CHRISTMAS WITH THE WALTONS

I wish I could take credit for this story but alas, it is not one of Mildred's. It was written in 2006 and is titled Christmas, Family and Porn but is still worthy of reposting reading today in my most humble opinion. There's no need to worry because it contains ABSOLUTELY NO PORN so you won't need to cover your eyes! lol

It’s a few days before Christmas and I’m visiting my sister. My brother-in-law’s mother lives with them in a very nice suite in the basement, she is however in California for the holidays. My Dad and step mom are visiting from California and occupying the guest room. Bare with me folks because sleeping arrangements figure into the story.

After dinner, conversation, and libations we all head off to bed. I get the mother-in-law suite. I get into bed and notice someone is still up and watching an action film in the home theater room. Now, I don’t have to tell you, but I will, it’s a tad loud and booming through the walls. In the spirit of the holidays, I decide I’ll just watch the tube until whoever goes to bed. My sister’s house has like a million TV channels. Poor peasant that I am I don’t even have HBO. I’m flipping through channels, there’s Harry Potter, nah, then Dexter, nah, half over and then the show REAL SEX, bingo! Like most folks I find sex mildly interesting so I’m gonna watch.

This particular segment was about the company Real Dolls who manufacture those $7,000 sex dolls. Well they have finally come out with a male doll. I will refer to the doll as Beach Boy Bob or Bob. All products must test marketed and this one is no exception. The company hired three “experts” (porn stars) to run Bob through his paces. So I’m watching. Now this probably a good time to mention that the bathroom connected to the suite has a second entrance from the hall. I hear the door open from the hall. I’ve left the light on in the bath so I can see. Into the bathroom walks my brother-in-law and he appears to fishing in his sweats for his little soldier. He notices the sounds coming from the room and begins to wander in asking, “Hey who’s in here?” I say, “It’s just me.” His attention moves from the bed to the TV where one “expert” has mounted Bob and the other two are helping her so to speak. The action is at a fever pitch. I say, I’m watching that show Real Sex. I say this as if that will make it clear that I’m not just watching any old porn but the classy HBO kind of porn. My brother-in-law gets a look of embarrassed horror on his face, a look that screams my eyes, my eyes, and in my mother’s bed. He tries to quickly retreat from the room and close the door behind him. Unfortunately, for both of us, I have hung some of my clothes on the door and they are preventing it from closing. They fall to the floor, he picks them up, places them back on the door and tries to close it again, and they fall to the floor again. In frustration, he throws the clothes onto the lazy boy and slams the door.

I find the whole thing hysterically funny and I can’t wait to tell everyone in the morning. My sister refers to this episode as, THE INCIDENT THAT DARE NOT SPEAK IT”S NAME. My brother-in-law claims that his therapy will be very expensive and I won’t find the bill so funny. So how was your Christmas?

I'll have to admit after reading this post, I was curious as to whether there have been any advances since 2006 and was surprised to find out they have all sorts of devices and gadgets to blow one's mind sexually! They even have robots for those who can afford them. Color me old-fashioned, but it makes me wonder if people even want to have sex the tradional way or some variation of it any more or if it's all about games, gimics, toys and marital aids? Geez! Maybe I need to go back to that website and have another look-see! lol 

DAY 3 - 30 SONGS IN 30 DAYS

Day 3: A song that reminds you of summertime

While I don't agree with Kid Rock's political views, I am tired of the divisiveness this country has grown to known as normal. In the spirit of unity, of when we all were young and carefree this is the song I wanted to share today. This song was recently shared with me by someone I respect.

*Kid Rock's music is noted for its eclectic sound. According to The Village Voice writer Chaz Kangas, "[Kid Rock’s] own love and incorporation of his musical references isn’t rooted in a nostalgia or a 'tribute,' but rather in his actively engaging the elements he finds compelling into a wholly new hodgepodge of his own invention."Because of this unique musical approach, Kid Rock has been described as a postmodern artist. His musical style encompasses hip hop, country, outlaw country, country rock, rock, rock and roll, Southern rock, swamp rock, heartland rock, hard rock, rap rock, heavy metal, rap metal, nu metal, blues,funk, soul and blue-eyed soul. Kid Rock's music has been described by Pitchfork as a cross between Run-DMC, Lynyrd Skynyrd and AC/DC.

Kid Rock's lyricism ranges from the braggadocio to the introspective; many of his raps consist of broad, humorous boasting, while other songs in his catalog have dealt with more serious topics, including poverty, war, race relations, interracial dating, abortion and patriotism. Kid Rock also developed a "redneck pimp" alter ego to complement his humorous lyrics.  According to Kid Rock, "I use straightforward words, you know. I’m not politically correct."

Kid Rock's influences include Bob Seger and the Beastie Boys. Cowboys & Indians claims that Kid Rock's song "Cowboy" had a major impact on the country music scene; the magazine wrote that artists Jason Aldean and Big & Rich, among others, were influenced by the song's country rap style. Kid Rock also had an impact on hip hop, serving as an influence on rappers like Yelawolf.

 * borrowed from Wikipedia

MY HERO

I awoke this morning needing exactly this post written by daughter years ago. As I read the words she wrote about me, I wept knowing how lately I have failed miserably to live up to her words by sinking into some self-imposed abyss. Honestly, I don't know if I have the courage or the strength to pull myself from the crevise in which I've fallen. I may need Lassie to come bring me a rope to help hoist me out of here...

"Wimpy Daughter" aka Christina was given an assignment to write a paper about her hero for one of her college classes 7 years ago (2004). The following is the paper she wrote:

By definition a hero is somebody who is admired and looked up to for outstanding qualities or achievements, somebody who commits acts of remarkable bravery or who has shown great courage, strength of character or another admirable quality. I find all these traits in my hero. "Try to picture a person who stands apart from the crowd who sees things not in black or white, but in varying shades of gray. Try to picture a person who closes their eyes and hears the beat of a different drummer, then marches proudly and eagerly away to do their own thing regardless of the consequences or popular opinion. Try to picture a person who is not a polished gem, but a diamond in the rough...someone who believes true beauty is in the eyes of the beholder and that the best things in life are free." (an excerpt from blogsite, Abnormally Normal People written by Red Kitten aka Mildred Ratched) When I picture this person, I see my mother and she is my hero.

Ever since I was little, I always knew my mother was different. It was not until I grew up that I later could appreciate the “difference” in her versus the stereotypical normal mother everyone else seemed to have. My mother raised us to be leaders not followers, to chart our own destiny and to be no one’s fool. This was daunting to a young child whose only desire was to fit in and have what everyone else had, a normal mom. My mother always taught my two brothers and me that the mind was a wonderful thing and we should use it. As far back as I can remember, probably to when I was three, I was told, “you are a smart person, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” Now I realize that all mothers will tell their children that, but most would not have done what she did. She let us use those brains instead of thinking for us. She told us that God gave us a brain and to use it, if we made a mistake or got into trouble we were to use our brain and figure out a solution. We had to, she was not going to suffer our foolishness and molly coddle any of us. Does this make her different? At the time I certainly thought so. When all my friends bragged about their parents giving them the answers to homework problems, kids picking on us at school or about how so and so parents was screaming at someone about their child’s actions my mother sat back and said to us, “You figure it out.” How I hated that, I wanted normal so bad and I didn’t have it, but it taught us to use those brains and boy did we figure it out.

Normalcy was not ever in abundance with my mother. Living in an area where racial slurs were the norm, my mother taught us to respect everyone equally as a human being regardless of skin color. She taught us to look beneath the surface of a person’s outer skin and find the true essence of who that person really was. I never knew what racial discrimination was until I became an adult and heard it. It was shocking to realize that the person making those remarks was so narrow minded. I guess witnessing such narrow mindedness opened my eyes to the fact that once again my mother defied what was normal and instead of seeing things in the standard black and white, she saw those gray areas. I never realized as I was growing up that she taught us from those gray matters more than from the black and white. As a young child I was allowed to watch what I wanted to on television. Most parents shudder to think what a child would choose, not my mother; she just sat back and allowed us to make those choices on our own. Instead of choosing stupidly we chose wisely and by doing so were taught a valuable lesson, the reward system. If you show that I can trust you, I will extend your freedom, but if you mess up you lose that freedom. I can honestly say our freedom wasn’t yanked away very often.

My mother will never be a polished gem; she will always be a diamond in the rough. Like an uncut diamond she has many flaws that I once saw as imperfections and now badges of courage, lack of selfishness and a kindness that is so overwhelmingly generous. I was taught it is better to give than to receive and always thought, "you’ve got to be kidding, right? You can’t really believe that bull!" But time and time again, we learned through her actions she meant just that. Her kindness and generosity to family as well as strangers will linger forever in my mind. What I saw as a weakness in character, thinking she was being taken advantage of, was an error on my part. You can only be taken advantage of if you let someone do so and she never allowed that. She showed strength in choosing to help those in need instead of doing the easier thing and ignoring them. She did without when others needed because she felt they needed more than she did. She didn’t just talk to us about these things, we saw her doing them time and time again. My mother taught us about the beauty found in the art of giving, the courage to love when you wanted to hate, to be strong when you wanted to be weak and to have the strength to go on when you feel that you are failing.

Christina (Wimpy Daughter) and Karen (Mildred Ratched)

My mother has not lived an easy life. The choices she has made are choices she has to bear, but bear them she does. Sometimes in frustration, in wishing she had done different, sometimes with laughter as she recalls a happy moment, but however she does it, she always bears them with honesty. She explains, not lectures, about her mistakes she has made along the way, in hopes that we will not have to go through the same things. I don’t look at them as mistakes though, because without the things she has witnessed and gone through herself, she would not be the person she is today and that person is my hero.

 Repost and edited from 12/01/2011

DAY 2 - 30 SONGS IN 30 DAYS

Day 2: A song you like with a number in the title

I thought long and hard on this one. There's many great songs with numbers in the titles, but the one I selected is America's favorite telephone number 867-5309/Jenny. While we may remember that telephone number from 1982 we probably can't remember our own telephone number from that time. I know I can't! 

Now for some song facts:

*In a June 2004 interview with Songfacts, co-writer Alex Call explained his version of the song's real origins:

Despite all the mythology to the contrary, I actually just came up with the 'Jenny,' and the telephone number and the music and all that just sitting in my backyard. There was no Jenny. I don't know where the number came from, I was just trying to write a 4-chord Rock song and it just kind of came out. This was back in 1981 when I wrote it, and I had at the time a little squirrel-powered 4-track in this industrial yard in California, and I went up there and made a tape of it. I had the guitar lick, I had the name and number, but I didn't know what the song was about. This buddy of mine, Jim Keller, who's the co-writer, was the lead guitar player in Tommy Tutone. He stopped by that afternoon and he said, 'Al, it's a girl's number on a bathroom wall,' and we had a good laugh. I said, 'That's exactly right, that's exactly what it is.'

Tommy Tutone's been using the story for years that there was a Jenny and she ran a recording studio and so forth. It makes a better story but it's not true. That sounds a lot better than I made it up under a plum tree in my backyard.

I had the thing recorded. I had the name and number, and they were in the same spots, 'Jenny... 867-5309.' I had all that going, but I had a blind spot in the creative process, I didn't realize it would be a girl's number on a bathroom wall. When Jim showed up, we wrote the verses in 15 or 20 minutes, they were just obvious. It was just a fun thing, we never thought it would get cut. In fact, even after Tommy Tutone made the record and '867-5309' got on the air, it really didn't have a lot of promotion to begin with, but it was one of those songs that got a lot of requests and stayed on the charts. It was on the charts for 40 weeks.

* borrowed from Wikipedia

THE ART OF BRIDGE BUILDING

Have you ever given any thought to the bridges you build with other people? We all build bridges with people with whom we associate and depending upon our skills as a master craftsman is how sturdy the bridge will be. Factors like the length of the relationship and the nature of the relationship also play a big part in bridge building process. Keep in mind also, that as we build our side of the bridge, the lanes going the other way may not be constructed at the same speed and with the same materials. 

Once a bridge is completed we then have the pleasure of traveling across it. That journey should never be taken blindly because we may miss spots that require additional work and reinforcement. The other side of the bridge reveals new destinations to move towards and carries an element of the unknown, yet the bridge itself holds a sense of security and familiarity because each step of the way was designed and hand-crafted by us. A bridge is our work of art and sometimes our legacy. So we should take great pride it what we built. 

Sometimes we burn bridges to end a relationship and other times we hang an Under Construction sign on it while repairs are taking place. The destruction or reconstruction effort depends solely upon the amount of damage done and our priorities. Keep in mind some bridges can’t be repaired and once a bridge is burned we can’t cross it ever again. Sometimes we get the opportunity at some future date to rebuild the bridge. It’s up to us if we devote our time and effort into that endeavor. I highly recommend not building the same type of bridge as before, but a new and improved model that is resistant to past damages and flaws. 

Sometimes what becomes confusing to us is when we have built a bridge and try to surpass its capacity. A hemp bridge over a dangerous ravine might be functional, but hardly the type of bridge you’d carry a heavy load across or travel across quickly. The durable bridges made of steel and concrete are the ones that withstand the test of time and are made for strenuous journeys. Hemp bridges become easily frayed and worn, while more durable bridges seem to last a lifetime with less maintenance required. Just as it may take a whole village to raise a child, it takes a whole crew to build a bridge. As long as you treat the crew right and reward them justly, the bridge you build will be a masterpiece. 

Gratitude statement: While I have to shamefully admit to building some rather flimsy bridges at times, the bridges that matter most to me are the ones that have withstood the true test of time. 

DAY 1 - 30 SONGS IN 30 DAYS

Day 1: A song you like with a color in the title

Motivated by my previous post, I'm starting a 30 songs in 30 days challenge for two reasons: 1) I'm extremely bored in my cave. 2) I love music. I will attempt to select music that isn't the usual go to selections that have been played into the ground a millions times. I'll also try to write a little background either about the song or the artist or both. Let's try to have a little fun with this!

For this selection I chose Kenny Wayne Shepherd's Blue on Black. 

Shepherd stated in a 2011 interview that he began playing guitar in earnest at age seven, about six months after meeting and being "pretty mesmerized" by Stevie Ray Vaughan, Labor Day weekend in 1984, at one of his father's promoted concerts. His self-taught method employed a process of learning one note at a time, playing and rewinding cassette tapes, using a cheap Yamaha wanna-be Stratocaster made out of plywood basically and learning to play by following along with material from his father's record collection.

Blues musician Bryan Lee invited 13 years old Shepherd to play guitar onstage. He subsequently made demo tapes, and a video was shot at Shepherd's first performance at the Red River Revel Arts Festival in Shreveport. It was this video performance that impressed Giant Records chief Irving Azoff enough to sign Shepherd to a multiple album record deal.

From 1995 on, Shepherd took seven singles into the Top 10, and holds the record for the longest-running album on the Billboard Blues Charts with Trouble Is...In 1996, Shepherd began a longtime collaboration with vocalist Noah Hunt, who provided the vocals for Shepherd's signature song, "Blue on Black." Shepherd has been nominated for five Grammy Awards, and has received two Billboard Music Awards, two Blues Music Awards, and two Orville H. Gibson Awards.  

* borrowed from Wikipedia

LYRICS ARE LIFE

Many years ago while driving home from work I heard three songs...all of them got me singing along and all of a sudden a verse in each song jumped out at me and seemed to stick in my head.

And you can’t fight the tears that ain’t coming
Or the moment of truth in your lies
When everything feels like the movies
Yeah, you bleed just to know you’re alive
~Iris by The GooGoo Dolls

 

Momma always told me not to look into the eyes of the sun
But momma that's where the fun is the calliope crashed to the ground.
Cause she was
blinded by the light...
~Blinded By The Light by Manfred Mann

Don't say words you're gonna regret
Don't let the fire rush to your head
I've heard the accusaation before
And I ain't gonna take any more
Believe me
The sun in your eyes
Made some of the lies worth believing
~Eye In The Sky by Alan Parsons Project

These words that other people have written seemed to reflect what I've been feeling lately.  It just goes to show, the human experience is very similar for all of us.  We all suffer at times and some of us become creative in our pain while others wallow and fade away.  Who hasn't followed the lies of others into the light?  But how many of us return unblemished? unscorched? I believe one of the best tans I ever got was the one I had from that experience! 

Reposted and edited from Abnormally Normal People 5/16/2005 

THE FUNNY SIDE OF REALITY

And to that all I can say is, may I please have my straight jacket in a deep purple or burgundy? When I'm done with it, I'll put it on Ebay! 

FORGIVENESS

As I step into this vast arena, the words of Socrates come to mind. "An unexamined life is not worth living." Today, I looked inside and discovered it takes a stronger person to forgive than it does to remain steadfast on my principles and beliefs. Anger, disappointment and fear are all very powerful negative feelings. More often than not, those negative feelings are created by someone close to us and designed to manipulate and control. Today, I learned how to be free and look past the negative feelings. The gamble isn't in loving, but in stepping outside the safety of the all the positive feelings and being able to choose a particular path based solely upon what my heart tells me to do. Doing that gave me an incredible sense of personal power and freedom. Today I learned love isn't about being right, but about being me. 

They say "to err is human and to forgive is divine." I guess that makes me extremely human and working towards divinity. Forgiving others is a cinch! I find what's hardest is to forgive myself, yet I truly believe it's okay to make mistakes as long as I learn from the mistakes I make. Without mistakes a person can never grow, learn and test the boundaries of life. Have I learned from my mistakes or will I repetitiously do the same stupid things? I think as I examine my life and the world around me within this blog, the answer to those questions will unfold. This journey may get a little bumpy along the way, so please fasten your seat belts and put your crash helmet on as a safety precaution. The air bags are functional and the driver hasn't lost anyone yet! Just follow the yellow brick road, but look out for the wicked witch!

Reposted and edited from Abnormally Normal People  12/05/2004

ARE YOU ABNORMALLY NORMAL?

Picture a person who stands apart from the crowd who sees things not in black or white, but in varying shades of gray.  Picture a person who closes their eyes and hears the beat of a different drummer, then marches proudly and eagerly away to do their own thing regardless of the consequences or popular opinion.  Picture a person who is not a polished gem, but a diamond in the rough...someone who believes true beauty is in the eyes of the beholder and that the best things in life are free.  When I picture that person, I see myself.  Who do you see? 

Put your thinking cap on and describe yourself! Be honest! Mildred is dusting off the cobwebs from the "abnorms"for another spin around the block. None of the old crew is still around, but the new crew is filled with so many great possibilities! Hop on the ship and take a seat, folks! The next stop is the "second star to the right and straight on ’til morning..."

Reposted and edited from Abnormally Normal People 12/23/2004 

A SIGN OF OUR TIMES

 

I want to know where this person learned how to read and/or if they had problems following directions as a child. 

Everyday along this side of this parking lot cars and trucks park this same way and it is clearly posted all along the railing that parking is for HEAD IN PARKING ONLY! 

The reason for this is the steep, immediate drop off on the otherside of the railing. This photo doesn't show it, but the railing has been badly dented in many spots from all the imbeciles who have failed to read the signs. They back into the parking spots and ram into the railing. Someday the railing is going to give way and they are going to end up in the doctor's office below. Hopefully, when that happens they have an appointment to be seen!

2005! 2005! 2005! 2005! 2005!

Over time I’ve come to the realization that I’ve possibly never been more than just a blip on anyone’s radar because I doubt any man has ever truly loved me.  No, this isn’t self-pity waving its flag in some horrific surrender. Perhaps it’s more aptly named self-realization and I blame no one other than myself for this happening throughout my lifetime. Who else can I blame? I certainly can’t blame someone else for not loving me. No, the fault lies with only me. It’s that ornery, independent streak in me that keeps decent men at bay. Oh yes, the ones that claim to have been attracted to me for my independent nature seem to only want to change me once they deem they have "captured" me. They feel I no longer need to be that way. Thus I should change or "tone it down" a little and become someone I no longer recognize as myself.  Of course, I've always strongly resisted and often become offended at the thought of relying on anyone when the intent wasn't to change me, but to help make my life easier or better. 

Is that how the game is played? Is that why I'm still alone? Do I not know how to compromise? Do I not know how to properly blend? Instead of allowing myself to need someone I push all decent, rational men away and invite the freaks and losers in like it’s open season at a Turkish bazaar. I get used and abused until there's nothing left. I can’t ever let myself feel or seem too vulnerable to a man who wants or needs a real relationship. What I do instead is make horrible choices that end in disaster that would make most people cringe in utter whatthefuckery.  

From an early age I convinced myself that the only men who would want me are ones who are severely damaged and broken to the point they can't be repaired. I never believed I was worthy of anything good or long lasting, so why would I ever look in that other neighborhood? I convinced myself that neighborhood was boring! I always went slumming on bad boy side of town. And then one day I totally gave up!!! I just stopped. I said no more! While extremely stimulating as it might be, relationships don’t thrive on insanity or neglect. So I said I’m not doing this any longer. That’s how it’s been ever since.  I've been in time out since 2005. Would I like to find someone? Absolutely! Do I trust my own judgment? Absolutely not! So, until I get a panel of fully qualified judges capable of selecting an appropriate significant other for me I guess I’m up the creek without a paddle. It’s me, myself and I! Wouldn’t it be nice if a good guy just would tell me to shut the fuck up and deal with it because he loves me? Ha! If it were only that simple! If only there were someone that brave!

I’ve been married twice and I would wager neither man could tell anyone when my birthday is, what my favorite color is, what my bra size is, what my favorite season of the year is and who my favorite author is.  That may be hard to believe but it’s true. In fact, I doubt they know much about me at all. This inner turmoil I feel now has finally allowed me to see something from another perspective than my own. Yes, it made me feel much smaller and insignificant but I can accept being smaller and less significant if it allows me to finally see the truth about myself because that’s where the true freedom lies. I can accept that role because sometimes we aren’t meant to play a lasting role in a person’s life.  

In the past I've referred to myself as an emotional cutter, someone who tears the scab off an old wound just so she can feel something…anything. I think my life has become so blah, so nothing that ripping that scab off is an act of final desperation to feel even if feeling is just to feel some old emotional pain.  Who does that? Why do that? Is feeling something that important? OMG! I'm so ashamed of myself!

Why not go for the gusto and feel happy for a change? Yes, for a change I think I’d like that, but I’m clueless and don’t know where to begin or how to begin. It seems like such a foreign concept that it makes me ashamed to admit that where love is concerned I’m a complete novice. Just the thought of the whole process scares the hell out of me.  But will I allow that fear to continue to paralyze me? I need to make some changes. I need to first make a commitment to myself before I can make one to anyone else.  The time is now to move forward into the future or be buried by the past.  Too many bones have weighed me down for too long! It’s time sling those bones aside and rejoin the land of the living. 

Okay, Mildred one foot in front of the other, Take baby steps if you have to, but damn it, move forward! It's way past time... It's time to hit one out of the park and make the crowds go wild or at least make yourself go wild with some real happiness for a change. Just keep telling yourself everyday when you wake up 2005! 2005! 2005! 2005! 2005! If that doesn't motivate you, nothing will.

I CAN STOP TIME BUT CAN TIME STOP ME?

“Time is an illusion.”
-- Albert Einstein --

Lately I've been giving a little more credence to things that have no reasonable explanation. For example, I have spent my entire life not being able to wear a watch made by any manufacturer. I even killed a Rolex! What happens is shortly after I put one on my wrist, it stops running. I have the same affect on ink pens if I hold them too long and if I use electronics for any length of time without a break they start screwing up and acting wonky. Believe it or not, I've had lights flicker when I've entered into rooms, but when you've had this sort of thing happen your entire life it becomes no big deal so you don't think much about it.  

I've just learned to live with the annoyance. For some reason clocks and watches have always bothered me. Watches I have have forsaken long ago because I simply can't wear them and clocks just seem to annoy me. In my younger years I never would have one in my living room because people seem to love to sit and watch a clock for some reason. I like for a person to feel as if when they come to visit me like they're off the clock for a few minutes! If they're constantly looking at the clock that's never going to happen.

Because I didn't have a clock hanging in my living room, people always assumed it was a great gift idea to buy me as a Christmas gift. One year I received clock from someone significant enough that I had to do something with the gift, but I really hated the thought of people coming to my house and sitting in my living room staring at the clock. So my solution to the problem was to hang the clock on the back of the bathroom door because I figured if anyone stayed long enough at my house they'd eventually make their way to my bathroom and they could check the time then. I can't tell you how many funny looks I got when people would come out from using my bathroom. Of course this was long before cell phones and now people can just endlessly look at them and ignore everything going on around them. There's really no need for watches or clocks or alarms anymore! I guess there's no need to personal interaction either.

My other clock that was a definite throwaway was a cat clock.  Because I love cats my closest friend bought me a clock that meowed on the hour every hour. OH NO! It did that for about a day before it got taken down and found its way to the nearest dumpster because it was so loud it lifted me out of my chair and woke me out of a sound sleep.  It sounded like a bunch of alley cats fighting and mating.  The cuckoo clock my mother brought me back from Europe had to go by the wayside also because it drove me crazy. 

I do, however, have a Dali melting clock on my bookcase in my living room that my daughter bought me several years ago. (I don't know if I have any batteries in it! lol) That's a keeper! I bought my mother a HUGE clock for the living room a few years before she passed away. I kept that, but just for sentimental reasons. If the power goes out and the time on the microwave and oven needs to be reset, it may be days or weeks before they get reset because I care so little about time. I used to be that way about calendars. It would drive my daughter's first husband, Steve crazy. He would ask her why I would do that because sometimes I wouldn't turn the pages on the calendar for 6 or more months. She'd laugh and tell him that's my mother! She hears the beat of a different drummer and her clock isn't always set to the correct time.

MY QUEST FOR GOD - PART II (REPOST)

The summer of bible camp was "The Summer of Love."  How ironic I thought, while others everywhere were tuning in, turning on and dropping out, I was trying to understand basic human nature and to find out if God really does exist. From a child's perspective, I grew up thinking if the people who claim they love me and want to protect me will hurt me, then what will the rest of the world do to me? That isn't actually the right stuff to guide a person into adulthood, but nonetheless it guided me into being clueless where romantic relationships are concerned. The "funny" thing about it is that I've gone through life waiting and wanting someone to prove me wrong, but to date no one has. My logic says since people are human and humans are flawed, anyone is bound to hurt/disappoint someone else, but on a deeper level...one still filled with idealism and good things that can't be destroyed by this cesspool called life, I choose to hold onto the belief that love is a good thing and in many situations is the only thing that keeps us afloat. So until love comes my way, I'll just stay in my canoe and hope I don't lose my paddles. 

After that summer when I fell short of receiving God's grace, I turned to trying to understand evil instead. When Anton LaVey's Satanic Bible was hot off the presses, I purchased one and read it from cover to cover hoping for a lightbulb moment. Needless to say, it was just another book filled with words written by man and it didn't explain the great mysteries of life any more than the Christian Bible had. My spiritual journey I suppose some would say was corrupted by my inability to believe what I couldn't see. Instead of blindly believing, I questioned EVERYTHING instead. If God loved us so much then why do bad things happen to good people? Where are the miracles? Why are there wars, famine and disease? No one seemed to be able to adequately answer these things through the Biblical verses they would throw my way. I needed more than meaningless words on a page to help me swallow anything I was told about God. I needed more than just empty written words to make God a reality.

Eventually my salvation was found in my experimentation with drugs. As that experimentation deepened, I found certain drugs had a numbing effect. That feeling was one my whole body craved.... especially my emotions. Nothing bothered me as long as I stayed high, so by the tender age of 14, I stayed high ALL the time. I could easily sit back and blame my choices on my genetic background. I'm sure the long line of alcoholism that runs on both sides of my family would be enough of reason to say I didn't stand a chance not to be a substance abuser. Yes, the odds were against me, yet somehow I know that's not why I changed the path I had walked as a small child. I didn't begin life as an addict. You see, I actively sought out finding something that would make me numb. It took me many years to realize that without drugs I would have been a much uglier statistic. I choose drugs to stay alive if that makes any sense. They didn't choose me. 

Looking back on it, I call the next 16 years of my life "my leap of faith". They say God looks out for fools and drunks, but I think He/She has a special fondness for all addicts. Addictions, whatever they may be, cause an emotional bankruptcy in the person. No love is greater than that of a person and their drug of choice. When I say "drug," I include food, sex, gambling, shopping, work or whatever it is a person uses to escape. All other things in life come second regardless of what we try to tell ourselves and everyone else who is in earshot. That moment, at the climax when nothing else matters, I found freedom from pain and a facade that made me think nothing could ever hurt me again. Many years later, when the truth stared me in the face daring me to look elsewhere, I realized the truth and only the truth would set me free. 

MY QUEST FOR GOD - PART I (REPOST)

My first exposure to religion was as a young child. At the age of 5, I was baptized into The First Congregational Church in Brewer, Maine. For all those not familiar with the Congregational Church, a quick history lesson should refresh your memory. Does the word Puritan mean anything to you? It was a quaint church overlooking the Penobscot River. The beautiful stain glass windows illuminated the interior as the morning sun rose in the sky. I went to church with my family on Sundays, sat quietly and very still on the pew mimicking what the others did when they did it, yet I can't remember a word of what was ever preached in that church. My only memory is the feeling that there was more to it than what I was being told. I wanted to be touched by the real hand of God, but somehow, I always eluded His omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent grasp.

By the time I was 11, often, I walked to church alone or with my best friend, Margie who I asked to accompany me after she'd spend the night at my house. Her mother was dying from Hodgkin's disease, so she sought comfort elsewhere during that time in her life. My door was always open and I welcomed her companionship (and still do after all these years). One Wednesday night she asked me to go to church with her. But it was Wednesday...who goes to church on Wednesday? I soon found out. The Baptist preacher bellowed from the pulpit condemning all sinners to burn eternally in the flames of Hell. As he spoke and thumped his fist on the pulpit to drive home his words, I was certain he was speaking to me personally. I was doomed to burn in Hell if I didn't seek out Salvation, so when my friend asked me to attend Bible camp with her during that summer, I eagerly accepted. Maybe God would reveal himself to me at Bible camp.

We met in old army style tents outside a host church on Eddington Pond for various daily religious classes and activities. Each day, we were expected to memorize a new Bible verse. When that feat wasn't accomplished, off the person went to see the preacher. They always would return subdued and extremely repentant. When they upped memorizing the verses from 1 to 2, I panicked. I had trouble focusing and remembering the words. So naturally, I froze when I was asked to stand and recite my verses. My mind went blank and the interior of the large tent seemed darker and filled with impending doom. I felt true shame as I walked to the preacher’s office inside the church. I remember my long, slender legs shaking and feeling weak as I entered his office after knocking. I stood before him looking down at the floor.

At first, he spoke softly, and I lifted my eyes to meet his. He peered into my soul and I shivered. He stood and walked around me, then laid his hand on the back of my head. I trembled as he prayed for me and it seemed my fear ignited something in him. His voice slowly became louder and louder until it filled the whole room. I was a sinner and without a doubt, I was going to burn in Hell for all eternity.

As the tears ran down my face, I was instructed to kneel. I felt almost relieved to stop standing. My legs were weak and trembling. I cried and prayed and asked God's forgiveness. My pleading was frantic. I asked God to enter me and fill me with His Spirit. I truly wanted His Grace, but the only grace I would receive that day was being bent over a desk and being told to bare myself. As the pastor spanked my bare bottom, his voice trembled as he prayed for me. Each time his hand met my flesh, it lingered for a moment. When he finally stopped, he stood behind me while I repeated the verses.

I could feel the intensity of his eyes gazing down upon me. Each time he said, "say them again," his voice trembled, and his breathing quickened. Suddenly, his voice changed and the words that came from him were ones I had never heard before. He was speaking in some foreign language I didn’t understand. And then silence. It was finally over! By the time I covered my bare bottom, my skin was so tender it hurt to have the fabric of my panties brush across my bottom.

As I walked back to the tent, the realization filled me that something had just happened, but I wasn’t quite sure what that something was. Did God finally “touch” me? Had I finally received His Grace? It wasn't until many years later when I awoke screaming from a nightmare that I realized what had happened that day and I wondered how many others like me had been filled with the good pastor’s Spirit of God.

JUST A CHAT BETWEEN TWO FRIENDS

Mildred: OMG!

Martha: What's up buttercup?

Mildred: You’re going to laugh at me. I hope you're sitting down.

Martha: Oh goody.....that always makes my little black heart red!

Mildred: So I got high as fuck last night and I’m holding that damn stone Angel gave me because I’m supposed to hold it as instructed by her. 

Mildred: So I’m laying in bed in the dark holding the stone and chatting with Jesse and I lose the damn stone. I can’t find it anywhere.

Martha: Uhhhohhhhhh

Mildred: I look around. I move the dogs. I look on the floor. It’s really late so I finally say fuck it. I’ll look for it in the morning when it’s light out.

Martha: Go on......

Mildred: So this morning I get up and tear my bed apart, no stone...

Mildred: I look all around my bed, no stone...

Martha: WTF?

Mildred: Under my bed, no stone...

Mildred: Not on my nightstand!

Mildred: It’s nowhere!

Mildred: I’m fucking freaking out because it vanished!

Mildred: So I figured it’ll turn up eventually because I didn’t get out of bed while I had it in my hand.

Martha: Have you found it?

Mildred: No!!!

Mildred: So, I’m in the bathroom getting dressed and I looked down. There wedged in my belly bottom is that damn stone.

Martha: Oh jeezus!

Martha: 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

Martha: That's what they call pop in belly button jewelry

Mildred: I have a really deep belly bottom.

Mildred: I don’t remember putting it there. lol

Mildred: I was really high!

Martha: Well......you WERE stoned off your ass!

Mildred: Fucking Apple Fritter strain. See what happens when I try something new? lol

Mildred: OMG

Martha: Save me a hit!!!

Martha: I need to try it!!!

Mildred: I thought you’d want to hear about this one!

Martha: Absolutely! You never cease to dazzle and amaze me😘

Mildred: Why the hell would I put a rock in my belly button?

Martha: Maybe I'll get a belly stone, too!

Mildred: lol

Martha: Who the hell knows why! Who the hell knows why you do anything you do?

Mildred: It's amazing it stayed in there all that time and didn’t come out.

Mildred: I wish someone had taken a pic of the look on my face when I discovered it was in my belly button.

Martha: Did it pop right out or did you have to dig for it?

Mildred: No it came right out.

Mildred: I don’t know about me sometimes!

Martha: I know, I feel ya!

Mildred: Well, the stone has my mojo on it now. That's for sure!

Martha: And belly button lint

Mildred: And some belly button lint

Mildred: Jinx!

Martha: Lmao....great minds!

Mildred: We need to pinkie swear and do a wish.

Mildred: What can I wish for?

Martha: Pinky swear......make a wish!

Martha: Done!

Mildred: I don’t know what I want to wish for.

Mildred: Hmmmmm! What do I really want?

Mildred: Oh, I wish I'd get laid!

Martha: You can't tell me or else it won't come true.

Mildred: That one may take a boulder in my belly button! lol

Martha: Ouch!

Mildred: Oh yeah! I wasn’t supposed to tell you. Let me wish for something else.

Mildred: It’ll be a secret this time!

Martha: Good!

Mildred: Okay! Done!

Mildred: We’ll see how strong the power of the pinkie swear really is!

Mildred: So how are you today? Did you put any foreign objects in any of your orifices?

Martha: I'm okay, and no.....not today!

Mildred: I’m so proud of you! At least one of us is thinking straight.

Martha: I got lucky.

Mildred: This time!

Mildred: I’m still chuckling. Do these things happen to other people?

Martha: I just told Max.

Mildred: I can't be held responsible for my actions. I exceeded Snoop Dogg's usual consumption of weed last night. I was completely cooked.

Martha: Max just shook his head.

Mildred: But he loves me.

Martha: He does!

Mildred: You have to love a fool and at least he didn't tell you to spray me with the hose like before.

Mildred: Not many people would admit to something like that and at least I'm honest. lol

Mildred: It takes a special person to admit to their colorful blunders.

Mildred: and I’m special.

Martha: You're special alright!

Mildred: But I can’t spell or speak today...it must be that damn stone! It put some funky Hoodoo on me! I put it back on the shelf. I'm keeping it away from me! It's dangerous!

Mildred: I think I may need some more Apple Fritter to straighten me out after all of that trauma I went through! lol

MY FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL

As a child my birthday always felt more like a curse instead of something to look forward to each year. Other than my mother, how could anyone be excited by the hallmark of that day?  Public schools always went back in session the day after Labor Day.  That meant many times the first day of school fell on my birthday, September 5th.  My very first day of school when I entered kindergarten at Vine Street Elementary School was much more memorable than any of the others because of the events that unfolded.  My birthday had been the day before, so this special day as I began my educational journey remains etched in infamy as being showcased by the fancy footwork of an awkward 5 year old klutz.

My next older brother is 4 years older than I am.  He had been delegated the responsibility to walk me to and from school until I got old enough to either walk by myself or in a group with my friends.  Since we went to the same school, it shouldn't have been that big of a deal to him, but anything involving siblings has a funny way of becoming complicated and drama-filled.  His biggest issue was having to deal with the shame of walking his kid sister to school.  Oh, the horrible things our families cast upon us, but like I always say, "what doesn't kill us, only makes us stronger".  I'm sure my brother is a much better person today for having had to deal with all the responsibilities of being an older brother to a pain in the ass like me. 

We both were decked out in our fine new first day of school apparel as we left home that day.  The journey up Walter Street seemed like such an arduous trek for a five year old child. The route contained two hills, Little Walter and Big Walter, crossing a sometimes busy Third Street and navigating Vine Street to arrive safely at school.  As we walked down Little Walter, I discovered many other children doing exactly the same thing we were doing.  All the older brothers and sisters were walking just ahead of their younger siblings prompting them to stop being so slow.  

As I walked I wasn't paying attention to what I was doing or where I was going. Before my brother noticed and could redirect my focus, I fell face first into a rather large pothole in the sidewalk. It all happened so fast that I didn't even have time to put my hands out to help break my fall.  BAM! My nose and forehead took the full impact of my fall. As my brother helped me up and took me home, he bitched at me the whole way there. I had blood and tears running down my face, but to hear him tell it, you would have thought I had planned the whole thing out just to embarrass him and to make him late for school.  Contrary to popular belief, I may have always had a devious streak in me, but not that devious!

Our family doctor, Dr. Dearborn looked me all over and patched me up.  My nose wasn't broken, but I had two black eyes and my forehead had been split open. My face was a mess for awhile and that was no way for a shy, little girl to start school, but I developed a great poker face at a young age so no one knew just how deeply that fall had hurt me. I like to say I learned to watch where I was walking, but that skill was developed at a much older age.  The only real lasting effect from my fall was the daily ridicule I endured from my brother as we walked to school.  I was so glad when the city finally patched that hole and my brother stopped tormenting me.  We laugh about it now, but I often wondered if any of my brothers ever realized how inferior to them I grew up feeling. 

HOW DO YOU DEFINE PHYSICAL BEAUTY?

We are taught from a very young age to revere physical beauty. It isn't until we get much older that we figure out it's inner beauty that matters most. That interim time we spend soothing our eyes with what we consider aesthetically pleasing is often times accompanied by mending our broken hearts. For most of us, those wasted days we’ve spent with "eye candy" pales in comparison to the real thing. I think it's a travesty that people are coerced by society into developing meaningless preferences for their most intimate relationships based solely upon what a person looks like and not what type of character they have.  

We overlook anything that may have depth just to possess beauty for a fleeting moment. We’re so hoodwinked into believing that outer beauty is the important thing. We’re not told that physical beauty wanes with age and then in hindsight during some brief moment of clarity, we suddenly get it. Aging no longer seems scary when vanity is put into its proper perspective. Gray hair and wrinkles no longer are dreaded. Some people wear them well and like a fine wine, they become better with age. 

Many people alter their appearance thinking that a youthful appearance might grant them the key to happiness by cheating the aging process when in reality all it does is buy their plastic surgeon's a new Porsche and helps put his children through college. So why does aging scare people? Why do we feel less desirable? When we turn 60 is it really necessary to look 30 in order to feel the happiness we so desperately seek? Vanity is such a powerful force that rules supreme from our early years right up until the time we realize vanity is a waste of time. Physical beauty is so subjective and filled with individual preferences. If asked to name the three most beautiful women in the world and the three most handsome men, the list would vary from person to person. What we might find out by comparing lists is how we differ in our definition of physical beauty. 

No wonder so many teens develop eating disorders and remain confused and unsatified with their appearance for years. When beauty is defined in terms of this picture, what we strive for is not only unhealthy, but is a hideous facade as well. The picture features a model who looks anorexic. Because most of us have too much meat on our bones, it makes us ugly by society’s standards. Yes, physical beauty is governed by our preferences. What looks hot to one person might make someone else run away in search of a paper bag and a Phenergan suppository. 

Gratitude statement: After looking at this picture, it makes me thankful vanity has passed me by and the only use I want a paper bag for is to cover this lost soul until she gains alittle weight. 

TO STACY WHEREVER YOU ARE

WHY CAN'T JOHNNY READ AND WRITE?

I woke up this morning thinking about why so many people are up in arms about prayer not being allowed in schools. I remember as a child praying in school, but now I look back and see how wrong it was to impose Christianity upon everyone. It's great if you believe in a Christian god, but what if you don't? What if you're family is Jewish or Muslim? What if your family is Buddhist or Hindu? What if your family is Wiccan or Scientologists? What if your family is Agnostic or Atheist? What's wrong with just having a moment of silence in respect of all belief systems and not just favoring one? What's wrong with teaching tolerance and respecting all differences? What's wrong with teaching a child God has many faces and sometimes God is a faceless entity called science and reason? Shouldn't schools be more concerned with teaching our children math, reading and science than instilling religious doctrine? I guess it's okay not to be able to read or write as long as you can recite the Lord's prayer because God takes care of all His followers and will provide for you when you can't get a job. If I sound angry, I am! Religion is not the cure all to everything! It belongs in church and not in our public schools!

A CRY FOR HELP

Each summer during my mother's vacation from work my family would go stay at my Aunt Leah's camp on Eddington Pond. My family wasn't fortunate enough to own a camp so we had to rely on the generosity of others. As I got older, my brothers stopped going to camp and opted to stay home so they could have legendary parties. While the cat's away the mice will play! 

I hadn't reached the "I don't want to go to camp" stage yet. The highlight of my days at camp as I got older were the boys who had a camp next door. As with any 13 almost 14 year old girl, I immediately developed a crush on one of the boys named Jimmy. I've always had a run of bad luck with guys with that name, but I finally learned my lesson after marrying one.  This "ginger" Jimmy gave me my first real taste of what rejection felt like. How humiliating it is to feel like the ugly duckling and the odd man out. I hated feeling not good enough. I hated being me. Why couldn't I have been born short, petite and gorgeous? 

I've always had self-destructive tendencies as far back as I can remember. Although I've only halfheartedly tried the big "S" a few times, I now wonder what was my actual goal when I downed a whole bottle of aspirin chased by a massive amount of straight whisky. Did I have any idea that it could have killed me? Was I disappointed when it didn't kill me? 

My mother brought a whole gallon of Canadian Club whisky to camp that summer and now I wonder why she did that. My mother wasn't a drinker. Did she have plans of entertaining after the children were tucked snugly into bed in the loft overlooking the pond? If so, I never saw any evidence of it. Were my actions a cry for help or was I just looking for the attention I obviously wasn't getting? So many questions in hindsight, but never any beforehand.

After going on a very animated teenage tirade that probably resembled the Tasmanian Devil going after Bugs Bunny and ingesting the only things available to me at the time...a bottle of aspirin and whisky, I remember continually vomiting until all I could do is dry heave and heave and heave. At that point the desire to die was more than just a fleeting impulse. I felt so bad, dying would have been a welcome relief. The next morning when asked about my "illness" I passed off what was wrong with me as being some type of intestinal ailment when in reality I probably should have been in the hospital. 

It always amazed me how strong my mother's sense of denial was. She was a nurse and never "saw" all the classic signs I exhibited of a teenager in crisis. All my stunts went unnoticed until I eventually overdosed on barbiturates at school less than two years later and was rushed to the ER. Since she worked at that hospital, it was out of the question for me to try to cover up that one. Oops! I got too high and forgot how many I had taken! Actually, that was the truth. I ate pills like candy. If 3 were good, 6 or more were spectacular. Who knew how many drugs I had in my system at any given time? Like an alcoholic, one could never be too high unless unconscious or comatose. Oh, what a wonderful gene pool from which I come!

My ears rang so loudly for the better part of a week that I could hard hear anything, but the ringing. I felt like I had a severe case of the flu. I hurt all over and I couldn't keep anything in my stomach for several days. My best friend, Margie witnessed me sink into my dark era. She accompanied me to camp that summer and fretted over me. When I look back, I wonder how close she came to ratting me out. It must have been hard for her to watch me be in so much pain and self-destruct. (I'm sorry, Margie!) 

Now, I look back and wonder where my mother was during all my brouhahas and why she had left my friend and I unattended that evening. The unattended theme carried through the next summer as well when I did have a boyfriend and that boyfriend was allowed to come stay at camp with me. Oh, what a summer that was! I was 14. He was 16. Skinny-dipping, frolicking in the summer sun and lazy nights and early mornings spent listening to the loons while wrapped in each other's arms. For awhile, I got the attention I needed and wanted and then poof! It was gone and so was I. And to this day just the smell of whisky makes me nauseous.

THE LAST MILE

This is dedicated to Helen Evancheck who recently passed away at 98 years young on September 21, 2022. 

When I walked away there was no turning back. I knew from that point on my life would never be the same. Yes, I longed for the familiar surroundings I called home, yet that house would always remain with me no matter where I went. Running away only made the things I loved no longer a physical part of my life. I could hold them close in my mind and take them with me.

Looking back on it, I know now that my decision to leave was totally wrong, yet at the time it seemed I was trapped and had no other choice. That few weeks I spent on the psych ward after my first overdose, made me realize I had very few real friends. Each night when Wayne's mother came on duty, I would sit with her at the nurse's station and talk until I could fall asleep. We never once discussed her son or why I was on her floor. I knew she had read my chart and was familiar with all the notes written in it. What was there to discuss? I know I should have been ashamed, but she never made me feel uncomfortable. She talked to me as if she truly cared for my well-being and I always appreciated that. She was kind and gentle: warm and loving...all the things I needed most at that time.

I acted horrible during the day...defiant and always questioning authority. I refused to participate in any group therapy and used any recreation time to create weird things to decorate my room. My pride and joy were the bats I had made from modeling clay. I had painted them black with red eyes and then hung them with sewing thread from the pipe near the ceiling in my room. It seemed everything I did was aimed at getting a reaction. But no matter how outrageous I acted Mrs. Evancheck treated me the same way she treated me from the first time she met me when Wayne brought me home to meet his parents. She treated me like one of her own. 

I still remember the outrage I felt when my mother had brought me an electric razor so I could shave my legs and underarms and it was immediately taken away from me. I quickly challenged them by asking if they thought I was going to shave myself to death. Surely, they couldn't think I would try to hang myself with the cord...it wasn't long enough for that and besides hanging just wasn't my style. They never did give me a reason why they took it. They didn't have to give me a reason, so I went on being my usual obnoxious self. Why they didn't just medicate me was a mystery to me, but it probably had something to do with the fact that I would have enjoyed zoning out on some good psychiatric drugs. 

The law required any drug overdoses to be sent to the psych ward for 2 weeks of observation after surviving the ER and the ICU, but many people weren't that lucky. For most the only trip they took was to the morgue! The two weeks I was on C-4 was some of the hardest decision making time I have ever had. Due to my impaired judgment and being so screwed up, I made all the wrong decisions at that time! I had no adult I could turn to for guidance.  I just didn't trust anyone that way.

So I was alive! The overdose had not been intentional...I simply was out of control and on a very self-destructive path. I loved getting high and staying high. I feared nothing...not even death itself. I slowly retreated into a silent, safe place where I no longer felt any pain. Along with feeling no pain, I discovered I also felt no happiness, joy or love. Wayne had threatened to leave me if I didn't stop getting high as if that was going to stop me! Ha! Now, he was gone and I was truly alone...except for my drugs. Somehow they had replaced everything that was good or right in my life. They dulled the pain and I learned how to live being comfortable numb. 

Lynne, someone I considered a friend, offered me a way out and I took it.  I believed that nothing could be worse than what I had been experiencing. It wasn't until much later until I discovered that things always can get worse. It only took me a few days after being discharged from the hospital to realize going back to school and trying to straighten out my life was just not going to happen like everyone else wanted it to happen. The day I left home, I took one last look at Wayne's house before I walked down my street and walked towards the interstate with Lynne. That last mile was my point of no return. As we set out on the road, I left some of my pain behind but the biggest portion was something I would carry with me until I learned how to forgive.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

-Robert Frost-

HANDPRINTS IN THE ATTIC

Yes, there were actual handprints attic.  They were put there to imprint my legacy on the house I grew up calling home.  When I was young, my attic always had an air of mystique to it.  Often times a strong draft would make the door creek open and shut causing the appearance of it being haunted.  Who am I to say it wasn't haunted?  I only lived there and it was built in the 1830's! But the fear I had of the attic when I younger soon dissipated when I discovered its true value.  It was a great place to skip school when I had no other place to go. My friend, Linda and I spent many a day tucked away in the attic discussing boys, very quietly listening to all the best songs on the radio and practicing the latest dance moves.  And then in later years it was an excellent party central!

The attic had 3 rooms.  One room was sealed off from the rest of the attic.  It was dark and foreboding.  I never explored it nor did I ever shine a flashlight into the window size opening that was on the top of right side of the stairway.  As silly as it sounds, I was always afraid of what I might see.  The other two rooms were on the left side of the stairway.  The room directly at the top of the stairs had exposed rafters, but had finished walls and a wide plank wooden floor.  It had a large closet partitioned along the back wall.  That made a great place to stash pillows and blankets for when it was cold and we used that space as a pseudo bedroom because it was so cozy and secluded from everything else.  The other room had two windows in it that looked out to the street that ran past my house.  That room was completely finished and had a crawlspace the length of the room along the  left side.  Upon exploring it, I found old papers and other things stashed in it, but none of it seemed of any value to me.   

Slowly the attic became transformed into a semi-furnished place to hang out. The transformation began as soon as I started hauling discarded furniture up there.  Soon the attic had 2 old sofas, several chairs, a table, a radio, lamps and other various items I collected and hauled up there.  What I remember most about the attic is its musty smell.  I thought of many ways to eliminate that musty smell and tried things like burning incense and spraying air freshener, but what helped most was when I decide to paint the walls and floors of the 2 useable rooms. 

The transformation hit high gear when I organized  a painting party.  Each person who planned to attend brought whatever remnants of old paint they could find.  My contribution was tangerine colored paint that was used to paint an old sea captain's trunk (I always thought my mother was crazy for painting that trunk any color), lemon colored paint from my bedroom and lavender colored paint from one of the bathrooms.  The wide plank floor was painted in stripes.  Each plank was a different color.  Then the room took on a whole new life of its own when we all used the rest of the paint in a much more creative way.  We put multi-colored handprints all over the walls.  The final result looked like something out of a lunatic's mind or perhaps a scene from a Dr. Seuss poem. 

One hand
Two hands
Red hand
Blue hand

Black hand
Blue hand
Old hand
New hand

Some are red and some are blue.
Some are old and some are new.
Some are sad and some are glad.
And some are very, very bad.

Why are they sad and glad and bad?
I don't know. Go ask your dad.

Some are thin and some are fat.
The fat one has a yellow hat.
From there to here, from here to there,
Funny things everywhere.

Here are some who like to run.
They run for fun in the hot, hot sun
Oh me! Oh my!
Oh me! Oh my!

What a lot of funny things go by.
Some have two hands and some have four.
Some have six hands and some have more.
Where do they come from?

I cant say.
But I bet they have come a long, long way.

We see them come.
We see them go.
Some are fast.
And some are slow.
Some are high.
And some are low

Not one of them is like another.
Don't as us why.
Go ask your mother.

(adapted from "Red Fish Blue Fish" by Dr. Seuss)

Many years later the plot thickened into a sort of silly jiggly jello kind of mess.  My home was sold and converted into 3 apartments.  My cousin, Debbie still lived next door and the new owner asked her if she knew who used to live there.  I think she must have been a little hesitant to commit to answering that question until she was asked if she knew that someone had painted handprints all over the walls in the attic.  With that she laughed and nodded her head.  It was that crazy Mildred Ratched who joyfully left her imprint on that very old, very bold yellow brick house on Walter Street.  

THE SAGE OF THE SPIDER BITE

I didn’t quite know what to expect yesterday going into my angiogram. I had a basic concept of the procedure but when I got in the procedure room and on the table, it was like I was in Marquis de Sade’s torture chamber. They started strapping me down to the table where conscious sedation would be used. I guess no wiggling is allowed! So you know me I couldn't resist asking which one of the six or seven people in the room was the dominatrix. OMG! That’s all it took! Those people erupted and off it went…

So the procedure went well, but no blockage was found. They used a device called a mynx to plug my femoral artery to stop the bleeding and I swear they used a sledge hammer to put the mynx in. No joke! I'm sore from my waist to half way down my right thigh. An interesting thing about the procedure is that they go in from the opposite side. The bite is on my left ankle and my whole right side is hurting today. My left underarm even hurts today and I have no valid reason for that. It feels like someone grabbed me hard by the armpit. My right side of my neck feels like it got tweeked somehow. I think they may have had a squad of little kids jumping up and down on me while I was unconscious. On the up side, I get to be a lady of leisure for the next several days. 

Because the doctor found no blockage, he now wants me to have a MRI of the area because he thinks it may be an infection in the bone that’s preventing the wound from healing. I just hope the MRI is a little earier on my body than this was! [lol] So the saga of the spider bite continues…

ITSY BITSY SPIDER

As I worked outside in my yard in early January, I got bit by "something" on my left outer ankle.  I never thought much about it until months later when it didn't heal and started to get worse. The bite was located so I couldn't get a good look at it straight on so I started taking pictures of it periodically to compare to see what it was actually doing. I'm no expert, but to me it looked like a spider bite. It would appear like it would start to heal and then it would break open again and that process kept happening repeatedly. 

Around July, I decided it was time to have my primary care doctor look at it because I'm diabetic and although wounds do heal slower for diabetics, I figured six months was more than enough time for anything to heal. She immediately told me she was sending me to a vascular surgeon to have him evaluate it. I got all the particulars on why she thought that was necessary and it made sense so off I went to wait to hear from the vascular surgeons office.

It took about two weeks to get a call to set up an appointment. Yesterday I had my appoinment with that doctor. With much trepidation, I envisioned him poking and prodding my wound, but none of that happened. When he and his PA entered the room they both asked me questions, examined the wound and they both felt the pulse in my foot. I showed them the pictures I had taken of the wound and they agreed that it was a spider bite. The doctor stood back and told me I have no pulse in my left foot. He said I was going to first need an ultrasound done which they did of both legs and blood drawn to prepare me for having an angiogram done that would be scheduled for Friday morning. Hopefully, the angiogram will restore the blood flow to my foot so the wound will finally heal.

The moral of the story is: Don't delay getting wounds looked at assuming they will heal on their own without any assistance (BUT I had it looked at in the ER in June and they said it looked fine! I guess because my foot wasn't falling off it looked fine to them! IDIOTS!) And this goes with double or triple caution if you're a diabetic because you can end up losing a limb. I am in no way completely out of the woods yet and that scares me.  The reality of the situation really is a slap in the face and an eye opener. I need to be more careful. The wound still needs to heal. I'm just thankful it was caught in time to restore the blood flow to my foot to give it a chance to heal.