We all have our internal places of comfort we escape to during times of stress. Our happy place. The place we go to feel good. Some think of a warm beach, or a soft fluffy cloud, or even just their comfy couch at home. My often frequented hot spot is Happy Place Island.
This island does really exist, thought I don't know were yet. Somewhere in the tropics. Not a overdeveloped tourist trap, it has white sand beaches surrounded by emerald blue water. When life's mundane pressure hits, I have oftentimes planned on selling off all my material possessions for the cash to set up a new simple life there. In a blink of my dream filled eyes, I would willingly part with my home, cabin, toys and vehicles to sleep on the beach in a grass skirt and coconuts. Might even sell off a kid or too.
My lazy carefree days are spent lolling around the water edge. Perhalps I learn to cook really good jerk barbecue and fresh roasted coffee if I need to trade with the few other inhabitants. There will, of course be other people on my island, someone has to do the real work for me.
If I am not belly dancing and learning to play the mandolin, I will be snorkeling for fish. This nature girl will make her clothes out of fresh flowers. Oh yes, life on Happy Place Island is good.
There are no phones on Happy Place, so you must come visit me. Err us. Me, Lenny Kravitz, The Rock, Steven Tyler, Owen Wilson and Will Smith will all look forward to your company. Leave all drama behind.
Welcome to Happy Place Island. Bring man candy.
Tuesday, August 31, 2004
Monday, August 23, 2004
Minion Edict 101
We are surrounded by peons. Our cultural infrastructure relies upon those who attendant our every need. None of us can truly claim to be self reliant. Society has been this way shortly after we walked out the that first cave and currency invented. But do we thank these minions that often we do not even acknowledge? Heck no. But I'm going to teach you how.
Walk into any connivance store, you probley do just about everyday. As you stand impatiently in line for both seconds tapping your foot and rolling your eyes for your turn you will spot a vest wearing serf. He will be your prime target to practice your good manors on. People often think they are above having to be polite to anyone behind a counter. These poor Joes deal with a multitude of rude people every day, often avoiding eye contact as not to incite any unwarranted abrasiveness. As they hand you your change for the gum you have just purchased, it is mandatory for them to tell you, "Have a nice day", as a form of dismissal. It is their code for "Get the hell out of my face". Look the straight in the eye and sincerely answer them with, "Thanks, I will... Now!" And grin at them, letting them know your purchase of their gum is truly the high point of your day.
After filling your car with gas, always opt to pay inside. Those counter monkeys always look forward to more personal interaction. As you saunter up, their opening line is always, What number pump are you? This they already know being both psychic and halving watched you as you walked in from fifteen feet away at pump six. By this they mean, "Pay up fast and just get out". No matter which pump you used, strike a pose and flip your hair as you announce in a loud voice,"I'm a ten!" Step in closer as you lean in to whisper an exaggerated, "But I just hosed a six". Guaranteed they will look at you and think you are a zero. But they won't forget you. And they won't bother to ask for a phone number with your check.
As you pay for your grocerys, apron boy's duty is to query, "Paper or plastic?" Translation, "I'm throwing the soft squishes in the bottom, followed by the canned goods." Ponder this as you roll your eyes back into your head from side to side to weigh the benefits to your option. Hum as you do tapping your chin. Finally ask him for his opinon. "What would YOU recommend?" as if choosing a fine wine. Granted whichever one he chooses, he will be thinking two words. Body bag.
Be your true inner self when conversing with waitstaff. Behave how you know you really want to as you are seated and waiting for food. When the tray barrier approaches your table to announce, "Hi, I'm Bob and I will be your waiter tonight", answer with one word. "Mommy!" Let the self centered four year old inside of you out. Demand their attention as often as you can. Ask that your french fries do not touch your bun. Have them cut your meat. See if they will chew it for you. Sit with your mouth wide open like a baby bird when they walk by giving them the opportunity to feed you. Your new "Mommy" will get your your food fast, just to get you out of there. And no need to remember their birthday or send a Christmas card.
I try to make the world a happy, friendlier place no matter where I go. I howl at all construction workers. I have even ventured yelling, "Nice hole!", if the workers are bent over a shovel. Jehovah witnesses are invited in for taffy as I talk about my beliefs while they rest their over worked vocal cords. Phone solicitators have had numerous deep conversations with my baby. My friend, body building Mitch even followed a road rager home once after being cut off in traffic to tell the driver to "Have a nice day". Course the finger waver had hurriedly rolled up his window and locked his car door when he seen 210 pound Mitch walking up his driveway towards him, but I think he got the point. My point is share the love, make someone's day. Even if it's only yours.
Walk into any connivance store, you probley do just about everyday. As you stand impatiently in line for both seconds tapping your foot and rolling your eyes for your turn you will spot a vest wearing serf. He will be your prime target to practice your good manors on. People often think they are above having to be polite to anyone behind a counter. These poor Joes deal with a multitude of rude people every day, often avoiding eye contact as not to incite any unwarranted abrasiveness. As they hand you your change for the gum you have just purchased, it is mandatory for them to tell you, "Have a nice day", as a form of dismissal. It is their code for "Get the hell out of my face". Look the straight in the eye and sincerely answer them with, "Thanks, I will... Now!" And grin at them, letting them know your purchase of their gum is truly the high point of your day.
After filling your car with gas, always opt to pay inside. Those counter monkeys always look forward to more personal interaction. As you saunter up, their opening line is always, What number pump are you? This they already know being both psychic and halving watched you as you walked in from fifteen feet away at pump six. By this they mean, "Pay up fast and just get out". No matter which pump you used, strike a pose and flip your hair as you announce in a loud voice,"I'm a ten!" Step in closer as you lean in to whisper an exaggerated, "But I just hosed a six". Guaranteed they will look at you and think you are a zero. But they won't forget you. And they won't bother to ask for a phone number with your check.
As you pay for your grocerys, apron boy's duty is to query, "Paper or plastic?" Translation, "I'm throwing the soft squishes in the bottom, followed by the canned goods." Ponder this as you roll your eyes back into your head from side to side to weigh the benefits to your option. Hum as you do tapping your chin. Finally ask him for his opinon. "What would YOU recommend?" as if choosing a fine wine. Granted whichever one he chooses, he will be thinking two words. Body bag.
Be your true inner self when conversing with waitstaff. Behave how you know you really want to as you are seated and waiting for food. When the tray barrier approaches your table to announce, "Hi, I'm Bob and I will be your waiter tonight", answer with one word. "Mommy!" Let the self centered four year old inside of you out. Demand their attention as often as you can. Ask that your french fries do not touch your bun. Have them cut your meat. See if they will chew it for you. Sit with your mouth wide open like a baby bird when they walk by giving them the opportunity to feed you. Your new "Mommy" will get your your food fast, just to get you out of there. And no need to remember their birthday or send a Christmas card.
I try to make the world a happy, friendlier place no matter where I go. I howl at all construction workers. I have even ventured yelling, "Nice hole!", if the workers are bent over a shovel. Jehovah witnesses are invited in for taffy as I talk about my beliefs while they rest their over worked vocal cords. Phone solicitators have had numerous deep conversations with my baby. My friend, body building Mitch even followed a road rager home once after being cut off in traffic to tell the driver to "Have a nice day". Course the finger waver had hurriedly rolled up his window and locked his car door when he seen 210 pound Mitch walking up his driveway towards him, but I think he got the point. My point is share the love, make someone's day. Even if it's only yours.
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
Life without a Net
My friend, Curly Haired Heidi, I had heard of before I met her. She is a walking medical miracle. To look at this beautiful, vivacious young woman you would never guess the trauma she has lived through. Because she is also a unique transplant recipient, friends first told me of her before we were actually introduced.
CH Heidi and I worked at the same place. For the shared obvious hatred of labels I will not call her Transplant Heidi. She is so much more complex than that. While I was impatiently awaiting my new organ she was adjusting to a dramatically different life with the new kidney her body depended on. And fighting for her survival due to complications. Unlike me, she did not have the choice to undergo this procedure. She was blind sided early in her young healthy life with a fast moving self destructing disease. One that is seldom properly diagnosed in time for treatment. CH beat the odds, not that she was even given any, having being clinically dead for a bad five minutes.
Quite the accomplished actress this CH Heidi. When I first seen a picture of this thespian, her role as a seductress where we performed was a hard reach for me to imagine her playing. She brings to mind a sweetly innocent Hermoine Granger. Intelligent, with long curly brown hair and twinkling eyes, if it wasn't for her stop traffic curves you expect her to try selling you girl scout cookies. Then you wish she would just so you could hear her selling line.
CH's hardest role is though playing sick. She is new to this so the down time that she experiences frustrates her. She could be cast as a young me in the way she is impatient when it comes to self-maintance. After recovering from a set-back she retaliates with seemingly limitless vigor to make up for any lost time. At these times there is no stopping her. She has big plans and aspirations for herself and her family, and the game plan to accomplished them.
Every once and awhile she will mention what her life was like before her illness. Almost if describing another person, she will off-handedly reminisce of the waist lenght hair she sported before her chemotherapy. Her measurements, before her numerous surgeries, were the exact same as Marilyn Monroe's. Of never missing a day of fun from catching a simple cold. I never met that before Heidi. I only know the after. And I don't believe you can be anymore beautiful than the after Heidi.
Recently though CH Heidi has been feeling some difficulties of her illness, spend more time than usual in Dr's offices than she would like. This causes her to yearn for a new feeling. Something other than the pain and fear of late. Heidi is longing to experience an adrenaline rush of exhilaration to remind her that she is alive. She wants to grab the world by both balls and squeeze hard just to feel in control and hear a good yip. As much as she longs for a wild night partying on the town without abandon, it could might prove to be determentale to her precarious health. Second hand smoke and germs could damage her lungs beyond repair. Alcohol would be lethal. Other physical riskes have to be weighted and measured. As much as she wants a new thrill , emotional or otherwise, she must consider the reprecutions involved. Not that Heidi has a history of jumping headlong into anything without thinking of the consequences mind you. She has the heart strong enough not to cause others pain and the brain to not hurt herself. She is anything but shallow.
As much as I want to supply her with this excitement I cannot live it for her. "C'mon", I tell her, "I'll give you a nice fast ride on the back of my Harley?" Fun sure, but she would be a spectator, not a doer. "I'll teach you to drive it?" Hesitation. "How bout I take you clubbing in the city? I'll take you to see a transvestite show?" Nothing like a good freak show once and awhile for something different I'm thinking. "The chemical, my lungs", she explains. I know better than to offer her the physically extremes of ridding my bull or tubing behind my boat. I would undoubtedly mother her to death anyway in the process, eliminating all the elements of risks involved. By the end of that conversation the best idea we came up so far is if she retaliates by conforming to a tattoo. Edgy but not detrimental in any way. I will be more than willing to cheer her one from the sidelines.
Maybe I will come up with the opportunity to take her bungy jumping or some other activity so thrilling she pees her pants just for the fun of it. But in the meantime I have this image of her I can't quite shake. She is Haley Barry, dressed all in leather and highheels walking along the edges of darkened rooftops in the middle of the and looking for trouble. "Dangerous" is playing in the background. Strong, sexy, and only as good as she wants to be, I know CH Heidi is catwoman while we all sleep. Life without a net. Here's to the next eight lives. Crack that whip while you can Heidi girl, crack that whip.
CH Heidi and I worked at the same place. For the shared obvious hatred of labels I will not call her Transplant Heidi. She is so much more complex than that. While I was impatiently awaiting my new organ she was adjusting to a dramatically different life with the new kidney her body depended on. And fighting for her survival due to complications. Unlike me, she did not have the choice to undergo this procedure. She was blind sided early in her young healthy life with a fast moving self destructing disease. One that is seldom properly diagnosed in time for treatment. CH beat the odds, not that she was even given any, having being clinically dead for a bad five minutes.
Quite the accomplished actress this CH Heidi. When I first seen a picture of this thespian, her role as a seductress where we performed was a hard reach for me to imagine her playing. She brings to mind a sweetly innocent Hermoine Granger. Intelligent, with long curly brown hair and twinkling eyes, if it wasn't for her stop traffic curves you expect her to try selling you girl scout cookies. Then you wish she would just so you could hear her selling line.
CH's hardest role is though playing sick. She is new to this so the down time that she experiences frustrates her. She could be cast as a young me in the way she is impatient when it comes to self-maintance. After recovering from a set-back she retaliates with seemingly limitless vigor to make up for any lost time. At these times there is no stopping her. She has big plans and aspirations for herself and her family, and the game plan to accomplished them.
Every once and awhile she will mention what her life was like before her illness. Almost if describing another person, she will off-handedly reminisce of the waist lenght hair she sported before her chemotherapy. Her measurements, before her numerous surgeries, were the exact same as Marilyn Monroe's. Of never missing a day of fun from catching a simple cold. I never met that before Heidi. I only know the after. And I don't believe you can be anymore beautiful than the after Heidi.
Recently though CH Heidi has been feeling some difficulties of her illness, spend more time than usual in Dr's offices than she would like. This causes her to yearn for a new feeling. Something other than the pain and fear of late. Heidi is longing to experience an adrenaline rush of exhilaration to remind her that she is alive. She wants to grab the world by both balls and squeeze hard just to feel in control and hear a good yip. As much as she longs for a wild night partying on the town without abandon, it could might prove to be determentale to her precarious health. Second hand smoke and germs could damage her lungs beyond repair. Alcohol would be lethal. Other physical riskes have to be weighted and measured. As much as she wants a new thrill , emotional or otherwise, she must consider the reprecutions involved. Not that Heidi has a history of jumping headlong into anything without thinking of the consequences mind you. She has the heart strong enough not to cause others pain and the brain to not hurt herself. She is anything but shallow.
As much as I want to supply her with this excitement I cannot live it for her. "C'mon", I tell her, "I'll give you a nice fast ride on the back of my Harley?" Fun sure, but she would be a spectator, not a doer. "I'll teach you to drive it?" Hesitation. "How bout I take you clubbing in the city? I'll take you to see a transvestite show?" Nothing like a good freak show once and awhile for something different I'm thinking. "The chemical, my lungs", she explains. I know better than to offer her the physically extremes of ridding my bull or tubing behind my boat. I would undoubtedly mother her to death anyway in the process, eliminating all the elements of risks involved. By the end of that conversation the best idea we came up so far is if she retaliates by conforming to a tattoo. Edgy but not detrimental in any way. I will be more than willing to cheer her one from the sidelines.
Maybe I will come up with the opportunity to take her bungy jumping or some other activity so thrilling she pees her pants just for the fun of it. But in the meantime I have this image of her I can't quite shake. She is Haley Barry, dressed all in leather and highheels walking along the edges of darkened rooftops in the middle of the and looking for trouble. "Dangerous" is playing in the background. Strong, sexy, and only as good as she wants to be, I know CH Heidi is catwoman while we all sleep. Life without a net. Here's to the next eight lives. Crack that whip while you can Heidi girl, crack that whip.
Monday, August 16, 2004
Running with Axel
Today it's been two years since I received my transplant. Cells from a cadaver donor were injected into my abdomen to attach themselves to my liver and work as an improvised pancreas enabling me to a new life. Being part of a medical study, this is quite a goal post for me to reach, as it is to the extensive transplant team involved in my case. Unfortunately for my donors family, this day is not so happy a day for them. For them today only marks the loss of their loved one.
I have read of other organ transplant patents who have evolved after their surgery. Not only lifestyle, or changes of out look or even appreciation of a new healthy existence. I'm talking major personality transformation. Differences of preferences. I have learned of heart recipients who's eating choices change dramatically. Foods they used to dislike can become a new craving for them. It is often their donors favorite dish that they now desire. I have read of a lung transplant recipient who before listen only to heavy metal music that will only listen to classical music after their current organ. That patents new lungs came from an orchestra conductor. It is if a part of the donors soul resides in his actual flesh. Strong enough to make a change in it's new home.
Because of privacy regulations, I do not know about the person whom I received my cells from. Or the circumstances that lead to the family's decisions that they could let the hope for their loved ones future in this world go. But from the few sketchy facts I do know, I have a clear picture of him in my mind. And a name.
Axel is the name I have come up with. Axel because he is now a center of my being. It is a strong name, as strong as he himself must have been. Because I did not have to wait for transport time, when I got the call a match for me was found, I know he was from my home state. I imagine him a large young male, because it took a hearty donor larger than me to supply me with as many active live cells to produce the insulin my body required. And he had to be in good shape to be eligible to supply me with healthy tissue. It must have been an accident that made it possible for the pieces of him to be harvested in such a way. What a sorrowful shock to his family to lose him. I am saddened that he had to leave his body behind. But I thank God for giving him life.
I think of him when I eat my new love, fruit flavored Dots, the formerly despised candy I would not previously look at much less eat. The color blue is slowly replacing my once all red clothes closet. I am drawn to that color more and more often. Although I do not listen too or buy country music, my hand now hesitates on country channels while surfing for rock stations on the radio. And I dance. I dance all the time. It is hard now for me not to move when I ear music now. It is not only the quaility my life that has improved but the quantity.
But it is when I am quite and still that I feel him. When I am sitting and reading or like right now when I have my laptop pressed up against my gut I actually feel him move there. As if my sedimentary non movement offends him. And I can hear him. It is not my own conscious nagging me to exercise that I hear. It is a different voice all of his own. "Time to move now. Let's go. You are burning daylight."
Today I run for Axel. Today I run with Axel. Not only will we run. We will skip. And we will sing. C'mon Axel, lets go.
I have read of other organ transplant patents who have evolved after their surgery. Not only lifestyle, or changes of out look or even appreciation of a new healthy existence. I'm talking major personality transformation. Differences of preferences. I have learned of heart recipients who's eating choices change dramatically. Foods they used to dislike can become a new craving for them. It is often their donors favorite dish that they now desire. I have read of a lung transplant recipient who before listen only to heavy metal music that will only listen to classical music after their current organ. That patents new lungs came from an orchestra conductor. It is if a part of the donors soul resides in his actual flesh. Strong enough to make a change in it's new home.
Because of privacy regulations, I do not know about the person whom I received my cells from. Or the circumstances that lead to the family's decisions that they could let the hope for their loved ones future in this world go. But from the few sketchy facts I do know, I have a clear picture of him in my mind. And a name.
Axel is the name I have come up with. Axel because he is now a center of my being. It is a strong name, as strong as he himself must have been. Because I did not have to wait for transport time, when I got the call a match for me was found, I know he was from my home state. I imagine him a large young male, because it took a hearty donor larger than me to supply me with as many active live cells to produce the insulin my body required. And he had to be in good shape to be eligible to supply me with healthy tissue. It must have been an accident that made it possible for the pieces of him to be harvested in such a way. What a sorrowful shock to his family to lose him. I am saddened that he had to leave his body behind. But I thank God for giving him life.
I think of him when I eat my new love, fruit flavored Dots, the formerly despised candy I would not previously look at much less eat. The color blue is slowly replacing my once all red clothes closet. I am drawn to that color more and more often. Although I do not listen too or buy country music, my hand now hesitates on country channels while surfing for rock stations on the radio. And I dance. I dance all the time. It is hard now for me not to move when I ear music now. It is not only the quaility my life that has improved but the quantity.
But it is when I am quite and still that I feel him. When I am sitting and reading or like right now when I have my laptop pressed up against my gut I actually feel him move there. As if my sedimentary non movement offends him. And I can hear him. It is not my own conscious nagging me to exercise that I hear. It is a different voice all of his own. "Time to move now. Let's go. You are burning daylight."
Today I run for Axel. Today I run with Axel. Not only will we run. We will skip. And we will sing. C'mon Axel, lets go.
Thursday, August 12, 2004
Fear My Dance
Today I woke up in a surly mood. Maybe it was the theme from "The Exorcist" that started playing the moment I opened my eyes, or the fact that as I walked past my vanity mirror I gave myself the stink eye, I knew the day would be just no damn good.
I was so mean today I couldn't stand being around myself. Thinking I would outrun the concentrated evil within, I slammed down my light granola and drank my milk straight out of the carton with a swagger before heading out for my exercise. Growling, I brushed past the dog with a few belittlements, off I went tougher than anyone's munkay. I trash talked the birds who sang to me. The sun looked down with envy upon my heat. I waved at no one. All drivers were living on the edge for daring to be on my road. The neibor who greeted me will be made into a soup which I plan on drinking from his own skull later. Small forest creatures scurried for saftly out of my path.
At the sight of me, family members would freeze, drop whatever they were doing and back away from my foul being. They knew it was not a question if I would snap but when. Maybe it was the pressure of the horns that kept popping up there my hair that gave me such a short fuse I don't know. Perhalps I did deserve the title the kids gave me, She Who Must Be Obeyed. I just know my mojo dial was set on dirty, mean and heavy on the nasty.
Who ever it was that beat me with this ugly stick during the night will be hunted down and exterminated. Fear my dance.
*This blog is dedicated to SisterHeidi. Just remember, if you don't like it, go bite yourself.
I was so mean today I couldn't stand being around myself. Thinking I would outrun the concentrated evil within, I slammed down my light granola and drank my milk straight out of the carton with a swagger before heading out for my exercise. Growling, I brushed past the dog with a few belittlements, off I went tougher than anyone's munkay. I trash talked the birds who sang to me. The sun looked down with envy upon my heat. I waved at no one. All drivers were living on the edge for daring to be on my road. The neibor who greeted me will be made into a soup which I plan on drinking from his own skull later. Small forest creatures scurried for saftly out of my path.
At the sight of me, family members would freeze, drop whatever they were doing and back away from my foul being. They knew it was not a question if I would snap but when. Maybe it was the pressure of the horns that kept popping up there my hair that gave me such a short fuse I don't know. Perhalps I did deserve the title the kids gave me, She Who Must Be Obeyed. I just know my mojo dial was set on dirty, mean and heavy on the nasty.
Who ever it was that beat me with this ugly stick during the night will be hunted down and exterminated. Fear my dance.
*This blog is dedicated to SisterHeidi. Just remember, if you don't like it, go bite yourself.
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
A Heart Jackin
Three hospitals and countless procedures later my Hubby is on the mend. They jacked the little broken parts of his heart with stints. I'm back to my happy-go-munkay state.
After spending the day in the stressfully serile vacuum of the hospital, my peeps, K1, and my posse, K2, were able to jump start my own heart with laughter. Leaving Hubbies room, we walk down the halls of the massive hospital to the elevators. It is late and the flow of pedestrian traffic in the facility is slow. We head toward the revolving front doors of the building. Being wheelchair accessible, the doors are large and will hold more than one person at a time. The boys race for it. I indulge them this little dallance and slow my stride down to watch the two of them, in their separate containers running in circles while burning up their unused energy. They race an unending race. When I reach the spinning doors, I jump in K2's section, slighty behind him. Our compartment is the first to reach the street side, followed by K1 behind us. K2 hits the sidewalk running in a larger circumference circle now than while in the door. Pretending he is dizzy from the spinning door, he runs full bore into a metal street "No Parking" sign in front of the doors and mimics laying himself out flat on the sidewalk. K2 was a pretty convincing as the young doctor who came running to his aid didn't realize it was a joke as he bent over my sons prone body. "K2! Get up!" I order him as the stethoscope wearing professional started blushing and stammering at his little con. "Are you my mother?", K2 askes him in a week voice. Not to be outdone by his little brothers antics, K1 walk over to him and yells," K2" in an admonishing sounding tone. As he does so, he bends over at his waist as if to examine K1 vitals also, hitting his own head on the sign post as he does, laying himself out too.
I just kept walking, shaking my head but laughing, leaving my boys laying on the pavement pretending they had knocked themselves out with thier own clumsyness, my heart growing stronger at the little impromptu Abbot and Costello preferment I just have the pleasure of catching. Life is starting to be humorus once again.
After spending the day in the stressfully serile vacuum of the hospital, my peeps, K1, and my posse, K2, were able to jump start my own heart with laughter. Leaving Hubbies room, we walk down the halls of the massive hospital to the elevators. It is late and the flow of pedestrian traffic in the facility is slow. We head toward the revolving front doors of the building. Being wheelchair accessible, the doors are large and will hold more than one person at a time. The boys race for it. I indulge them this little dallance and slow my stride down to watch the two of them, in their separate containers running in circles while burning up their unused energy. They race an unending race. When I reach the spinning doors, I jump in K2's section, slighty behind him. Our compartment is the first to reach the street side, followed by K1 behind us. K2 hits the sidewalk running in a larger circumference circle now than while in the door. Pretending he is dizzy from the spinning door, he runs full bore into a metal street "No Parking" sign in front of the doors and mimics laying himself out flat on the sidewalk. K2 was a pretty convincing as the young doctor who came running to his aid didn't realize it was a joke as he bent over my sons prone body. "K2! Get up!" I order him as the stethoscope wearing professional started blushing and stammering at his little con. "Are you my mother?", K2 askes him in a week voice. Not to be outdone by his little brothers antics, K1 walk over to him and yells," K2" in an admonishing sounding tone. As he does so, he bends over at his waist as if to examine K1 vitals also, hitting his own head on the sign post as he does, laying himself out too.
I just kept walking, shaking my head but laughing, leaving my boys laying on the pavement pretending they had knocked themselves out with thier own clumsyness, my heart growing stronger at the little impromptu Abbot and Costello preferment I just have the pleasure of catching. Life is starting to be humorus once again.
Monday, August 09, 2004
Song Number 2
I can't help not to be fascinated while watching a TV talk show about how the producers go about selecting the guests theme song for when the star first walks on stage. Oh sure, some are just a gimme when they play the the current sound track the celebrity is there to promote for the opening of their latest movie. Or when I rock star is featured and they play a song that the singer is famous for, or an upcoming new CD release. I just wonder what they would play as I stepped on stage.
Granted it is highly doubtful I will ever reach such acclaim that I will find how others precieve me and what my own personal theme song would be. Not having any films in the can, and no upcoming tours for this little munkay, I am unsure if I would even qualify under the "Stupid Human Trick" section of the late show. My only shot is if I have some freak accident and survive with a spike through my head. I'd be spending all my time worrying about finding a clean outfit to match the steal metal object protruding from my cranium.
I have seen "What a man, what a man, what a mighty mighty good man", used often for male guests who are accomplished in muli-areas. "We are the champions" by Queen for those of athletic ability. "I'm too sexy, too sexy for my shirt", knows overkill like no other. If I had the talent, I would have to write my own new song. But wait- it might catch on and make me famous, and apear on more talk shows so I would have to keep writing them. Nope too lazy for that.
I have a friend who is light years ahead of me on this idea. Not only does Multi-faceted Heidi have a theme song, but as compiled a soundtrack of her own tumultous life. Everything on it is time relevant to the occurrences she has lived through. She even revises it occasionally. Yeah, she is leagues deeper than me.
Considering my lack of grace, my walk on would be similar to Kramer's flailing entrance into Jerry Steinfields apartment. Residing in Minnesota, I resemble what I imagine Louie Anderson and Loni Andersons love child would look like.(Both MN natives) Impulsive as I am, Blurs "Song #2" would probley be most appropriate for me. You remember that one from the car commercial- big time drum intro-"WEEE-HOOO! I got my head checked. By a jumbo jet. It wasn't easy. But nothing is. WEE-HOO. Yeah yeah". More drums
What would be yours?
Granted it is highly doubtful I will ever reach such acclaim that I will find how others precieve me and what my own personal theme song would be. Not having any films in the can, and no upcoming tours for this little munkay, I am unsure if I would even qualify under the "Stupid Human Trick" section of the late show. My only shot is if I have some freak accident and survive with a spike through my head. I'd be spending all my time worrying about finding a clean outfit to match the steal metal object protruding from my cranium.
I have seen "What a man, what a man, what a mighty mighty good man", used often for male guests who are accomplished in muli-areas. "We are the champions" by Queen for those of athletic ability. "I'm too sexy, too sexy for my shirt", knows overkill like no other. If I had the talent, I would have to write my own new song. But wait- it might catch on and make me famous, and apear on more talk shows so I would have to keep writing them. Nope too lazy for that.
I have a friend who is light years ahead of me on this idea. Not only does Multi-faceted Heidi have a theme song, but as compiled a soundtrack of her own tumultous life. Everything on it is time relevant to the occurrences she has lived through. She even revises it occasionally. Yeah, she is leagues deeper than me.
Considering my lack of grace, my walk on would be similar to Kramer's flailing entrance into Jerry Steinfields apartment. Residing in Minnesota, I resemble what I imagine Louie Anderson and Loni Andersons love child would look like.(Both MN natives) Impulsive as I am, Blurs "Song #2" would probley be most appropriate for me. You remember that one from the car commercial- big time drum intro-"WEEE-HOOO! I got my head checked. By a jumbo jet. It wasn't easy. But nothing is. WEE-HOO. Yeah yeah". More drums
What would be yours?
Birds of a Different Feather
Last week I flew out to Washington state. It was not intended to be a pleasure trip, but I have learned to grab some joy no matter what the circumstances. I keep an eye out for a rainbow even when I can't see the end of my nose for the clouds. This trip was no exception to that rule.
My Hubby had suddenly become very ill while working on his currant construction project, yet another Indian gaming casino. Serious enough that his company sent for me. I often tease Hub about being a corporate whore, but when the chips were low, the company was there for us. I was on a flight to the coast before I even could comprehended the severity of my circumstances. Hubbies junior manager, Gitme Mitch, was designated as my own personal assistant/body guard. I was met at the airport and driven directly to my husbands room. His project manager had taken detailed notes of the time spent in the ICU including lab results, names and conversations with specialists consulted, even dialogues with visitors and nurses personal stats. Nothing occurred in that hospital room that was not documented in triplicate. I believe he even issuded receipts for all gifts and cards received. The tribal elders visit and present of spiritual healing sweet grass were dually noted.
I stayed in the most lavish riverside suite available close to the hospital, and ate every meal at the finest restaurants Gitme could produce. Would of been a blast if it were not for the shadow of my sick Hubby that followed me everywhere. As much as I longed to be alone with that shadow, every time I looked around, there would be Gitme. "What do you have planned for today? Anything you have in mind that I can do for you?", he would ask as he picked me up from my hotel to shuttle me to the hospital. "Want to stop on the way for breakfast or do you just want me to pick you something up and bring it to the cardiatric unit?" No wonder there is heart decease involved in all this lavish overabundance. Gitme became my keeper, afraid to leave me alone to my own demise that he would be held accountable.
The company took to tag team entertaining of me to distract me from any despair. There must be a file of my vital stastiscs somewhere in main offices. Men who's names I have only heard my hubby refer to in passing seamed to know every nuance of my personal life. Dialog I swore Hub had never paid attention to were now being repeated back to me by the suits whose names were just inconsequential to me. Maybe Gitme always held a private briefing meeting when he made dinner reservations for whatever bisness ecsalone on call for the evening.
One morning I got up early and was looking down at the beatiful river walk from the terrace of my suite. I was watching the parade of yuppie joggers bounce by dressed in their designer gear when I got a wild hair and decided to ditch Gitme and wig out on my own for awhile. Before Gitme could show up at my door I was on that path, planning on enjoying some much needed time alone with my thoughts as I walked the two miles to the hospital.
Dressed in my trophy wife uniform, dress, tasteful jewlery, high heels, and matching purse, I hit the trail. For that short period of time, as I sashayed along, I finally felt like I had some control over my circumstances. I was, afterall, getting myself to the hospital thank you. Nevermind the fact that I wasn't totally sure were the hospital was located.
The people I encountered along the upscale rivers edge put the Minnesota nice theory to shame. It was their etticate not only to greet me with direct eye contact, but also exchange a few words of pleasantness beyond my usual customary "Hello". I was immensely enjoying the beautiful view and social interaction. Along the path were numerous statues, attributing the strengths of the early settlers of the area. It was at Sister Mary's memorial that I knew I must veer of the path and head uptown towards the hospital.
My surroundings soon began to change as I ventured north. The regal brick buildings showed signs of neglect. Abandoned store fronts replaced the grandeur of the river front. I admired the creative artistic ability of graffiti covered empty lots. The early morning sun rose now warmly to a more direct angle. There were no leisurely pedestrians to banter with.
Feeling a slight burn in my legs from the exertion of my now up hill journey, I looked ahead and see the series of interstate overpasses and train tracks I must traverse to reach my destination. I also see a solitary figure slowly walking in my direction.
A tall, broad man wearing a small backpack was heading toward me. He is looking past me, down toward the direction of the river I have just come from, so I seize this opportunity to size him up. He is handsome, with long, well groomed dark brown hair. A native American, simply dressed in kakki's and a t-shirt. Maybe it is the angle of the hill he is on top of, from were I am looking, he is huge.
"Good Morning!" I am the fist to speak, as I chirp my bright greeting, looking directly into his dark chocolate eyes. This seams to startle the man, as he hesitates briefly before nodding in my direction, avoiding my face as he does. So far this morning he is the only individual not to address me, but in my memory I pass it of to a cultural sign of respect that until we are formal introduced, I am rude to look into his Lakoda eyes.
As I reach the crest of the hill, I start to see more people again. Scary people. Some are pushing grocery carts full of flotsem. Some are talking... to themselves. All of them need a bath and a laundry mat. There are no vagrants in my rosy little surburban world. I am about to walk into the heart of their subculture, under the bridges of the overpasses.
To late to show fear I step into the shadows underneath the train tracks. With my basic survival instinct I think WWEKD? I know what Jesus Christ would do, and that I am not capable of. I refer to what Erika Kane, invincible soap opera queen would do. I fluff my hairy little munkay feathers up to full size and purposely stride on. I walk tall with my shoulders back, head up. I ball both hands into fists that I swing as I take as long strong of strides as my short skirt and platforms allow.
It is hard to see my dank surroundings as I stomp on over the uneven broken pavement. The groups of dark figures indistinguishable but the smells of stale chemical smoke mixed with alcohol and urine unmistakable. I ignore the propresitions so indecent I'm unsure what they are offering, and do not even turn my head at the hoots and cat calls that follow my three block journey through hell. Tables are turned and they now look searchingly into my face as I pass, as if to read the my history as I infringe upon their territory. My heart raced with fear more than the exertion of the treck as my mind took survey of the valuables I was carrying. Not that I was thinking of material things. How would I find my way safe in a strange city totally alone with nothing? It was more than alittle surprising I made it through unviolated. It was with much relief I reached the medical facility on shaky legs.
Although Hubby was delighted to see me there early, once he found out I had walked was on the phone immediately to Gitme. In a hushed voice I heard him hiss, "She walked, and I'm not real happy about that!", as if I were a child naively unaware of my self imposed danger. Within minutes Gitme arrives in the room, red and gushing apologies at this fopah. A company car was brought to the hospital for my use encase of any more impulsive unchaparoned jaunts.
After a long, seemingly endless day of waiting at the hospital for test results and a diagnosis it is time for me to go and let my husband rest for the night. Gitme obediently walks me out to the parking ramp were the the car is waiting for me and offers to once again take me out for dinner. I decline his offer as I stare at the back of the bus stop bench on the corner. More sitting throught another pretencious dinner is the last thing I want I think as I reconize a large solitary man waiting in the bus shelter. Was I followed here? "Nite Gitme, talk to you in the morning", I tell him as a jangle the car keys in the air and clutch the map he had printed out for me. I walk toward my waiting vehicle but double back toward the bus stop and plop down on the bench along side it's sole inhabitant. Out of the corner of my eye I see him give me a slight nod, which I return. I do not want to drive back to my lonely hotel, I want to walk again and stretch my little used legs. Still holding the map in my hand I simply voice my thought out loud. "I need to walk back to my hotel safely." Again the nod as he reached down for his backpack and stood.
Our steps were slow in comparison to the ones I took that morning. Richard shortened his strides, which my heel bitten feet greatly appreciated. After brief introductions, Rick became my dignified tour guide. There were no jeers as we passed under the bridges. He did find us a cleaner passage route than were I had passed before. Not one off color remark accosted us now as we walked. The hostile gazes were now shifted else were. Rick pointing out the natural attractions I had overlooked in my haste earlier. At Sister Marys statute he spoke of the destruction and pain the missionary's efforts had caused his nation. He told me of the unwritten history of the problems the damn had caused the wild flora when the flour mill was built on the river. He pointed out wild Rusk growing along the watersedge. It is good for coughs I was enlightened. Rick relayed this information with out vindictiveness or pretence. For him it was just fact. This was not a conversation with an uneducated man. I yearned to ask him how he came about his current living conditions.
Safe once again back in my hotels couryard I thought it expected that I pay this man for his service. Mustering as much poise as I could, I asked him to have dinner with me in the hotel. Rick glanced down at himself inappropriately dressed as I did. We ate at the less formal grill inside.
Seated in a booth that looked out at the hotels gift shop I admired some native glass beaded jewelry displayed in it's window as we waited for our food. With new etheauseasim Rick told me of his past life of a fancy dancer. His entire family had worked on his intricate performing costume. Mothers and sisters cut the leather and sewed the beads and designed the fringe. Fathers and uncles supplied the quills, and dyes, and feathers. Every eagle feather on his costume had been numbered and registered and accounted for with the federal government. Feathers of the eagle are thought of with great spiritual reverence. As is the bird it's self. Some values our cultures do share. I was imagining the impressive figure Rick must have made all decked out in his performing regalia as I was finishing my desert. It was right before we said goodnight that with the first real glint of sadness Rick also told me if one were to lose an eagle feather off of his costume during a dance that it was a sign of bad luck and shame to the dancer who had aloud this to happen. The dancer that had this misfortune happen was responsible to cover the entire cost of the pow-wow, even if it cost him his last penny. I then understood why this distinguished man spent his time communing with a subculture under a bridge.
A few days later I had busted my Hubby out of that hospital and brought him back to the hotel to recuperate before catching a flight back home. Packing our belongings into suitcases for the airport, I spotted the sweet grass the tribal elders had brought for my husband while regaining his strength. As we dropped our room keys off the the front desk, I told my Hubby I would meet him at our waiting car. I grabbed up that sweet grass braid and sprinted down the jogging trail. I left that lucky healing gift at Sister Marys feet. Have a safe journey, Rick. I know you will find it.
My Hubby had suddenly become very ill while working on his currant construction project, yet another Indian gaming casino. Serious enough that his company sent for me. I often tease Hub about being a corporate whore, but when the chips were low, the company was there for us. I was on a flight to the coast before I even could comprehended the severity of my circumstances. Hubbies junior manager, Gitme Mitch, was designated as my own personal assistant/body guard. I was met at the airport and driven directly to my husbands room. His project manager had taken detailed notes of the time spent in the ICU including lab results, names and conversations with specialists consulted, even dialogues with visitors and nurses personal stats. Nothing occurred in that hospital room that was not documented in triplicate. I believe he even issuded receipts for all gifts and cards received. The tribal elders visit and present of spiritual healing sweet grass were dually noted.
I stayed in the most lavish riverside suite available close to the hospital, and ate every meal at the finest restaurants Gitme could produce. Would of been a blast if it were not for the shadow of my sick Hubby that followed me everywhere. As much as I longed to be alone with that shadow, every time I looked around, there would be Gitme. "What do you have planned for today? Anything you have in mind that I can do for you?", he would ask as he picked me up from my hotel to shuttle me to the hospital. "Want to stop on the way for breakfast or do you just want me to pick you something up and bring it to the cardiatric unit?" No wonder there is heart decease involved in all this lavish overabundance. Gitme became my keeper, afraid to leave me alone to my own demise that he would be held accountable.
The company took to tag team entertaining of me to distract me from any despair. There must be a file of my vital stastiscs somewhere in main offices. Men who's names I have only heard my hubby refer to in passing seamed to know every nuance of my personal life. Dialog I swore Hub had never paid attention to were now being repeated back to me by the suits whose names were just inconsequential to me. Maybe Gitme always held a private briefing meeting when he made dinner reservations for whatever bisness ecsalone on call for the evening.
One morning I got up early and was looking down at the beatiful river walk from the terrace of my suite. I was watching the parade of yuppie joggers bounce by dressed in their designer gear when I got a wild hair and decided to ditch Gitme and wig out on my own for awhile. Before Gitme could show up at my door I was on that path, planning on enjoying some much needed time alone with my thoughts as I walked the two miles to the hospital.
Dressed in my trophy wife uniform, dress, tasteful jewlery, high heels, and matching purse, I hit the trail. For that short period of time, as I sashayed along, I finally felt like I had some control over my circumstances. I was, afterall, getting myself to the hospital thank you. Nevermind the fact that I wasn't totally sure were the hospital was located.
The people I encountered along the upscale rivers edge put the Minnesota nice theory to shame. It was their etticate not only to greet me with direct eye contact, but also exchange a few words of pleasantness beyond my usual customary "Hello". I was immensely enjoying the beautiful view and social interaction. Along the path were numerous statues, attributing the strengths of the early settlers of the area. It was at Sister Mary's memorial that I knew I must veer of the path and head uptown towards the hospital.
My surroundings soon began to change as I ventured north. The regal brick buildings showed signs of neglect. Abandoned store fronts replaced the grandeur of the river front. I admired the creative artistic ability of graffiti covered empty lots. The early morning sun rose now warmly to a more direct angle. There were no leisurely pedestrians to banter with.
Feeling a slight burn in my legs from the exertion of my now up hill journey, I looked ahead and see the series of interstate overpasses and train tracks I must traverse to reach my destination. I also see a solitary figure slowly walking in my direction.
A tall, broad man wearing a small backpack was heading toward me. He is looking past me, down toward the direction of the river I have just come from, so I seize this opportunity to size him up. He is handsome, with long, well groomed dark brown hair. A native American, simply dressed in kakki's and a t-shirt. Maybe it is the angle of the hill he is on top of, from were I am looking, he is huge.
"Good Morning!" I am the fist to speak, as I chirp my bright greeting, looking directly into his dark chocolate eyes. This seams to startle the man, as he hesitates briefly before nodding in my direction, avoiding my face as he does. So far this morning he is the only individual not to address me, but in my memory I pass it of to a cultural sign of respect that until we are formal introduced, I am rude to look into his Lakoda eyes.
As I reach the crest of the hill, I start to see more people again. Scary people. Some are pushing grocery carts full of flotsem. Some are talking... to themselves. All of them need a bath and a laundry mat. There are no vagrants in my rosy little surburban world. I am about to walk into the heart of their subculture, under the bridges of the overpasses.
To late to show fear I step into the shadows underneath the train tracks. With my basic survival instinct I think WWEKD? I know what Jesus Christ would do, and that I am not capable of. I refer to what Erika Kane, invincible soap opera queen would do. I fluff my hairy little munkay feathers up to full size and purposely stride on. I walk tall with my shoulders back, head up. I ball both hands into fists that I swing as I take as long strong of strides as my short skirt and platforms allow.
It is hard to see my dank surroundings as I stomp on over the uneven broken pavement. The groups of dark figures indistinguishable but the smells of stale chemical smoke mixed with alcohol and urine unmistakable. I ignore the propresitions so indecent I'm unsure what they are offering, and do not even turn my head at the hoots and cat calls that follow my three block journey through hell. Tables are turned and they now look searchingly into my face as I pass, as if to read the my history as I infringe upon their territory. My heart raced with fear more than the exertion of the treck as my mind took survey of the valuables I was carrying. Not that I was thinking of material things. How would I find my way safe in a strange city totally alone with nothing? It was more than alittle surprising I made it through unviolated. It was with much relief I reached the medical facility on shaky legs.
Although Hubby was delighted to see me there early, once he found out I had walked was on the phone immediately to Gitme. In a hushed voice I heard him hiss, "She walked, and I'm not real happy about that!", as if I were a child naively unaware of my self imposed danger. Within minutes Gitme arrives in the room, red and gushing apologies at this fopah. A company car was brought to the hospital for my use encase of any more impulsive unchaparoned jaunts.
After a long, seemingly endless day of waiting at the hospital for test results and a diagnosis it is time for me to go and let my husband rest for the night. Gitme obediently walks me out to the parking ramp were the the car is waiting for me and offers to once again take me out for dinner. I decline his offer as I stare at the back of the bus stop bench on the corner. More sitting throught another pretencious dinner is the last thing I want I think as I reconize a large solitary man waiting in the bus shelter. Was I followed here? "Nite Gitme, talk to you in the morning", I tell him as a jangle the car keys in the air and clutch the map he had printed out for me. I walk toward my waiting vehicle but double back toward the bus stop and plop down on the bench along side it's sole inhabitant. Out of the corner of my eye I see him give me a slight nod, which I return. I do not want to drive back to my lonely hotel, I want to walk again and stretch my little used legs. Still holding the map in my hand I simply voice my thought out loud. "I need to walk back to my hotel safely." Again the nod as he reached down for his backpack and stood.
Our steps were slow in comparison to the ones I took that morning. Richard shortened his strides, which my heel bitten feet greatly appreciated. After brief introductions, Rick became my dignified tour guide. There were no jeers as we passed under the bridges. He did find us a cleaner passage route than were I had passed before. Not one off color remark accosted us now as we walked. The hostile gazes were now shifted else were. Rick pointing out the natural attractions I had overlooked in my haste earlier. At Sister Marys statute he spoke of the destruction and pain the missionary's efforts had caused his nation. He told me of the unwritten history of the problems the damn had caused the wild flora when the flour mill was built on the river. He pointed out wild Rusk growing along the watersedge. It is good for coughs I was enlightened. Rick relayed this information with out vindictiveness or pretence. For him it was just fact. This was not a conversation with an uneducated man. I yearned to ask him how he came about his current living conditions.
Safe once again back in my hotels couryard I thought it expected that I pay this man for his service. Mustering as much poise as I could, I asked him to have dinner with me in the hotel. Rick glanced down at himself inappropriately dressed as I did. We ate at the less formal grill inside.
Seated in a booth that looked out at the hotels gift shop I admired some native glass beaded jewelry displayed in it's window as we waited for our food. With new etheauseasim Rick told me of his past life of a fancy dancer. His entire family had worked on his intricate performing costume. Mothers and sisters cut the leather and sewed the beads and designed the fringe. Fathers and uncles supplied the quills, and dyes, and feathers. Every eagle feather on his costume had been numbered and registered and accounted for with the federal government. Feathers of the eagle are thought of with great spiritual reverence. As is the bird it's self. Some values our cultures do share. I was imagining the impressive figure Rick must have made all decked out in his performing regalia as I was finishing my desert. It was right before we said goodnight that with the first real glint of sadness Rick also told me if one were to lose an eagle feather off of his costume during a dance that it was a sign of bad luck and shame to the dancer who had aloud this to happen. The dancer that had this misfortune happen was responsible to cover the entire cost of the pow-wow, even if it cost him his last penny. I then understood why this distinguished man spent his time communing with a subculture under a bridge.
A few days later I had busted my Hubby out of that hospital and brought him back to the hotel to recuperate before catching a flight back home. Packing our belongings into suitcases for the airport, I spotted the sweet grass the tribal elders had brought for my husband while regaining his strength. As we dropped our room keys off the the front desk, I told my Hubby I would meet him at our waiting car. I grabbed up that sweet grass braid and sprinted down the jogging trail. I left that lucky healing gift at Sister Marys feet. Have a safe journey, Rick. I know you will find it.
Friday, August 06, 2004
Missing in Action
I am lost. I have wandered distractedly from one specialty hospital intensive care unit to the next searching for were it is that I am supposed to be. At any giving time, in any state, I can tell you what ward I'm in or were my rental car is located. I am able to relay any vital statistics queried in a timely manner. The numerous doctors faces have blended into a blur. But in this limbo, I cannot tell you what is wrong. Or what I am feeling. Discombobulated, I laugh when I should be solemn and cry at the inappropriate. Give me back my healthy breathing husband and I will tell you were I have been. Until then, I will follow the bread crumbs I have dropped along the way and march blindly on some more.
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