THE ROAD TO NOWHERE - PART III

So how does one get properly "rubbed" in Nub City? I have to admit that being a Yankee was a definite disadvantage at times, but being fresh meat more than made up for being a Yankee. Hey, believe it or not, many Southerners are still  fighting the Civil War and I definitely enjoyed enlightening them about who won that war. Yes, this Yankee had big brass balls that made riding on her broomstick a difficult undertaking.

After spending the summer in Maine, As I previously mentioned, I traveled South with my two brothers, Jeff and Brian and Brian's family.  Brian had enrolled in a school in Northwest Florida, so instead of flying home at the end of the summer, I hitched a ride on the family caravan going South. The August days in Maine had already started to feel like fall, so when we arrived at our destination to find summer still alive and well, we all were happy.  After settling in, we explored what there was of a town and easily found the local swimming hole.  It was located at wayside park just outside of town on Holmes Creek.  Of course, we became the immediate center of attention.  As newcomers, we were objects of continuous scrutiny, only to be studied from afar and not approached...at least not yet.  We needed to be fully vetted first before any serious mingling could happen.

We arrived at the creek in a 1969 green convertible Mustang, top down and music blasting. The Yankees had arrived! When in Rome, do as the Romans do... so we took turns jumping off  the rope swing into the spring-fed creek.  I can't adequately describe the sensation of hitting that frigid water, but if you've ever done it, it's an experience you'll never forget.  When playtime was done, we loaded up and left the park as pristine as when we arrived.  As we sat at the park entrance waiting to turn out onto the highway, suddenly behind us appeared a bright red Chevy Chevelle SS with wide black racing stripes.  Inside were two young Southern gents who were obviously a little braver than all the others had been.  From the backseat of the convertible, I motioned to my brother to gun the engine and peel out as we left.  The Chevy stayed right behind us...close enough so I could see the faces of the two guys inside.  As I looked directly at them, giving them my best "hello boys" look followed by blowing them a kiss, I said to my family, "I wonder who these two jokers are!"  As soon as we crossed into the "city" limits and turned down the road on which my brother lived, the two jokers disappeared into the haze of the lazy summer heat. 

I was an eighteen year old new kid on the block in this small Southern town with a population of less than one thousand.  This new position wasn't exactly the position I had on my bucket list, but this position definitely had its advantages. I could tell by the inquisitive looks people gave us as they drove by my brother's place that they hadn't quite figured out who belonged with whom and what was going on inside. This was something I was used to by now and always liked the initial reactions I got when the truth finally came out. And the truth always did come out...eventually! But for the time being, I was going to savor the looks I was getting and just sit

back and let people wonder. Being the object of speculation sometimes can have very interesting outcomes. I think it might be described best as mental foreplay. And in this case, the outcome was not only interesting, but a lasting one as well.

My brother, Brian liked the game. He liked being admired. I laughed when he set up his weight lifting equipment outside in the front yard next to where he kept his customized BSA motorcycle. Not long after he started his daily workouts, the drive-byes increased. The brave ones did walk-byes and even waved hello occasionally. We'd been there several days, when early one evening Brian decided it was time to take a walk "uptown." We strolled through the center of what seemed to be a one-horse town...a post office, a grocery store named the Dixie Dandy, a small hamburger joint named The Burger Smith, a gas station, a convenience store and of course, a real live honky-tonk on the outskirts of town called The Cat's Eye. 

A group of locals were clustered around a bench placed outside the post office. The area was considered the town square. As we approached, the noise from the small crowd died down in anticipation. When we reached the group, Brian stopped and we introduced ourselves to the handful of people who seemed quite mesmerized by our presence. We chatted long enough to show them that Yankees could be friendly. As we left we knew we had given them plenty to talk about for days to come. 

The ice had been broken and now I was anxious to see what would follow. In the next few days I met another female who became my first friend in Vernon. Carol was from Miami and like me, she had found her way to Vernon under unusual circumstances. Maybe the fact that we were outsiders was what gave us an immediate common bond. From the moment we met, it seemed like we had been friends forever and at our age that title came with the subtitle of "partners in crime." We were two new females in a very small town.  That dubious distinction earned us the title of being new meat...me, a thinly sliced, medium rare piece of roast beef riding shotgun and Carol, a slightly thicker sliced piece of brown sugar cured ham was at the wheel of her white Duster.  From the moment I met Carol I had a hunch that our time in Vernon was going to be a learning experience for both of us.  Looking back now all I can proclaim is how right I was!

Seldomly, do we meet people in life that can give their friendship without a price tag. I was fortunate to have found a friend in that one horse town who not only loved unconditionally, but also withheld making judgment calls as well. Carol was a true free spirit. Yes, she had faults and it was one of those faults that heightened the danger factor of our friendship and made our time together always an adventure.

I tend to gravitate towards the edge. It’s where I feel most comfortable. Maybe it’s the suspense, the thrill, the uncertainty of the outcome that makes teetering on the edge so appealing to me. Whatever it was, that certain something was a definite factor in what kept a smile on our faces in those days. The day I met Carol, we headed off to Panama City Beach to have some fun in the sun. The guy Carol was "with" had a friend, so the pairing off was a given. I usually don’t do prearranged dating set up by a friend, but I was bored and in dire need of some male attention, so WTF?

That trip to Panama City Beach turned out to be one that stayed with me my entire life. Donnie Arnold was the guy I was paired up with and I can't honestly say if under different circumstances he'd be someone who would have piqued my interest, but that day he had my full undivided attention. Carol and Jerry McDade "disappeared" down the beach while Donnie and I frolicked in the Gulf of Mexico and had sex for the first time right there in the warm salt water. We laughed because I lost my underwear and pictured some tourist finding them later washed up on the beach. We could picture that person trying to figure out how some female lost her panties on the beach. I should have stamped them IF FOUND, PLEASE RETURN TO OWNER (with my address in very small text.)  I did, however manage to hold onto my shorts, so I didn't have to exit the water bare-assed.

 

We stayed overnight in a house near the beach and it wasn't until years later that I discovered that Donnie's family owned many beach properties and also a motel somewhere on Panama City Beach. I wouldn't be surprised if it was named The Dew Drop Inn or something equally redneck sounding. Looking back, I'm fairly sure that the place we stayed was owned by his family because there was no checking in process and like magic, he pulled a key out of his pocket that unlocked the front door.

Donnie and I didn't really talk that much because we were too busy doing other things. Getting to know each other didn't seem to be high on our agenda. Our midnight rodeo lasted all night and by the time morning rolled around, I felt like I had been bull riding and the bull had gotten the better of me. YEHAW! It actually hurt to walk, but I was too proud to say anything. My only request was discreetly asking Carol if she had a clean pair of underwear I could borrow since I lost mine the day before. Ordinarily, I would have gone commando, but I was so sore my shorts rubbing against me made the pain worse. We all had breakfast and then headed back to Vernon. It wasn’t until that morning while we ate breakfast that I found out that Jerry was not only married, but was married to a legendary bitch in those parts. Rumor had it that his wife, Peggy would just as soon shoot you as look at you. Yes, birds of a feather flock together and just as free spirits (aka "saucy tarts") tend to seek each other out and form alliances, the psycho bitches of the world do the same.

The next day I tried to hunt Donnie down to retrieve my ring he had slipped off my finger and had decided to hold hostage. When he removed my ring and put it on his pinkie, I assumed that he did it as a way of seeing me again. He knew I'd come looking for my ring, but when I did, I found out he had been arrested and was in jail in Chipley. Carol, a guy named Chip Coatney (he was one of the "jokers" in the red Chevy Chevelle I previously mentioned) and I drove to Chipley to get my ring. We stood outside the old jail and hollered up to Donnie on the second floor to get his attention. Chip immediately started to razz Donnie about being in jail and put his arm around me as he gave Donnie a hard time. I looked at Chip like he had lost his mind and Donnie laughed at Chip as he threw my ring out the barred window. And that was the last I ever saw of him. I never did find out why he had been arrested and to be honest, I wasn't curious enough to inquire. I just went about my merry way and figured if he was interested he'd look me up when he got out of jail. Until then I turned the page and started a new chapter.

THE ROAD TO NOWHERE - PART II

So how do you mend a broken heart? Chin up? Chest out? One foot in front of the other? At 18, all I wanted to do was dull the enormous ache in my heart until it completely went away. For me, it was all about living in the moment and rarely saying no to anything. The crazier it was, the better I liked it. If it rattled around in my head long enough and became an actual thought and if it brought a twinkle to my eyes and a smile to my face, it definitely got done regardless of the consequences. 

Going back to Maine that summer was a trip in every sense of the word. For the first couple of weeks I was there, I didn't leave my brother's house nor did I try to contact any of my old friends. Although I wanted to see all of them, I was scared to death to see any of them. When I finally worked through my fear, I boldly went to my old neighborhood...unannounced, of course. As I walked through town, everything seemed much closer to the street than what I remembered...and smaller. When I reached my old house, I stop dead in my tracks. The driveway seemed so short compared to what I remembered. Later, I was told it seemed much longer to me then because most of the time I had to crawl up it to go inside my house. Not really! But it was true that my brain was remembering things through the clouded vision of a druggie. I was always high from morning until I finally closed my eyes at night. Drugs threw off my perception of everything and everyone around me.

As I went through the process of trying to figure out what I was doing in Maine. I picked up the phone and called the drug rehab (Kinsman Hall) I had been released from only months earlier.  I still had friends there and there was someone there I wanted to see that I felt I should have a conversation with and see if he'd agree to see me. It was important to me that I finally tell Stacy how much he meant to me even if he didn't feel the same way about me. I knew all outside calls would have to go through staff so I was hoping to catch a friendly face. I was glad when it was Mike Morra who took my call. What I wasn't counting on was being told to stay away from Stacy. This seemed to be the same theme from day one for Stacy and I as far as Kinsman Hall saw it. I never figured out why staff was so dead set against he and I being together but that's how it was. I was forced into accepting that when I left Kinsman Hall I'd never see Stacy again.
.  
When I finally came out of my self-imposed prison at my brother's house, I was told repeatedly by people how good I looked and how healthy I looked. Go figure! Two plus years of being clean will definitely do something to a person. I ate right. I got enough sleep and I wasn't high all the time and nor was I engaging in risky activities. I knew what being around my old partying friends would lead to, but I went around all of them anyway. Willpower isn't one of my strong points unless willpower is fueled by desire and determination. After all I did quit smoking cigarettes over 25 years ago while living with a chain smoker. With the right fuel I can do most anything. So needless to say my willpower flew out the door and I eased my pain in a way that seemed so familiar (like an old comfortable shoe or a great fitting pair of jeans). I scratched that itch, but I had a much bigger itch that needed scratching. I needed to get laid! I'm sure I could have rustled someone up to do that thankless task, but I held off until left Maine and returned to Florida. My scorecard remained at one in Maine. My first love was the only person I slept with while I lived in Bangor. For some reason I felt I needed to keep that record unblemished by keeping my pants on my body and avoid being horizontal around anyone tempting including him. By the time I left Maine that summer, my hormones were at a fever pitch and I was ready for some good old promiscuity. I wanted cheap, sleazy sex and I wanted it from someone who could go the distance without a lot of hoopla. 

Instead of returning to Pensacola, I tagged along with my brother, Brian and his family. My brother was going to attend a heavy equipment class at a vocational school in Chipley, Florida.  Being the new kid on any block is a difficult situation regardless of where that block is located. This new fishbowl I landed in was an unfamiliar rural Southern country town that could have been taken right out of the movie, Deliverance.  Everywhere there were faces of strangers waiting and watching, but what they were watching and waiting for made me a little uneasy.

Vernon was dubbed "Nub City" because so many residents there make limb loss insurance claims to supplement their income. In 1981 several years after I lived there Vernon was featured in a documentary highlighting the eccentricities of the people who lived there. The movie angered many residents who felt the documentary portrayed the area in a negative light. Negative light?  How could blowing off your arm or foot with a shotgun for insurance money be considered negative?  Shouldn't it be considered creative and ingenious instead? Oops! There goes my good old Maine sarcasm acting up again! Boys will be boys and rednecks will be rednecks and if you combine the two and get lucky what you get is something the Beatles sang about...Happiness Is A Warm Gun. 

I was ready to get this show on the road and stir up this tiny fishbowl. I desperately wanted someone's finger on my trigger, so the only logical thing to do was to put checking out the local talent at the top of my list. I was confidant I could find a suitable warm gun to scratch my itch. Bang! Bang! Shoot! Shoot!

THE ROAD TO NOWHERE - PART I

To say I was a troubled teenager would be a severe understatement. When I was 18, after spending two long years in drug rehab (Kinsman Hall), I was finally released two days before Christmas. Was I excited? Yes! I was filled with what I thought were endless possibilities. But I was more afraid than I was excited. Those two years kept me alive, but it did little else. When I hit the streets, I was armed with absolutely no tools for a drug-free and drama-free existence. How can anyone cope when they're left up to the their own faulty devices? Two years of not having to think for myself weighed heavily on me especially when I was suddenly faced with a real life filled with real problems and real decisions to make everyday. 

Towards the end of my two years at Kinsman Hall, I got involved with a staff member who was about ten years older than me. Oh, we had big plans of living happily ever after, but that happily ever after never happened. Bruce left the program a few months after my departure. The plan was for him to come get me in Florida and we'd start our life together. He got as far as New York where he was from and never made it any further. Denial works great for awhile and then reality sets in...Bruce and I were never going to have anything, but some sheltered memories of a relationship that was never put to the test of surviving in a life away from Kinsman Hall. I knew I made the wrong choice by getting involved with Bruce to begin with and instead of choosing with my heart, I chose with my head.  If I had chosen with my heart months earlier Bruce wouldn't have been in the picture.

Shortly after my departure, life slapped me in the face twice. The ferocity of the slap left me questioning everything I thought I knew. First, I lost my closest friend, Charlene. When she left rehab, she started shooting dope again. Although I knew what the writing on the wall predicted, I wasn't prepared to deal with a death...any death. Charlene died a week before her wedding. As Bruce broke the news of Charlene's death to me, I felt as if someone had reached into my chest and ripped my heart out. I could barely breathe. I could barely think. Yet with as raw as my emotions were I couldn't seem to cry. I just teetered on the edge.  I just wanted the hurt to go away, but before my wound could form a scab, I found out Bruce had started using again. He, too was shooting dope, but was lying to me about it. 

Another one bites the dust! There wasn't going to be any happily ever after for us. Drugs had won out again, so I tucked my tail between my legs and went off to lick my wounds. All I wanted to do and felt like I needed to do was insulate myself so no bad news could affect me again. Instead of tuning in, turning on and dropping out, I tuned out, turned off and then jumped into emotional obscurity. My first instinct was to hide and to fade far enough away so pain couldn't find me. I adopted a true fuck it attitude. What's the point of getting close to anyone when all they're going to do is break my heart? 

That summer was a memorable one. It changed my whole trajectory.  After being away from my hometown for 3 years, I foolishly returned. My first year of faux emancipation, I spent living on the streets. I was 15 and got one hell of an education. The next two years I spent in drug rehab. Oops! That was a completely unplanned detour.  I was probated there until I turned 18.  I knew going "home" would put me in harm's way, but I went home anyway because like a person who needs to physically cut themselves repeatedly, I was an emotional cutter. I needed to beat myself up until the pain subsided and I was comfortably and completely numb. I thought about returning to the drug rehab from which I had just been released because I felt I had unfinished business there but I didn't return for fear of rejection. Fear paralyzed me until it won and I too started getting high again.

MY SQUEAKY WHEEL

My mother always told me that the squeaky wheel gets oiled. I tested her theory recently to see if my wheel would get lubed sufficiently. After all, we all know that squeak can be pretty annoying at times...

Throughout her golden years, my mother has always written poems...hundreds and hundreds of them. You name the subject and I'm sure she wrote something about it. Several years ago, my daughter put together a book of my mother's poetry. Now, don't get me wrong, I love my mother and I'm glad the aliens brought her back (discussed in earlier posts), but sometimes I feel like her focus is on everyone and everything, but me. Several years ago I read through ALL her poems...not one was about me. I could have let that slide, but she screwed up by writing poems about my brothers. Yes, I can be petty when I feel it's needed.

I occasionally print out things I write and let her read them. When she suggested that I post one of her poems on my blog, I jumped at the opportunity to be petty. I told her I would, but nothing she's ever written was about me. Do you hear my squeaky wheel turning? It really needs some oil! SQUEAK! SQUEAK!! Of course, she disagreed with me and said she had, but I told her I've read all her poetry and never came across anything about me. I knew her next step would be to go out in her art studio and go through everything she's ever written just to prove me wrong.

Yesterday afternoon, she handed me a poem hot off the presses. Keep in mind, this poem was hand-written by a 90 year old. My pettiness was quickly replaced by feeling flattered and impressed when I read the poem she had just written. I'm always trying to get her to use her mind to figure out things like simple math. BUT my mother is stubborn and bristles up whenever I challenge her or want her to do something that'll keep the cobwebs out of her head. Most of the time she fails to see that my attempts are not for my own sake, but for hers. Naturally, when she presented me with the poem, I thanked her and praised her for it. Most likely, I'll frame it and hang it in my bedroom on "my wall of shame."

Posted are the poem she wrote and also a painting she did of me about 20 years ago with my baby, Chewy. SQUEAK! SQUEAK!! Don't you think she should do a more recent portrait of me?

UNDERNEATH WE ARE ALL THE SAME

They say that you shouldn't judge a book by its cover. How about we don't judge a book without reading it first? Forget what it looks like or what you may have heard about it and just read the damn thing. Critique it afterward. If you discover it's not your cup of tea, then regift it to someone else and let them enjoy it. Always remember one man's trash really is another man's treasure! What goes for books, goes for people and relationships also. A wise man (my nephew, aka Pauly Glasses) once said, "We all bleed red, we all live, love, and learn. The little differences do not matter!" The exception to that is when someone tries to force those little differences down your throat. Acceptance is ours to give, but true acceptance is not forced. It occurs naturally. It's given freely from the heart. Let's face it, we all have preferences, but don't base your preferences/opinions on some preconceived notions. Learn what really speaks to you and then go one step further. Learn why something speaks to you. Form your preferences and opinions based on YOUR life experiences and not based on what some hate-filled, narrow-minded bandwagon dictates.

A Bohemian Style Revival

What comes to your mind when someone brings up Freddie Mercury? The first thing that comes to my mind is that I share a birthday with Freddie and since the mid 1970's, I always eat one piece of birthday cake for me and one piece for him. When I think of Freddie, a quote from The Who's lead singer says it best. Roger Daltrey called Mercury "the best virtuoso rock 'n' roll singer of all time. He could sing anything in any style. He could change his style from line to line and God, that's an art. And he was brilliant at it."

When I first discovered that a movie about Mercury's life was made and being released this fall, I immediately wondered who would play the part of Freddie. Who could play the part? When faced with portraying a legend, any legend how does a person prepare to undertake such an enormous endeavor?
My original thought was that Adam Lambert would have been a logical choice for the Freddie Mercury role, but apparently I wasn't consulted before the auditions began. I'm sorry, Adam! No one ever listens to me.

Although Rami Malek has been working as an actor since 2004, I never actually "noticed" him until he played the lead role in the television series, Mr. Robot. Now, portraying the legendary Freddie Mercury (Farrokh Bulsara) in the film, Bohemian Rhapsody, Malek is challenged to resurrect Mercury on the big screen. I hope the spirit of Freddie fills every pore in Malek's body and what we witness is not a mere portrayal of a dead superstar, but a true rebirth of someone who may be gone but was never forgotten.

One source claims, "Rami Malek as Freddie Mercury is the gift that Queen fans deserve." Being a true hermit limits my social outings, but I think Miss Troglodyte USA, will put on her glad pants and venture out to see this movie instead of waiting for it to hit Netflix, Hulu or Amazon Prime.


Is this the real life?
Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide
No escape from reality
Open your eyes
Look up to the skies and see
I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy
Because I'm easy come, easy go
A little high, little low
Anyway the wind blows, doesn't really matter to me, to me...

My Mona Lisa

This is a painting I did a few years ago and gave to a dear friend (Lisa) who I’ve known just about all my life or at least as far back as I can remember. As an adult, she worked in the mental health field and my painting had a home on the wall in her office. We used to chuckle at her choice of professions because she had plenty of experience dealing with all the “case studies” from our old neighborhood as she grew up.

I think what surprised me most and touched my heart was her way of saying thank you. As a thank you she surprised me by sending me a bunch of art supplies. Now, that’s the kind of thoughtful friends to have. The figurines in the bottom of the picture were my muses who guided my hands and my thought processes during this endeavor.  Now, put your thinking caps on! Who can name my 3 muses?

CAN YOU MATCH MY CRAZY?

It all begins with Mildred seeing a meme her friend, Joyce posted on Facebook.



Mildred: I’m up for that ride!

Mildred: Let’s just say it’s been awhile since we did anything that could be considered a bad
decision...together. Buckle your seatbelts I think we’re in for a roller coaster of a ride.

Joyce: I'm ready when you are

Mildred: We can start by playing a little game called “Can You Match My Crazy?”

Joyce: I guess I can't go then..ha ha ha

Mildred: I think I smell bullshit. Should I go get my wading boots?

Mildred: Hey I have a question. How come all my more memorable moments aren’t of playing sports and joining clubs and being an honor roll student and having dance lessons and going to proms and trips to the spa...did they even have spas back in the Stone Age? When I remember people it always is in reference to getting in trouble with that person and doing cool shit while we were baked. Do you remember what a zilch is? I wonder if the kids today do stuff like making a zilch. Hmmmmm food for thought and speaking of food, does McDonald’s deliver?

Joyce: I can see us at dance lessons now...ya

Mildred: We would have been wicked cunnin’ in a tutu. Hey, do ballerinas smoke weed?

Joyce: lol

FYI [for those of you who aren’t familiar with how Maineiacs [native Mainers] talk, wicked cunnin’ can be defined as “stunningly special or cute”

Mildred: Speaking of ballerinas...hold on and I’ll show you my cousin’s daughter



Mildred: Now, I know if I could have done that I would have had a better boyfriend when I was a teenager! Oh man, that was harsh lol

Mildred: It’s nice to know that someone in my family can do this, but I know for certain that doing this would have disqualified me from playing Can You Match My Crazy? And that would have been a shame since I was really good at it.

The Gangsta Bee 

Mildred: Now I’ll bid you adieu and I'll go pester someone else. Love you!

Joyce: Mildred, love you too you crazy girl.

Mildred: I think I need to compose another blog post like the Gangsta Bees🐝 and feature this so my future descendants can get a feel for who I am. My way of saying, “ha ha ha, you come from the same gene pool.” Now adieu, adieu...I’m off to go learn how to dance.

THE MEDICAL MARIJUANA METAMORPHOSIS

Here are some random observations I have made in the past few weeks:

My hand-written notes on a piece of paper towel
because that was the first thing I could grab

1. The combination of taking narcotics long-term and using Victoza (one of the injectable diabetic meds I use) on top of having gastroparesis  (my digestive tract hates me) has rendered me a involuntary prisoner with a wicked case of constipation. You see, alone each of those three components causes digestive problems. Together they scream, WTF! The meds slow my digestive tract down to a crawl and the gastroparesis is just what it sounds like...a paralyzed gastric tract. I had to wave a white flag and surrender!  Now, that I've stopped taking narcotics, my digestive system is much happier and so am I.
2. My new "medicine" makes me friendlier and more talkative. Before, the pain I felt left me without any desire to interact with people and now I'm starting to get my "Mildred" vibe back. Her inner child has arisen from a very long nap (like Rip Van Winkle except Mildred is not a short fat male.)
3. My tastes in what I watch on television has been altered greatly. I've been watching more documentaries and feel a need to soak up knowledge again. My mind is like a very dry sponge.
4. I've gone for such a long time not listening to music and now music soothes my soul. And it sounds terrific! It's horrible how pain has sucked just about all the life from me. It happened so gradually that I didn't even notice how far away from myself I had gotten.
5. My taste in humor is changing. Where I used to watch some generic humor (a sitcom with a comic for the lead role) for mindless entertainment, now I tend to want to be more focused on which comic I watch. If I think someone is funny then I want to see their stand up routine. That's the only way I can assess if they really are funny.
6. Food...OMG! ALL food tastes so incredible. I'd forgotten what being ravenous was like. Now, I need to find something low calorie to munch on. Any suggestions? I could always save money and go in the back yard and graze like a cow. That'd be cool as long as no one tried to milk me.
7. I now have a need to have a notebook to jot down ideas as I think of them, because these days it's gone as soon as I blink my eyes if I don't write it down.
8. My whole thought process feel like it's undergoing a transformation. I went in as a caterpillar and came out a butterfly. This girl is on fire!

   

   Mildred's metamorphosis

9. I'm so easily distracted because I have so many ideas racing to get out at the same time. Being distracted almost makes me dizzy at times. I start saying something and when a natural pause is acceptable, I forget what I was talking about and then go right onto a new topic. It's a seamless transition, but it frustrates me that I get all jumbled up at times.
10. The CBD part of my new "medicine" helps ease my pain/inflammation and the THC gives me a righteous buzz. While my body physically starts to relax, my mind has been flipped on. I've only been "dosing" myself for a few weeks, but I'm already starting to feel less all over pain. What pain I have now has become more condensed and concentrated and usually doesn't radiate outward all over my body like it has in the past. 

WORD OF THE DAY:

*Replenish

*to make something full again, or to bring it back to its previous level by replacing what has been used

HALLELUJAH! I've been replenished...

I WEAR MY SCARS PROUDLY

I was on Facebook and came across this silly app and I tried it because I was bored. The app claims to be able to address whatever suffering a person has experienced in their lifetime from scanning a facial photo.

What suffering have you been through, according to your Face?

(I thought I was being slick by choosing a picture of myself when I was much, much younger)

Mildred, here is your scan result!

Brave and inspiring words, Mildred! You've clearly seen 

your fair share of heartbreak and worry over the years, 

but what's important is how you fought on to a brighter 

future. You clearly possess an incredibly resilient and 

passionate spirit that simply can't be broken!

So I'm leading a fulfilled life, am I?  What I want to 

know is when I'm going to be skinny, beautiful, 

healthy and wealthy. I guess for that I need

 to rub a bottle and get 3 wishes from a genie. 

Does anyone want to borrow my genie?

PICK YOUR POISON

 Because nothing says classy like designer high-heeled roller skates
that cost a mere $2600.

Oh boy! A new way to break my neck and lighten
my handbag at the same time! Now, that's what I call
one stop shopping!

-NOT-

LOOKING THROUGH SOMEONE ELSE'S EYES

Many of you are already familiar with Klahanie Blog, but for those of you who aren't, I'd like to share Gary's story titled Twenty Years Ago. His honesty left me truly breathless, tearful and humbled by the pain and the helplessness he has struggled to overcome. Suddenly, my pain seemed minuscule and insignificant in comparison. Gary's story was just the reality check and kick in the ass I needed to start these rusty, old wheels grinding again so I can contemplate a life outside the cave in which I live. Right now that thought scares me, but I hope in time I can look forward to anticipating tomorrow as today ends. Please take a few minutes to pay Gary a visit and cheer him on as he continues to evolve.

WHY MILDRED WENT TO POT

Plunder Woman

While I've been MIA (missing in action) lately, I've been working towards cleansing my system of all the gnarly narcotics that have held me prisoner for the past 15 years. Since 2003, I've taken the whole spectrum of painkillers and have to admit nothing works very well these days. Why continue taking something that doesn't give me any relief? Why continue taking something that harms my already compromised liver? Because I've chosen to make what I think is an informed decision, I'm in the process of weaning myself off morphine because cold turkey is a real bitch. Trust me, I've been down that road a time or two and I definitely don't want to visit that rocky path ever again.

Over the last 15 years I've taken every NSAID known to man, plus Tramadol, Lortab, Percocet, Oxycontin, Methadone, Fentanyl and Morphine. You name it and I've taken it. I've used TENS units and even had 2 internal neurostimulators implants that are wired directly into my spine. I've had two separate anterior discectomies with fusions to fuse 4 of my 7 cervical discs. I have to admit not being able to look up or turn my head has been a little challenging at times. And as for the surgeries, they've done little to alleviate my pain. My last neurosurgeon told me that there was nothing else that he could do to help me. He basically told me that I'd have to grin and bear it.

I've also tried exercise, heated pool therapy, regular physical therapy, massages, chiropractic adjustments, heat and ice with no substantial or long term relief from anything I tried. The only things I haven't tried at this point are steroid injections that are injected directly into the site that's causing the pain and acupuncture. As ordered by my endocrinologist, I can't ever do the steroid injections because steroids make my blood sugar skyrocket. And acupuncture?  To be honest, the thought of being a human pin cushion (even though they say no pain is involved) doesn’t exactly excite me, so I think this particular predicament is called being S.O.L. (shit out of luck)

Physically, I've gone from being Wonder Woman to being a lackluster cave-dwelling crone. Mentally, I've learned to suffer in silence. Isolation is a common tool used by many people with serious medical issues and by people who have simply given up and don't want to play the "happy" game any longer. It's easier to be isolated than it is to be around people. That overwhelming urge to put on a happy face has worn me out. It’s difficult to maintain that “everything is just peachy” act for very long and the older I get, the more that desire wanes. That's why I became a hermit. No, that's not entirely true. The combination of severe chronic pain and my lifelong inability to select a significant other who isn't a complete twisted freak-a-zoid asshole are the two major reasons for becoming a troglodyte. The wealthy call it being an eccentric recluse and the poor call it life after the fast lane. I call it how Mildred maintains some semblance of sanity.

Recently I decided to give medical marijuana a whirl. Both my primary care doctor and my pain management doctor gave me their blessing regarding my decision. Florida legalized marijuana for medicinal use in the 2016, but have always steered clear until now due to all the hoop jumping that's involved.  Once I finally made the decision, I carefully followed all the necessary steps dotting all i's and crossing all t's. Unfortunately, I know what a clusterfuck anything pertaining to the government can be. Anything they handle on a local, state or federal level involves too much red tape that only slows the process of forward movement and expands the room for errors to be made every step of the way.

First, I made an appointment to see Dr. Feelgood. Next, I had my medical records from my pain management doctor and my primary care doctor faxed to Dr. Feelgood. This was done to substantiate a medical diagnosis that is on the list of qualifying diseases and conditions. Previous medical records also help Dr. Feelgood to write a personalized prescription/care plan. Next, I kept my appointment (BTW, Dr. Feelgood really knew her stuff.) Once a person sees the doc and her recommendation is submitted along with your Patient ID number, the mandatory application for a Medical Marijuana card from the state with a $75 required fee (everyone has to get their piece of the pot pie) can be submitted online or by snail mail. About 2 weeks later, I received an email me with my card number. Until I receive my actual card, the email with the card number enables me to make purchases.  They say it takes about 4 to 6 weeks to receive the actual card. That's the speed of light for any government agency! I'll believe 4 to 6 weeks once I have my card in my hand in 4 to 6 weeks.

There's two dispensaries where I live and both do home deliveries. I'll most likely use that service in the future, but I wanted to check out the dispensary in person for my first purchase. I like to see how things work and if they run smoothly. It gives me an overall picture of whether or not I'm dealing with a bunch of imbeciles. It helps keep my expectations in the realm of reality. I have to admit, I was pleasantly surprised by the whole operation at Surterra Wellness right down to the ATM standing all shiny and new inside the dispensary. This feature made a lot of sense since the marijuana business is all cash and carry due to the current Federal laws and banking restrictions.They would have really impressed me if they had a blood plasma center on site so people could sell some blood to buy their weed. That's what I call one stop shopping!


The dispensary was a strange trip...nothing like copping a little weed back in the day from the friendly neighborhood pot dealer! Upon checking in for my first one stop shopping experience, I found out that my approved card number didn't show up in the Florida Stoners-R-Us database when the dispensary tried to access it. So I sat there and called the 800 number into the state registry. Ring! Ring! Ring! I first accessed their automated menu hoping I pushed all the right selections to talk to an actual human being. Of course, there were many callers ahead of me, but the automated recording assured me that the first available representative would help me and thanked me for waiting patiently. I wonder who I'd have to register a complaint with regarding the "on hold" music that played in my ear while I waited. I beg your pardon, but elevator music is not acceptable to listen to for more than 5 seconds and what stoner do you know who listens to that crap?


Fast forward about 45 minutes later and the state informed me that I indeed had been approved and the number emailed to me was correct. Duh! I knew the number was correct. The state knew the number was correct. I wanted to know why the dispensary couldn't access my correct account number. That issue was never answered. "I don't know" didn't seem like an acceptable answer, but I wasn't going to push the issue because I didn't want my correct account number to permanently float around lost in cyberspace. What I did was accept some things are meant to remain a mystery. So now, I'm back at square one. The dispensary needed to be able to access my account via my top secret correct account number. If the dispensary couldn't access my account with the prescription from my pot doc, then I wouldn't be able to make a purchase. Period! Why would I ever expect anything to ever go smoothly from start to finish and not be riddled with all sorts of Murphy's laws? I don't know how, but somehow magically, my card number appeared in the database after my phone call to Florida's Stoners-R-Us registry. Go figure! It must have been a miracle!

Stay tuned for part two of this saga...the purchase.

BITTEN BY AN EMOTIONAL VAMPIRE

I'm just not feeling "it" today, but that's when it's most crucial to have a little peek at all the nastiness lurking inside. I bet the technician who did my abdominal ultrasound very early this morning, saw a bunch of my nastiness lurking in my pancreas, my liver and my gallbladder. It really sucks when your organs don't behave themselves.  So for today, here are my thoughts...

In life we have two choices. We can either rise above the pain and sorrow or we can stay emotionally paralyzed by the demons of our past. Few of us had a perfect childhood and yes, too many of us bear the ugly scars of coming from a dysfunctional family. But remaining crippled by our past takes away our ability to give and to receive love. We lose the ability to forgive and move forward. We dwell in a gray area where our demons thrive. We are weakened by some unseen, unrelenting force that continually reminds us to never trust, to never have hope and to never have faith. That force is an emotional vampire wanting to drain us dry, but fear not because that vampire can be defeated. It's a choice and the choice is ours and ours alone to make.

Maybe tomorrow I'll feel a little more human and be ready to kick ass. For now, it's off to bed so the sugar plum fairies can work their magic on me.

PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S WORDS

How can 10 sentences be so powerful and long remembered, yet for a 10 year old be the beginning of what most people fear...public speaking? To me, there was nothing grand and glorious about it. In fact, The Gettysburg Address lives on in infinite anguish inside my head.

It was 5th grade at Vine Street Elementary School (1964) and I was assigned to memorize The Gettysburg Address with the purpose of standing in front of the whole school and saying it (from memory). I wasn't allowed to have a cheat sheet. Since I have no clear recollection of that day, I'm assuming it wasn't one of my most stellar moments in life, but rather one that festers for a long time and comes to a head in some quirky, twisted way. 

When I think back, I get flashes of standing there with my skinny legs shaking as I stood tall and scared shitless next to the America flag as I looked out at the whole student body staring at me. Damn you, President Lincoln! And Damn you, Mrs. Shitforbrains! Thank you for reinforcing all my negative feelings about being an awkward, unattractive beanpole who was mistaken much too often as being a boy. Oh yeah! Me and Abe have it going on, bitches! Eat your hearts out!

Did I vomit? No! Did I wet myself? No! I suppose I did what I was assigned to do, but as I type this post I have a painful knot in the pit of my gut making me feel uncomfortable and nauseous. With that thought, I leave you with the words of our beloved 16th president.

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. 

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate—we can not consecrate—we can not hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

LOVING VINCENT

WACKO WEDNESDAY AND THE DENOUEMENT THIEF

Before I start today's gobbledygook, if you listen very carefully, in the far distance you can hear Morticia Addams seductively whisper, "Denouement." 

Gomez Addams, her husband responds, "Oh that's French!" as he slowly slides up Morticia's arm with passionate kisses.





The dog never ate my homework, but I think the Grinch stole my denouement a time or two. You may be wondering why he stole it, when he stole it and how he stole it. Let me begin by revealing that it always seems to happen when I'm writing what I think is the perfect post. 

The action builds as the climax grows near. My anecdote reaches a fever pitch and then ZAP...nothing! My thought process goes haywire and the next thing I know I'm left without any strings to tie my story together. It's a frustrating predicament to say the least. 

What I need to do to resolve the issue is to write a post and have several denouements. Surely, The Grinch couldn't steal all of them. When my children were young they always loved choose your own adventure books, so I thought it might be fun to have a choose your own denouement post. I'll start working on it just as soon as The Grinch returns with my brain.

Until then, let me share the why, when and how. First, why? That's simple! The Grinch loves to steal things...especially meaningful things like good endings. When? He cleverly sits back waiting for me to become momentarily distracted (toothache, phone call, text message, Facebook notification, bathroom break, sleep, etc.) How? The Grinch has this amazing superpower ability of being able to cause extended brain farts. Some call it writer's block, but in reality, it's The Grinch causing raucous short circuits everywhere. 

We all know no one slams The Grinch better than good old Dr. Seuss:

You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch
You really are a heel
You're as cuddly as a cactus
You're as charming as an eel, Mr. Grinch
You're a bad banana with a greasy black peel

You're a monster, Mr. Grinch
Your heart's an empty hole
Your brain is full of spiders
You've got garlic in your soul, Mr. Grinch
I wouldn't touch you with a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole

You're a foul one, Mr. Grinch
You have termites in your smile
You have all the tender sweetness
Of a seasick crocodile, Mr. Grinch
Given the choice between the two of you
I'd take the seasick crocodile

You're a rotter, Mr. Grinch
You're the king of sinful sots
Your heart's a dead tomato splotched
With moldy purple spots, Mr. Grinch
You're a three decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwich with arsenic sauce

You nauseate me, Mr. Grinch
With a nauseous super 'naus'
You're a crooked dirty jockey
And you drive a crooked hoss, Mr. Grinch
Your soul is an appalling dump heap
Overflowing with the most disgraceful assortment of rubbish imaginable
Mangled up in tangled up knots


You're a foul one, Mr. Grinch
You're a nasty wasty skunk
Your heart is full of unwashed socks
Your soul is full of gunk, Mr. Grinch
The three words that best describe you are as follows, and I quote
'Stink, stank, stunk!'




Note to self: Find Grinch repellent and buy a case or two from Amazon and write Jnuts a thank you note.

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 her generosity. 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 and play my brothers did!

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 learnt 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 a small, dainty beauty instead of a lanky-legged, awkward ugly duckling? 

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? More importantly, 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 pills I had taken! Actually, that was the truth. In those days, 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 it resulted in being 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 hardly 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 my descent into a dark, dangerous place. She had 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 difficult for her to watch me be in so much pain and to self-destruct without saying a word. How frightened must she have been for my well-being and ultimate survival. (I'm sorry for doing that to you, Margie! I'm sorry for doing that to myself.) 

Now, I look back and wonder where my mother was during all my brouhahas and why she had left Margie and I unattended that evening out in the boondocks in a place without a phone. The unattended theme carried through the next summer as well. By that time, I had a boyfriend (BTW, his name was not Jimmy) and that boyfriend was allowed to come stay at camp with me. Oh, what a summer that was! Skinny-dipping, frolicking in the summer sun and lazy nights and early mornings spent listening to the loons echo their cry across the pond 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. I stayed "gone" for quite a long time until I eventually allowed myself to start healing, but to this day, just a faint aroma of whisky still makes me nauseous.

Toothache Thursday

ON THIS DAY IN HISTORY:
The day - May 3rd
The year - 1937
Margaret Mitchell wins Pulitzer Prize for "Gone With the Wind"

ON THIS DAY IN MILDRED'S LIFE:
The day - May 3rd
The year - 2018
Mildred threatens to pull the damn demon tooth herself like she has with all the others in the past. I bet you didn't know Mildred is such a hardcore masochist and is well on her way to becoming toothless too!


Note to self: Maybe a lobotomy will work better!

CHASED LOVE

I wish this meme had been tattooed/carved/stenciled on my body somewhere I could have seen it as a constant reminder when I was young and foolish. Oh the things I did (that we all do at times) in the name of love when it's not really love at all. I've been single for 20 years now and I'm far better by myself than I ever was with all the wrong people who I allowed to trample my heart and take up space in my life. As soon as I regained my self-respect and learned to love me, I no longer felt that constant craving to be loved occupied by someone else.  In my younger years, I truly felt like a puppy in search of a yummy.