step back from me as if I were contagious. That is most often replaced by a look of amazement when they hear the rest of my story.
When I was a camp counselor in my teens at a diabetic camp for children with insulin dependent diabetes, the other young adults discussed how they refused to introduce themselves as being labeled a diabetic. The politically correct terminology was to say,"I am Munkay Girl, and I have diabetes." This was so you would not be identified as a diabetic, but a person first, who happens to have a disease. Funny, never a once when the paramedic were called to revive my unconscious form did I bother to introduce myself in that correct way. I was lucky if I could say the word diabetes. That label never bothered me. It was part of me.
But now I am looking for a more user friendly name for myself. I am working on compiling a list. Let me know what you think.
Instead of transplant patient, I am now to be addressed by any of the following:
transient cell receptor
CM (cell munkay)
tranny planny (sounds kinda gay)
the symbol similar to what Prince called himself, but shaped more like a pancreas
incubation unit
experimental organ munkay
cell relocation factant
Miz Munkay (if your nasty)
transient test primate
cooked in a lab
the walking dead (hubbies name, my cells came from a cadaver donor)
tissue relocation unit
Please feel free to add to my list under the comments area. Any names containing the words perfect, extordinary, and wonder, will receive my immediate approval. All referances to being a lab rat will be automaticly rejected.
I do not tell people when I first am introduced that I am a walking experiment. After I know them awhile and are comfortable, I fill in the details as to why I drag a wheel barrow filled with pills and back up pills where ever I go. I try to the avoid that moment immediately after I tell them that I am a transplant patient. I now expect to see that glimmer of pity in their eyes, followed by their sharp intake of breath as they unconsciously take a step back from me as if I were contagious. That is most often replaced by a look of amazement when they hear the rest of my story.
When I was a camp counselor in my teens at a diabetic camp for children with insulin dependent diabetes, the other young adults discussed how they refused to introduce themselves as being labeled a diabetic. The politically correct terminology was to say,"I am Munkay Girl, and I have diabetes." This was so you would not be identified as a diabetic, but a person first, who happens to have a disease. Funny, never a once when the paramedic were called to revive my unconscious form did I bother to introduce myself in that correct way. I was lucky if I could say the word diabetes. That label never bothered me. It was part of me.
But now I am looking for a more user friendly name for myself. I am working on compiling a list. Let me know what you think.
Instead of transplant patient, I am now to be addressed by any of the following:
transient cell receptor
CM (cell munkay)
tranny planny (sounds kinda gay)
the symbol similar to what Prince called himself, but shaped more like a pancreas
incubation unit
experimental organ munkay
cell relocation factant
Miz Munkay (if your nasty)
transient test primate
cooked in a lab
the walking dead (hubbies name, my cells came from a cadaver donor)
tissue relocation unit
Please feel free to add to my list under the comments area. Any names containing the words perfect, extordinary, and wonder, will receive my immediate approval. All referances to being a lab rat will be automaticly rejected.
Hot Wrasslin Munkay
Every summer down in the southern part of the state, the local brewery puts on an event called Heritagefest. It is held in a beautiful quaint little town settled and inhabited by mostly Germans. The houses are gorgeous brick and gingerbread turn of the century design, complete with torrents and gabled roofs. There are sausage meat markets on just about every block. Part of the fun is seeing the extreme difference a few miles can make. I am not German, I am Scandinavian and reside in a dala horse, toll painted type community where the local butcher advertises bulk herring in his window. My husband is German though, and I love him anyway.
The boys and I stumbled on this event quite by accident a few years back. Now we go every summer. Most of the attendee's are well past middle age. There are tents set up offering German delicacies, crafts, and of course, beer. Lots and lots of beer. The only thing that rivals the amount of beer tents are the number of polka bands that are playing there.
Strangely enough, in this festive party atmosphere, I never see anyone smile. Laughter is quite unheard of. I made a bet with my hubby last time we went together that he would not be smiled at once. He paid up by buying me a funnel cake. Maybe it is because we go during the day, but every one walks around with dour expressions on their faces. Course make me wear one of those wool costumes the frou's dress in during the heat of the summer, or leather shorts and I would tend to be cranky also. But how can you listen to that bouncy ethnic music and not grin? The music is wonderful, but the people sit in the tents and watch like glass turtles on a rock, afraid to move encase they break a smile.
Not my little group of tow headed monkeys. We stick out. Bright smiley faces in the gloom. We dance inside the tents and out. Would be nice if we actually knew how to polka but we wing it. And laugh out loud as we try, resembling Elaine on Stienfield's horrible dance moves, but well past caring. We drink. It does not take long to get a tasty beverage as noone else dares to indulge. I buy a strange imported beer, we all take a sip, my boys included, and then we set it down, and dance away. The kids and I have never finished a beer, that first cold taste is all we want.
The Germans watch our shenanigans stoakly from the sidelines. Some will shake their grim heads disapprovingly. A few of the descendants of mixed marriages (German intermarriage with those nationality not humor challenged), will smirk.
Last year the promoters tried to liven things up to attract a younger attendance. They brought in a climbing wall. Serious miss call after a few beers. They introduced tuba-mania. Basically a parade of tube players of all ages and skill levels. Yet another thing not enjoyable after beer. They did though make an impressive mountainous tuba sculpture out of old discarded tubas. My youngest son thought it was another climbing wall, and to my chagrin scaled it to try blowing it's only intact mouthpiece at the very top. Poor guy was quite disappointed after all that hard work he wasn't able to get a sound to come out of that monster.
This year we were unable to make the three hour drive to the event. My hubby calles me excitedly from the coast where he is working during the week. "Munkay Bitch, you know what they had at Heritagefest this year?", he yells,"SOUR KRAUT WRESSLING"I just watched it on TV, it was nationally televised!!!!!" That is about as excited as I hear my German hubby ever get. The boys and I embarrass him so much that he no longer goes with us. I'm picturing large red faced serious lederhosen clad men, drinking steins in hand, watching big sullen frous throwing down the smack. Leave it to to them to take a generally erotic sport and turn it into pure nasty. Imagine the smell and the mess. I love it. I soo want to try it. My fighting weight rings up at about a buck and a quarter. Approximately eight pounds of that is hair and munkay tail. Put me into the ring and I'd wear my opponent out by flinging kraut at them like a chimp tossing her own stink . I just couldn't handle the drive home with fermenting cabbage reeking in all my hair.
I'm working at getting cheese wressling happen at the bistro. Maybe throw down a challenge for Wisconsin to venture over the state line to show us what they are made of. Bring your own crackers. But chocolate would be my ideal food item of choice. Of course I'd have to be first in the ring. "Oops, I'm falling! Before my compitition enters. Blup....blup..." "1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9" the count starts. "Noo- I'm up, I'm up, ....ooops!" Face down I land. Again and again
The boys and I stumbled on this event quite by accident a few years back. Now we go every summer. Most of the attendee's are well past middle age. There are tents set up offering German delicacies, crafts, and of course, beer. Lots and lots of beer. The only thing that rivals the amount of beer tents are the number of polka bands that are playing there.
Strangely enough, in this festive party atmosphere, I never see anyone smile. Laughter is quite unheard of. I made a bet with my hubby last time we went together that he would not be smiled at once. He paid up by buying me a funnel cake. Maybe it is because we go during the day, but every one walks around with dour expressions on their faces. Course make me wear one of those wool costumes the frou's dress in during the heat of the summer, or leather shorts and I would tend to be cranky also. But how can you listen to that bouncy ethnic music and not grin? The music is wonderful, but the people sit in the tents and watch like glass turtles on a rock, afraid to move encase they break a smile.
Not my little group of tow headed monkeys. We stick out. Bright smiley faces in the gloom. We dance inside the tents and out. Would be nice if we actually knew how to polka but we wing it. And laugh out loud as we try, resembling Elaine on Stienfield's horrible dance moves, but well past caring. We drink. It does not take long to get a tasty beverage as noone else dares to indulge. I buy a strange imported beer, we all take a sip, my boys included, and then we set it down, and dance away. The kids and I have never finished a beer, that first cold taste is all we want.
The Germans watch our shenanigans stoakly from the sidelines. Some will shake their grim heads disapprovingly. A few of the descendants of mixed marriages (German intermarriage with those nationality not humor challenged), will smirk.
Last year the promoters tried to liven things up to attract a younger attendance. They brought in a climbing wall. Serious miss call after a few beers. They introduced tuba-mania. Basically a parade of tube players of all ages and skill levels. Yet another thing not enjoyable after beer. They did though make an impressive mountainous tuba sculpture out of old discarded tubas. My youngest son thought it was another climbing wall, and to my chagrin scaled it to try blowing it's only intact mouthpiece at the very top. Poor guy was quite disappointed after all that hard work he wasn't able to get a sound to come out of that monster.
This year we were unable to make the three hour drive to the event. My hubby calles me excitedly from the coast where he is working during the week. "Munkay Bitch, you know what they had at Heritagefest this year?", he yells,"SOUR KRAUT WRESSLING"I just watched it on TV, it was nationally televised!!!!!" That is about as excited as I hear my German hubby ever get. The boys and I embarrass him so much that he no longer goes with us. I'm picturing large red faced serious lederhosen clad men, drinking steins in hand, watching big sullen frous throwing down the smack. Leave it to to them to take a generally erotic sport and turn it into pure nasty. Imagine the smell and the mess. I love it. I soo want to try it. My fighting weight rings up at about a buck and a quarter. Approximately eight pounds of that is hair and munkay tail. Put me into the ring and I'd wear my opponent out by flinging kraut at them like a chimp tossing her own stink . I just couldn't handle the drive home with fermenting cabbage reeking in all my hair.
I'm working at getting cheese wressling happen at the bistro. Maybe throw down a challenge for Wisconsin to venture over the state line to show us what they are made of. Bring your own crackers. But chocolate would be my ideal food item of choice. Of course I'd have to be first in the ring. "Oops, I'm falling! Before my compitition enters. Blup....blup..." "1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9" the count starts. "Noo- I'm up, I'm up, ....ooops!" Face down I land. Again and again
Monday, July 19, 2004
31 Flavors of Pain
I stand in front of the open double doors of my fridge, clueless to what it is I'm looking for. What am I too cook? I need to something very good. But today I am cooking my very least favorite sustenance, today I make funeral food.
It isn't a catering job where at lease I know someone will enjoy dining however fleeting during the reception following the farewell service as they visit with old aquaitences and seldom seen relatives. It is comfort food to be taken to a good friend.
When I deliver meals on wheels to the seniors, I cook little treats and smile as I slip them in the prepackaged dinners that are mass produced and without and personality. I always hope they notice the homade goody and hope it brings back happy memorys of their earlier lives.
As I drop off the dinners to the people who have been sick or hurt, the thought that they are on the mend always cheers me. Sometimes I even get to hold their newborn babies when I do.
I love preparing party food. Birthday cakes are a joy.
But in this area, a nice bland hotdish is the mandate condolence food, perhalps a pan of bars. Some type of meal to let them know you care and help them have one less detail to worry about as they go about the arranments necessary for their loved ones final goodbye.
Nothing I can make will taste right. For my shellshocked friend nothing will have taste. I long to make something so spicy he at lease momentarily think of something other than the vile emptiness lingering now in his belly. But I would hate to cause him anymore heartburn.
I finally decide on fresh peach ice cream. I hope it's coldness doesn't depress him.
It isn't a catering job where at lease I know someone will enjoy dining however fleeting during the reception following the farewell service as they visit with old aquaitences and seldom seen relatives. It is comfort food to be taken to a good friend.
When I deliver meals on wheels to the seniors, I cook little treats and smile as I slip them in the prepackaged dinners that are mass produced and without and personality. I always hope they notice the homade goody and hope it brings back happy memorys of their earlier lives.
As I drop off the dinners to the people who have been sick or hurt, the thought that they are on the mend always cheers me. Sometimes I even get to hold their newborn babies when I do.
I love preparing party food. Birthday cakes are a joy.
But in this area, a nice bland hotdish is the mandate condolence food, perhalps a pan of bars. Some type of meal to let them know you care and help them have one less detail to worry about as they go about the arranments necessary for their loved ones final goodbye.
Nothing I can make will taste right. For my shellshocked friend nothing will have taste. I long to make something so spicy he at lease momentarily think of something other than the vile emptiness lingering now in his belly. But I would hate to cause him anymore heartburn.
I finally decide on fresh peach ice cream. I hope it's coldness doesn't depress him.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
How to Draw Beauty
Ever wonder to yourself how you can find a higher quality of possible dates? Tell me you haven't once pondered kicking up the bar of the appearance of those in your personal vicinity? Yearn of filling your immediate surroundings with the hottest of eyecandy?
I have come up with my own tried and true, never fail way of finding the most attractive people in a hundred mile radius of you. Maybe even the tri-state area. But you must follow my directions on how to go about finding these cuties to the letter, no skimping or corner cutting or the success rate falls faster than prom night undies.
The day before you set aside as the hottie viewing day is vital. First you must stop for ice cream. A gallon minimum. Don't hold back now. Pick up the ingredients for a killer sundae while your at it. Lots of nuts, fudge sauce, whipped cream, the works. Once you get home change into your most comfortable rags that barely pass as clothes. Borrowing your sons old ripped gym shorts with baggy ass and the elastic that quit is always a good bet. A nice shirt from the eighties the well meaning neibhor outgrew and you haven't had the heart to throw out will compliment this look. Don't waste time fussing over yourself or matching your clothes, you have serious work to do.
Next find the most disgusting job you have been putting off around the house to tackle. Use this time to clean out the gutters. Change the leaky litter box. Hell, for that matter, mix up all the left over paint cans out in the garage. The stinkier and dirtier the better.
Now without changing reward yourself to that hard earned sundae. Eat the whole gallon. Lick out the chocolate topping container smearing it across your face without a thought to the pimples breaking out on you as you eat.
Let your guilt get the best of you and go for a run to work off the calories you just consumed. Don't have to go far, just to the end of your driveway if thats what it takes for you to break a nice sweat. The more the glow the better. Never, I repeat never change your clothes.
Walk back into the kitchen and eat the left over Chinese take out straight out of the containers. Garlic chicken is good for the odor and spillability. The high salt content will help with your bloat factor.
Before you fall exhausted staight into your bed, dunk your hair under running water- but defiantly don't use any soap or shampoo. Skip drying and combing it.
The next morning is hottie viewing day. As much as you now long to peel off your disgusting clothes and toss in the trash before you jump in the shower, abstain. Opt for brushing your teeth instead. Knowing you will be puffy and broke out, do not look in the mirror to remember to wash off the little white toothpaste residue drool hanging out of the corners of your mouth.
Now is the time you will remember your taxes are due, or some other extremely important reason why you must leave the house. Without hesitation jump right on getting that done. Grab the previously stamped envelope and drive to the post office planning on dropping it in the drive threw drop box unseen. When you arrive there you will glance down and notice the stamp is your kids Scooby-Doo stamp and you must now venture inside the building to purchase a real stamp.
Slink into the busy building with your eyes downcast and assume the fly on the wall pose as you stand in line. Pray as you slouch there noone reconizes the stinky, bloated, zit covered rag-a-muffin with horrific bedhead as you stare at the tops of your mismatched flip flops.
Guaranteed when the line infront of you moves, the person right in front of you will turn around (maybe to detect the source of your putrid odor). He will be the most gorgeous male you have seen, surpasing even your wildest dreams. He will even be nice as he bounces back from his initial recoil from your appearance to tell you, "You have a little something right... there", as he is brave enough to touch the side of your mouth. Instinctively you will do the self conscious thing and turn away, were standing right behind you is a GQ underwear model also mailing his taxes. Would be nice if you have a witty pick up line ready for when these occurrences happen, or at least a plausible excuse for a bad everything day. Unfortunately though I usually just go into a mini convulsion and start squalking in a new language.
This trick is also good if you are in need of counseling, education or religion. The night before instead must be spent in a bar. Extra effective if you use your shirt as a bar rag, and pass out in your car. When you wake up the next morning staring at the plate of brownies meant for the church's bake sale, you will remember that was were you were supposed to be the night before instead of having jello shots drunk off your navel by a guy named Bubba. Conscience soul that you are you will drive directly to the event already in progress. As you walk in proudly holding your charitable contribution and reeking of stale smoke, you will run into your pastor who is speaking with your professor. Next thing you know, you will be talking to your councilor.
The other day I tried out my beauty drawing theory once again. Going through a rainy spell I had been forced to stay inside in my pajamas and eat. And eat. Early afternoon the sun pokes out suddenly and I seize my chance to run out and jump on my ridding lawn mower and take down my front yard that is fast becoming a rainforest. But first I don a hat, after all I am still wearing my acne creme in dots all over my face. I figure in all the eight seconds or so it takes my neibhors to drive by, they won't get a good chance to see me, they will be too busy admiring my freshly cut lawn.
First pass and I am alongside the road trying to get as close to the landscaping rocks as I can when my mower gets hung up on them. Being a reasonable woman with too much caffeine in me I start yelling obscenities. Knowing if I get off the machine, it's automatic kill switch will shutdown the motor and I am not able to both push and steer my lawn tractor at the same time. So I use my weight to try to rock it off. I am throwing my body in a seated position back against the seat, then forward against the wheel for momentum. I am busy humping my mower and grunting in effort when I see a hand signaling me to cut the engine. The hand is attached to a very well muscled arm, that is attached to some very broad shoulders. Shirtless six-pack jogger pushes me clear of the rocks. This guy lives in my neiborhood? Sure hope he believed I was just with the lawn service and the lady of the house, my well groomed twin sister, would never be caught dead looking like that. What really came out of my mouth was, "Squaaa-ahh-twitch- twitchy-ack-ack waa."
I have come up with my own tried and true, never fail way of finding the most attractive people in a hundred mile radius of you. Maybe even the tri-state area. But you must follow my directions on how to go about finding these cuties to the letter, no skimping or corner cutting or the success rate falls faster than prom night undies.
The day before you set aside as the hottie viewing day is vital. First you must stop for ice cream. A gallon minimum. Don't hold back now. Pick up the ingredients for a killer sundae while your at it. Lots of nuts, fudge sauce, whipped cream, the works. Once you get home change into your most comfortable rags that barely pass as clothes. Borrowing your sons old ripped gym shorts with baggy ass and the elastic that quit is always a good bet. A nice shirt from the eighties the well meaning neibhor outgrew and you haven't had the heart to throw out will compliment this look. Don't waste time fussing over yourself or matching your clothes, you have serious work to do.
Next find the most disgusting job you have been putting off around the house to tackle. Use this time to clean out the gutters. Change the leaky litter box. Hell, for that matter, mix up all the left over paint cans out in the garage. The stinkier and dirtier the better.
Now without changing reward yourself to that hard earned sundae. Eat the whole gallon. Lick out the chocolate topping container smearing it across your face without a thought to the pimples breaking out on you as you eat.
Let your guilt get the best of you and go for a run to work off the calories you just consumed. Don't have to go far, just to the end of your driveway if thats what it takes for you to break a nice sweat. The more the glow the better. Never, I repeat never change your clothes.
Walk back into the kitchen and eat the left over Chinese take out straight out of the containers. Garlic chicken is good for the odor and spillability. The high salt content will help with your bloat factor.
Before you fall exhausted staight into your bed, dunk your hair under running water- but defiantly don't use any soap or shampoo. Skip drying and combing it.
The next morning is hottie viewing day. As much as you now long to peel off your disgusting clothes and toss in the trash before you jump in the shower, abstain. Opt for brushing your teeth instead. Knowing you will be puffy and broke out, do not look in the mirror to remember to wash off the little white toothpaste residue drool hanging out of the corners of your mouth.
Now is the time you will remember your taxes are due, or some other extremely important reason why you must leave the house. Without hesitation jump right on getting that done. Grab the previously stamped envelope and drive to the post office planning on dropping it in the drive threw drop box unseen. When you arrive there you will glance down and notice the stamp is your kids Scooby-Doo stamp and you must now venture inside the building to purchase a real stamp.
Slink into the busy building with your eyes downcast and assume the fly on the wall pose as you stand in line. Pray as you slouch there noone reconizes the stinky, bloated, zit covered rag-a-muffin with horrific bedhead as you stare at the tops of your mismatched flip flops.
Guaranteed when the line infront of you moves, the person right in front of you will turn around (maybe to detect the source of your putrid odor). He will be the most gorgeous male you have seen, surpasing even your wildest dreams. He will even be nice as he bounces back from his initial recoil from your appearance to tell you, "You have a little something right... there", as he is brave enough to touch the side of your mouth. Instinctively you will do the self conscious thing and turn away, were standing right behind you is a GQ underwear model also mailing his taxes. Would be nice if you have a witty pick up line ready for when these occurrences happen, or at least a plausible excuse for a bad everything day. Unfortunately though I usually just go into a mini convulsion and start squalking in a new language.
This trick is also good if you are in need of counseling, education or religion. The night before instead must be spent in a bar. Extra effective if you use your shirt as a bar rag, and pass out in your car. When you wake up the next morning staring at the plate of brownies meant for the church's bake sale, you will remember that was were you were supposed to be the night before instead of having jello shots drunk off your navel by a guy named Bubba. Conscience soul that you are you will drive directly to the event already in progress. As you walk in proudly holding your charitable contribution and reeking of stale smoke, you will run into your pastor who is speaking with your professor. Next thing you know, you will be talking to your councilor.
The other day I tried out my beauty drawing theory once again. Going through a rainy spell I had been forced to stay inside in my pajamas and eat. And eat. Early afternoon the sun pokes out suddenly and I seize my chance to run out and jump on my ridding lawn mower and take down my front yard that is fast becoming a rainforest. But first I don a hat, after all I am still wearing my acne creme in dots all over my face. I figure in all the eight seconds or so it takes my neibhors to drive by, they won't get a good chance to see me, they will be too busy admiring my freshly cut lawn.
First pass and I am alongside the road trying to get as close to the landscaping rocks as I can when my mower gets hung up on them. Being a reasonable woman with too much caffeine in me I start yelling obscenities. Knowing if I get off the machine, it's automatic kill switch will shutdown the motor and I am not able to both push and steer my lawn tractor at the same time. So I use my weight to try to rock it off. I am throwing my body in a seated position back against the seat, then forward against the wheel for momentum. I am busy humping my mower and grunting in effort when I see a hand signaling me to cut the engine. The hand is attached to a very well muscled arm, that is attached to some very broad shoulders. Shirtless six-pack jogger pushes me clear of the rocks. This guy lives in my neiborhood? Sure hope he believed I was just with the lawn service and the lady of the house, my well groomed twin sister, would never be caught dead looking like that. What really came out of my mouth was, "Squaaa-ahh-twitch- twitchy-ack-ack waa."
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
Caught in the moment
It is my favorite time of day. The twilight, if you will, in our house. Those few precious moments in the early evening when the days work is finished and before bedtime. Homework is completed. Household tasks done. Time for my family to settle in and enjoy one another's company uninterrupted by external interference.
The boys and I are upstairs mindlessly watching a movie in K1's room. The cat is curled on my lap purring with contentment as we take turns petting his warm limp body. We have seen this movie numerous times before and are playing "what's the next line". Few rules to this game, basically you yell out the next line before anyone, including the actors can during the important scenes.
All is good until K2 needs to go down stairs for something. K2 does not want the fun to go on without him, but he must to leave the room. Using his childlike reasoning, K2 starts down the stairs hollering,"Pause the movie, pause the movie" repeatedly so we will not enjoy ourselves without him. We do not listen to him and continue to watch and re-enact thinking he will only hurry his pace to rejoin us.
Wrong we are. "Accidentally" K2 trips on the stairs and starts screaming for effect. "HElP!", he yells very loudly, "I can't get up!" Being familiar with this often used ploy we ignore him. "I can't get up!." "Stuck here- help!". Brings nothing. The volume of his yells decrease but he continues. "Help, help, I really can't walk", still has no effect on us. This continues for too long. "Help, help, help". It is starting to annoy me. I know better to respond to this as it only encourages this behavior but I snap and shout, "Shut up and get up".
This of course adds fuel to his cries which he starts again with increased gusto. "Little help here, I'm crippled. Not nice leaving me lay here", K2 persists.
It's go time and I stomp toward the stairs fuming but not sure myself how I'm going to handle this. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Down the stairs I go. The energy it takes to walk so loud and purposefully has somewhat calmed me by the time I reach the landing were K2 is laying sprawled across as many steps as possible. Stooomp I go over his prone body as I balance my weight on the hand rail to get over him, planning on just stepping over him like he is invisable. Not to be so easily passed by, K2 reaches out and grabs me by the ankle causing me to lose my balance. I land with a soft thud on his midrift squeezing a final little "help" from his lips. Once I realize that neither one of us is hurt, I continue to lay on top of him but start yelling "HELP" myself very loud to prove to my son how ridiculous this is. This genius parenting move backfires as K2 joins in my mantra. Now the two of us are getting into it.
K1 soon comes barreling down the stairs to see what all the ruckus is about. He hesitates only a second before throwing himself on top of us and chiming in.
"HELP". "HELP". "HELP". We take turns chanting in our call-you- out-of-the-back-forty voices. The stairwell is ringing with the echoes of our crazy laughing chorus. Imagine the sound of a pack of gaffawing, shrieking jackals as they are scared off by the fracus we are creating.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a movement. Someone's leg is pinning me down so I cannot turn my head. I know the cat is still upstairs and is not foolish enough to venture over us.
"SHUT UP", I hush my crew and wrassle my way to an upright position. There standing open mouthed is the couple from next door. They had came over, knocked, but of course we had not heard them. They had actually walked right in meaning to help.
Just goes to show you. There's a lot of crazy stuff that happens out there. Lock your doors.
The boys and I are upstairs mindlessly watching a movie in K1's room. The cat is curled on my lap purring with contentment as we take turns petting his warm limp body. We have seen this movie numerous times before and are playing "what's the next line". Few rules to this game, basically you yell out the next line before anyone, including the actors can during the important scenes.
All is good until K2 needs to go down stairs for something. K2 does not want the fun to go on without him, but he must to leave the room. Using his childlike reasoning, K2 starts down the stairs hollering,"Pause the movie, pause the movie" repeatedly so we will not enjoy ourselves without him. We do not listen to him and continue to watch and re-enact thinking he will only hurry his pace to rejoin us.
Wrong we are. "Accidentally" K2 trips on the stairs and starts screaming for effect. "HElP!", he yells very loudly, "I can't get up!" Being familiar with this often used ploy we ignore him. "I can't get up!." "Stuck here- help!". Brings nothing. The volume of his yells decrease but he continues. "Help, help, I really can't walk", still has no effect on us. This continues for too long. "Help, help, help". It is starting to annoy me. I know better to respond to this as it only encourages this behavior but I snap and shout, "Shut up and get up".
This of course adds fuel to his cries which he starts again with increased gusto. "Little help here, I'm crippled. Not nice leaving me lay here", K2 persists.
It's go time and I stomp toward the stairs fuming but not sure myself how I'm going to handle this. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Down the stairs I go. The energy it takes to walk so loud and purposefully has somewhat calmed me by the time I reach the landing were K2 is laying sprawled across as many steps as possible. Stooomp I go over his prone body as I balance my weight on the hand rail to get over him, planning on just stepping over him like he is invisable. Not to be so easily passed by, K2 reaches out and grabs me by the ankle causing me to lose my balance. I land with a soft thud on his midrift squeezing a final little "help" from his lips. Once I realize that neither one of us is hurt, I continue to lay on top of him but start yelling "HELP" myself very loud to prove to my son how ridiculous this is. This genius parenting move backfires as K2 joins in my mantra. Now the two of us are getting into it.
K1 soon comes barreling down the stairs to see what all the ruckus is about. He hesitates only a second before throwing himself on top of us and chiming in.
"HELP". "HELP". "HELP". We take turns chanting in our call-you- out-of-the-back-forty voices. The stairwell is ringing with the echoes of our crazy laughing chorus. Imagine the sound of a pack of gaffawing, shrieking jackals as they are scared off by the fracus we are creating.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a movement. Someone's leg is pinning me down so I cannot turn my head. I know the cat is still upstairs and is not foolish enough to venture over us.
"SHUT UP", I hush my crew and wrassle my way to an upright position. There standing open mouthed is the couple from next door. They had came over, knocked, but of course we had not heard them. They had actually walked right in meaning to help.
Just goes to show you. There's a lot of crazy stuff that happens out there. Lock your doors.
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
Top Ten
Top ten reasons why I should marry The Rock.
10-Steven Tylers busy on tour.
9-I can start LEGALLY signing my name Mrs. Munkay Rock.
8-"Smell what the munkays got cooking!!!!"
7- He can replace his dumb bells with..Me!
6-Rockunky will replace Bennifer in the tabloids.
5-Our adorable hairy gorilla babies.
4-I have the Scorpions King theme wedding dress and bridesmaids waiting.
3-No need for an engagement ring for me, he is my Rock.
2-The bad ass smackdown wedding reception.
And the number one reason the Rock should marry me....
I already scream out his name during sex.
10-Steven Tylers busy on tour.
9-I can start LEGALLY signing my name Mrs. Munkay Rock.
8-"Smell what the munkays got cooking!!!!"
7- He can replace his dumb bells with..Me!
6-Rockunky will replace Bennifer in the tabloids.
5-Our adorable hairy gorilla babies.
4-I have the Scorpions King theme wedding dress and bridesmaids waiting.
3-No need for an engagement ring for me, he is my Rock.
2-The bad ass smackdown wedding reception.
And the number one reason the Rock should marry me....
I already scream out his name during sex.
Monday, July 05, 2004
Tangled up in Blue
As I open my eyes, the wonderful realization that I have slept dawns on my still groggy brain. This peaceful dark unconscious place free of pain is what I had yearned so desperately for. Once I have achieved this state, I am on my road to recovery.
Some 48 hours earlier, my descend into this hell began. I first feel the queasiness of my stomach and tightening of my neck muscles set in. Speak became difficult but I knew I only had a short time to cancel my upcoming appointments and reservations, and remove myself to a dark quite sanctuary once my full blown malady hits. That is near impossible being the mother of kids and tender of animals.
I am caught in an uncomfortable limbo, the phone rings, keeping me from sleep, and I am unable to answer it to hold a conversation, but I screen the calls in case of an emergency. I hear the animals outside. It sounds like they have increased their volume to remind me of their existence. I worry helplessly if they have been fed. My boys try their hardest to take care of themselves, and our household, but the stressful responsibility causes then to fight. Loudly. In between my pathetic bouts of nausea, I worry constantly about them.
Every sound is escalated. I can hear my familys thoughts. I am able to feel every step made in my house. Sunlight burns my eyes all the way to my brain. My throught hurts from retching. I lay broken in bed like a rag doll, desperate for the sleep that so eludes me.
I know the inventor of the Guillotin must of experienced what I am feeling. I am not entirely positive I would be able to decapitate myself or not, for murdering myself I might remain in this Dante's inferno forever. But I would welcome death.
During this time. I am unable to eat or drink any thing, If I am foolish enough to try, I projectile vomit. The beeping of my watch alarm signals it's time to take my anti-rejection pills. It is an immense effort to drag myself to my bathroom were I dry swallow them and say a prayer they will stay down.
I do not know what causes these times. To much anxiety and excitement and the lack of sleep can trigger then. Work and stress are also culprits to their onset. In a nutshell, a normal life. I try my best not to overdo it and pace my activities. In my world though, life's happenings don't ever take a number.
Now while I am on the mend, I nap sporadically trying to catch up on the sleep I've missed being ill. I am grateful the worse is over but now the depression sets in. Useless, unreliable, and worthless is how I am feeling now. I am hopeless in my despair. My dehydrated body causes the connection's in my brain to miss fire, my thoughts are fuddled. I tremble and shake like a drug starved addict when I try to simply drink water.
I know I am coming back from the edge when my personal hygiene concerns me. As my strength returns so does my desire to bathe. I run the bathwater, but avoid the mirror above my counter at all costs. The sight of my emaciated body, with bones projecting were curves should be dishearten me. It hurts to lay on my side as my leg bones cut into each other.
Slowly I am able to face my family once I find the proper fitting clothes to hid the lack of flesh on my body. It is an unneeded visual reminder that I am not robust. I find clean jammies and open my bedroom room back to the outside world. Instantly I am bombarded with the pleas for attention, the praise and love that my boys have missed. My house is a pit and it angers me greatly. Three days out of the game and I have a weeks work to catch up on.
Friends marvel at my ability to bounce back. As if I had a choice. If I were to sit idle or in a funk on my good days there would be no joy in Munkayville. My time is too short and too long to dwell on the imperfect. Grab on to the good stuff when you can. Life is a beautiful buffet. You get one plate and one trip through. And there's no room on my plate for any blue jello.
Some 48 hours earlier, my descend into this hell began. I first feel the queasiness of my stomach and tightening of my neck muscles set in. Speak became difficult but I knew I only had a short time to cancel my upcoming appointments and reservations, and remove myself to a dark quite sanctuary once my full blown malady hits. That is near impossible being the mother of kids and tender of animals.
I am caught in an uncomfortable limbo, the phone rings, keeping me from sleep, and I am unable to answer it to hold a conversation, but I screen the calls in case of an emergency. I hear the animals outside. It sounds like they have increased their volume to remind me of their existence. I worry helplessly if they have been fed. My boys try their hardest to take care of themselves, and our household, but the stressful responsibility causes then to fight. Loudly. In between my pathetic bouts of nausea, I worry constantly about them.
Every sound is escalated. I can hear my familys thoughts. I am able to feel every step made in my house. Sunlight burns my eyes all the way to my brain. My throught hurts from retching. I lay broken in bed like a rag doll, desperate for the sleep that so eludes me.
I know the inventor of the Guillotin must of experienced what I am feeling. I am not entirely positive I would be able to decapitate myself or not, for murdering myself I might remain in this Dante's inferno forever. But I would welcome death.
During this time. I am unable to eat or drink any thing, If I am foolish enough to try, I projectile vomit. The beeping of my watch alarm signals it's time to take my anti-rejection pills. It is an immense effort to drag myself to my bathroom were I dry swallow them and say a prayer they will stay down.
I do not know what causes these times. To much anxiety and excitement and the lack of sleep can trigger then. Work and stress are also culprits to their onset. In a nutshell, a normal life. I try my best not to overdo it and pace my activities. In my world though, life's happenings don't ever take a number.
Now while I am on the mend, I nap sporadically trying to catch up on the sleep I've missed being ill. I am grateful the worse is over but now the depression sets in. Useless, unreliable, and worthless is how I am feeling now. I am hopeless in my despair. My dehydrated body causes the connection's in my brain to miss fire, my thoughts are fuddled. I tremble and shake like a drug starved addict when I try to simply drink water.
I know I am coming back from the edge when my personal hygiene concerns me. As my strength returns so does my desire to bathe. I run the bathwater, but avoid the mirror above my counter at all costs. The sight of my emaciated body, with bones projecting were curves should be dishearten me. It hurts to lay on my side as my leg bones cut into each other.
Slowly I am able to face my family once I find the proper fitting clothes to hid the lack of flesh on my body. It is an unneeded visual reminder that I am not robust. I find clean jammies and open my bedroom room back to the outside world. Instantly I am bombarded with the pleas for attention, the praise and love that my boys have missed. My house is a pit and it angers me greatly. Three days out of the game and I have a weeks work to catch up on.
Friends marvel at my ability to bounce back. As if I had a choice. If I were to sit idle or in a funk on my good days there would be no joy in Munkayville. My time is too short and too long to dwell on the imperfect. Grab on to the good stuff when you can. Life is a beautiful buffet. You get one plate and one trip through. And there's no room on my plate for any blue jello.
Friday, July 02, 2004
How to party like a rock star
On Wednesday I get a phone call from my friend, Hook Up Mitch. Hook Up Mitch is in promotions and scores me great concert tickets from time to time. I try not to ask him for these favors as I'm sure he is inundated with requests from all his friends and I don't want to make him feel dirty and used. I also don't want to lead the guy on, as I would only sleep with the mega stars and not the management. Teasing. Hook Up asks if I would like to see Nickleback and Three Doors Down on the next day to make up to me for my Bowie concert fiasco that went so horribly wrong. After I am done shrieking wildly with delight and pick myself up off the floor, I give him a big euthseastic YES once his hearing has returned
Thursday I wake up with that tingly feeling of excitement like peppermint on the back of my tongue. I have a day's worth of places to be and things to do before the show. As I rush from location to location getting all my errands done, I'm playing the upcoming groups in my CD player and remembering the first time I had seen the lead singer of Nickelback, Chad Kruger, in a video. I had made fun of him, thinking his long bearded face looked like a horse. In fact with that little mustache/goatee thing he had going on it made his mouth look like an butt hole. Just my observation.
I am running late and don't have time to stop at home and change out of my daisy duke cut off shorts into more dressy clothes before heading down to the city. That's ok, Hook Up tells me, he is taking me to a barbecue before the show. Good, baby better bring his platinum card as this monkay hasn't eaten all day and its feeding time.
We meet at the designated spot and he gives me my special pass necklace similar to the one he is wearing and we walk to the park were the picnic is to going on. My understanding this is a private party for people in the business, Hook Ups friends. Good thing we are slightly late as the serving line has slowed down and I don't have to wait long before I am piling food on my plates. Yes plates, this girl is hungry capital H. The line slows down by the grill as people are lingering there to chat with the cooks. I am rudely eating already as I stand in line waiting impatiently for my brauts and burgers. Finally the main cook holding the metal spatula greets me and asks if I want a burger or weenie. Why make me chose, I answer, I want two of each. Smirking he makes an off color comment about me making room for all his meat. Wise acre, hope he grills better than he dishes. Buy the way, his face kinda resembles a butt.
Instead of trying to make room at a table. Hook Up humors me and we plop down on the grass not far from the buffet line to make my trips back for seconds more convenient. As I am shoveling the food in my mouth in a very unlady like manner, Hook Up turns to me handing me a much needed napkin and tells me, "You sure amazed Chad with your appetite." Thinking Chad must be a co-worker I grunt my response as I continue to chew and consintrate on my food.
As I am wiping clean my plates, the cocky cook has left the serving line and is out smoozing. He comes over and holds out his hand to shake Hook Ups hand and thank us for coming, and then he congratulates me on my eating ability, and reaches out for my hand. I was not extending my hand to him but reaching over to grab Hook Ups unfinished desert, so instead of dropping the brownie, I distractedly answer, "Can't talk.. eating", in my Homer Simpson voice.
As we walk back to the stadium for the concert, Hook Up says to me, "Funny Monkay, I thought you would at least shake the lead singers hand." Shit. That was Chad as in Chad Kruger. I guess Hooks company did a radio promotion were you could win tickets to have a barbecue with the band. I was oblivious to everything at the paty but the grub.
The concert was a blast. I still managed to dance even with a stuffed belly along side the stage for the rest of the evening. Both groups rocked. At one point Chad between songs, says "You get your fill yet?" to the crowd and looked down directly at me and rubbed his belly and raised his hand up to me in a mock salute. Then he finished the show with "Too Damn Good".
Now his face reminds me of anything but a butt.
Thursday I wake up with that tingly feeling of excitement like peppermint on the back of my tongue. I have a day's worth of places to be and things to do before the show. As I rush from location to location getting all my errands done, I'm playing the upcoming groups in my CD player and remembering the first time I had seen the lead singer of Nickelback, Chad Kruger, in a video. I had made fun of him, thinking his long bearded face looked like a horse. In fact with that little mustache/goatee thing he had going on it made his mouth look like an butt hole. Just my observation.
I am running late and don't have time to stop at home and change out of my daisy duke cut off shorts into more dressy clothes before heading down to the city. That's ok, Hook Up tells me, he is taking me to a barbecue before the show. Good, baby better bring his platinum card as this monkay hasn't eaten all day and its feeding time.
We meet at the designated spot and he gives me my special pass necklace similar to the one he is wearing and we walk to the park were the picnic is to going on. My understanding this is a private party for people in the business, Hook Ups friends. Good thing we are slightly late as the serving line has slowed down and I don't have to wait long before I am piling food on my plates. Yes plates, this girl is hungry capital H. The line slows down by the grill as people are lingering there to chat with the cooks. I am rudely eating already as I stand in line waiting impatiently for my brauts and burgers. Finally the main cook holding the metal spatula greets me and asks if I want a burger or weenie. Why make me chose, I answer, I want two of each. Smirking he makes an off color comment about me making room for all his meat. Wise acre, hope he grills better than he dishes. Buy the way, his face kinda resembles a butt.
Instead of trying to make room at a table. Hook Up humors me and we plop down on the grass not far from the buffet line to make my trips back for seconds more convenient. As I am shoveling the food in my mouth in a very unlady like manner, Hook Up turns to me handing me a much needed napkin and tells me, "You sure amazed Chad with your appetite." Thinking Chad must be a co-worker I grunt my response as I continue to chew and consintrate on my food.
As I am wiping clean my plates, the cocky cook has left the serving line and is out smoozing. He comes over and holds out his hand to shake Hook Ups hand and thank us for coming, and then he congratulates me on my eating ability, and reaches out for my hand. I was not extending my hand to him but reaching over to grab Hook Ups unfinished desert, so instead of dropping the brownie, I distractedly answer, "Can't talk.. eating", in my Homer Simpson voice.
As we walk back to the stadium for the concert, Hook Up says to me, "Funny Monkay, I thought you would at least shake the lead singers hand." Shit. That was Chad as in Chad Kruger. I guess Hooks company did a radio promotion were you could win tickets to have a barbecue with the band. I was oblivious to everything at the paty but the grub.
The concert was a blast. I still managed to dance even with a stuffed belly along side the stage for the rest of the evening. Both groups rocked. At one point Chad between songs, says "You get your fill yet?" to the crowd and looked down directly at me and rubbed his belly and raised his hand up to me in a mock salute. Then he finished the show with "Too Damn Good".
Now his face reminds me of anything but a butt.
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